Harry, in the next bed over, sucked in a sharp breath. He clutched his forehead, right where his scar was, looking like the pain had jolted him awake.
"Did you guys eat something bad yesterday?" Ron mumbled groggily from under his covers, still half-asleep but catching the noise.
Cohen figured it was more like the snake he'd sensed in his dream had a stomachache. The school's pipes were the Basilisk's turf—only it could slither around down there unchecked.
But why the heck was he suddenly dreaming from its perspective?
There's no way that Basilisk was part of what made him— it hadn't been let loose in fifty years.
Those researchers couldn't have controlled a thousand-year-old Basilisk either. Parseltongue isn't exactly common knowledge. These days, Voldemort's the only real Parselmouth around, and Harry's just piggybacking off that soul fragment he "inherited."
At breakfast, Hermione's greeting to Harry was a little stiff—she was still ticked about how he and Ron had gotten to school. But when she said hi to Cohen, her tone was perfectly normal.
Their first class wasn't until the afternoon—Professor Sprout's Herbology—so they didn't bother waking Ron, who was still sprawled out in bed. After all, he'd driven half the day yesterday.
Harry quietly brought up his rude awakening to Cohen.
"Did you have a nightmare too?" he asked, sounding uneasy. "My scar woke me up—it felt like…"
"Voldemort?" Cohen raised an eyebrow.
Harry's scar was like a Voldemort detector—it flared up whenever the "Voldemort vibes" got strong.
Cohen figured it could mean Voldemort was sneaking back around. With Cohen at school as a sort of "inside man," it wouldn't be shocking if Voldemort had some new scheme up his sleeve.
But the dream? That wasn't Voldemort's doing. It felt more like a family connection—like that unnamed giant snake that escaped the lab had come looking for him.
Good grief. One Basilisk already gave us *Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets*. Two of them? The school would be toast.
"Last time it hurt, he was after the Philosopher's Stone…" Harry whispered. "I think it's a warning—danger's coming. And on my birthday…"
Harry filled Cohen in on how Dobby had tried to stop him from getting to school.
Dobby had still made his move—but this time, Harry didn't get a warning from the Ministry for "magic outside school." All thanks to the Nortons living next door, though Harry had no clue about that part.
"But that house-elf wouldn't tell me who's planning something 'terrible' at school," Harry said, his inner detective kicking in. "I bet me and Ron getting locked out of the platform's tied to it too."
"But there's no big treasure at school this year, right?" Cohen couldn't figure out why Voldemort would come back to Hogwarts. He sure wasn't about to whip up a new body for the guy.
"Got any gut guesses?"
"Nope," Harry said honestly.
Their chat didn't last long. Ron stumbled into the Great Hall, fresh from bed, just as the owl post swooped in—
"Why're you all up so early?" Ron asked, totally baffled. "There's not even class this morn—"
An ancient owl crash-landed into Ron's cold soup bowl.
"Errol!" Ron yelped, grabbing the owl by its talons to yank it out.
"Oh… no—" Ron groaned.
"It's fine, it's still alive," Hermione said, giving the owl a poke.
"It's *that*…" Ron pointed shakily at the bright red letter the owl had brought.
"Is it gonna blow up?" Harry scooted back a bit.
"It's a Howler," Cohen warned. "Cover your ears—"
Ron didn't even get a chance to open it before the letter sprouted a mouth—
Mrs. Weasley's voice blasted out, loud enough to rival a maxed-out movie theater sound system, practically rattling the invisible ceiling of the Great Hall.
Everyone turned to stare at the source of the noise. Ron shrank into his chair, his forehead glowing red, while Harry kept his head down, silent. His ears turned pink when his name came up.
Mrs. Weasley reamed Ron out for a solid fifteen minutes without repeating herself once. By the time it stopped, everyone's ears were ringing. The letter burst into flames, curled up, and turned to ash.
"Brutal…" Cohen said, clicking his tongue. "I can't imagine what it'd be like if my mom sent one. Probably enough to make my dad cry."
"I'm never showing my face again…" Ron croaked, his throat dry.
"What, did you think it'd be something else? Ron, you've got to realize—" Hermione paused, putting down her book. Truth be told, she hadn't been able to focus on it anyway.
"Don't tell me I deserved it," Ron snapped.
Sure, Ron and Harry took a hit to their pride, but it patched things up with Hermione. She figured they'd been punished enough and started talking to them normally again.
Which meant they could tackle some of their tougher unfinished essays today—with Hermione's help, of course.
"Cohen, don't tell me you finished *all* your homework?"
In the common room that morning, Ron gaped as Cohen grabbed his suitcase, ready to head to Hagrid's.
"Yeah, it's done. Who leaves summer homework until school starts?" Cohen shrugged. "Good luck, guys—I'm off to cheer up Hagrid. Norbert's been on an all-sheep diet and seems a little malnourished. Since none of my pets have ever lasted a full year, I've got to step up my game…"
"He only finished 'cause of me," Earl bragged after Cohen left, lounging drunkenly by the fireplace as he gloated to Harry and Ron.
"Took me one night to bang out his assignments—*hic*—little essays? Piece of cake…"
The first day of school brought gloomy weather—dark clouds hung heavy, looking ready to dump rain any second.
Once Cohen stepped outside, the little Dementor poked its head out of the niffler pouch on his waist—but when he glanced down, it ducked back in.
It really did seem like the "kind Dementor" from that *Quibbler* article. Maybe old Ned O'Connor had actually spotted *this* one.
Crossing the grounds, Cohen reached Hagrid's hut.
Hagrid was out in the garden, tending to cabbages the size of small kids—definitely hit with an Engorgement Charm.
But they were riddled with bug damage, covered in holes big and small.
"Hey, Cohen!" Hagrid spotted him and ushered him inside with a warm grin. "How'd you like the birthday gift I sent? I was torn between a belt made from bowtruckle leather or just givin' you a live one…"
"I'm guessing Earl vetoed option two," Cohen said. "Bowtruckles eat birds—"
Hagrid's gift had been a bag made from bowtruckle leather. It was enchanted to shrink when strangers got close—only the owner could reach inside.
Cohen had a wild idea about it—but since [REDACTED], he couldn't say it out loud.
"I love the gift, thanks, Hagrid," Cohen said sincerely. "I brought the suitcase—Norbert's grown like crazy this summer. Almost seven meters long now."
He handed the suitcase over to Hagrid.
"But he's been losing scales lately. Maybe the all-sheep menu's throwing him off. Think you could mix up his diet a bit?"