Hogwarts, i am Dementor

Thursday is the day students hate the most because it's packed with classes. 

The resentment these students feel is as deep as the cleavage of the sexy witches featured in the popular section of the *Daily Prophet*. For most young wizards, the much-anticipated flying lessons don't start until next week.

Friday, on the other hand, is different—at least for Gryffindor students. They only have a morning Potions class, meaning their weekend kicks off early once it's over.

At breakfast, Harry received a letter from Hagrid inviting him, Ron, and Cohen to visit his hut that afternoon.

"No can do. I can't go," Cohen said with a shrug. "I have to return a book to Quirrell. He's been stringing me along—this book only has half the content, and it cuts off right at a crucial part."

Afternoons were Cohen's socializing time, and his social target was the great sin-value piggy bank himself: Lord Voldemort.

By now, Cohen felt he'd trained himself well enough. No matter how funny a situation got, he wouldn't laugh. Before, every time he imagined Quirrell's old dandruff sticking to the turban and getting rubbed into Voldemort's mouth, he couldn't help but crack up.

In Potions class, Cohen watched Snape's bullying of Harry unfold in full. Asking a first-year student a question meant for next semester right at the start of class? That was a bit too obvious.

Snape's targeting of Harry was plain as day.

This became even clearer after Neville melted his cauldron. Nearly the whole class caught on. ("Potter, why didn't you tell him not to add the porcupine quills? Did you think his mistake would make you look better? Gryffindor loses another point because of you.")

"He hates me. I can tell," Harry said glumly after Potions ended.

"If he hates you, why'd he give *me* extra homework? I was clearly laughing at you," Cohen said, equally puzzled.

Could Snape be the protective type, only allowing himself to pick on Harry?

Merlin's mink underwear, what a terrifying Englishman.

"You've got some nerve bringing that up!" Harry immediately lunged for Cohen's neck. "You were the loudest one laughing at me in class!"

"I thought your ears were too red to hear anything—"

"I heard it! Both ears heard it loud and clear!"

---

That afternoon, Harry and Ron set off to visit Hagrid, while Cohen, carrying the half-finished *Introduction to Dark Magic* book, arrived at Quirrell's office door.

Strange noises were coming from inside.

"Master… please…"

"We could have a more… efficient way…"

Were they playing some kinky new game in there? 

Though Cohen knew it was just Quirrell talking to the Voldemort on his head, it still felt like walking in right now might be bad timing.

Suddenly, the noises stopped, as if the people inside realized someone was eavesdropping.

Cohen figured if he didn't knock soon, it'd come off as rude.

*Knock, knock, knock!*

"Come… come in…" 

Quirrell's weak voice responded, slipping back into his fake stutter.

Cohen pushed the door open and caught Quirrell frantically wrapping his purple turban back around his head.

"N-Norton…" Quirrell forced a twitching smile at Cohen. He was getting better at playing the neurotic card. "Is… is there something you n-need?"

"Oh, I read that book you gave me," Cohen said bluntly. "It's got nothing to do with Transfiguration, but I really liked the spells in it."

"R-really?" Quirrell stammered, feigning delight. "W-well—"

"Where's the second half? Do you have it here?" Cohen asked. "This one ends with a section on the Soul-Expelling Curse. I even dug up some other books for reference, but since I can't borrow from the Restricted Section, I only found a few old newspapers mentioning it—something about Inferi creation, right?"

"N-Norton, I'm not sure a young wizard like you…" Quirrell trailed off, half-heartedly pretending to be upright.

"Didn't you give me this book to read?" Cohen said, looking at him sincerely. "I thought you'd be more open about Dark Magic—"

"Let me speak to him…" Voldemort's slow, raspy voice interrupted.

"But, Master…"

"…" Whatever Voldemort whispered next, Cohen couldn't hear.

"Fine…" 

Quirrell cast a spell at the office door, then slowly turned around, facing Cohen with the back of his head. He began unwrapping the turban layer by layer.

Cohen knew Voldemort's plan: either recruit him or hit him with an Obliviate. After all, under Dumbledore's nose, he wouldn't dare actually harm a student.

The long purple turban fell to the floor, fully exposing Quirrell's head.

Where the back of Quirrell's skull should've been was a pale, ghastly face. Its red eyes glowed faintly, and beneath them were two slits for nostrils, thin as a snake's.

Voldemort flexed his stiff face and looked at Cohen.

To his surprise, there wasn't a trace of fear on Cohen's face.

Voldemort assumed this was because Cohen's thirst for power outweighed his fear of the horrific—a useful trait for his plans. Trust wasn't the foundation of cooperation; mutual benefit was.

"Very brave… child…" Voldemort rasped. "I've always admired courage. You want to learn more powerful magic, don't you…"

"Are you Professor Quirrell? Or…?" 

Cohen tilted his head, pretending not to recognize him. After all, "Voldemort" had been dead for ten years. An eleven-year-old would only know the name, not the face.

"Who I am doesn't matter…" Voldemort said temptingly. "But I can teach you knowledge… things Hogwarts wouldn't dare show you… powerful knowledge…"

"Oh? How powerful?" Cohen asked, reasonably skeptical.

"I've killed hundreds with my own hands…" Voldemort hissed. "Before me, they were all powerless…"

He continued, "I can grant you strength above all others, lead you to wield power… even conquer death…"

"Hundreds, huh…" Cohen thought about his own record. "What about the next day?"

"???"

Voldemort fell silent for several seconds, the air growing awkwardly still.

"I mean, you killed hundreds in one day—what about the next day?" Cohen asked earnestly. "Dumbledore said I wiped out over three hundred people in an instant when I was one—"

"Lying isn't the way to ask for guidance—"

"Master… he's telling the truth…" Quirrell, still facing away, whispered shakily to Voldemort. "He's a test subject from the Borgin family… ten years ago, that place went out of control… over three hundred people in the labs had their souls sucked out by him…"

"…"

Did a monster like this even *need* to learn Dark Magic?! 

Wasn't he already the most vicious curse imaginable?

Voldemort wanted to snap at Quirrell for not mentioning this sooner. Ten years ago, he'd been drifting around as a soul, unaware of the incident.

"Well, alright. I guess it's understandable if you haven't killed that many. The wizarding world doesn't have *that* many people…" Cohen said sympathetically. "How about this: you teach me more magic, and I'll grant you one wish. Deal?"

Since when did Voldemort need someone else to fulfill *his* wishes? It was always cowardly wizards begging *him* for favors. 

Cohen's offer made him feel oddly cheap.

"Do you have a wish you'd like to fulfill?" 

Seeing Voldemort stay silent, Cohen pressed him. Not that he'd actually help, of course.

"Steal a pile of Galleons?"

"Sneak some treasure out of Hogwarts?"

"Or maybe kill a few thousand more people for you? From what you said, it sounds like killing gets you off. Hogwarts might be short on a lot of things, but living people aren't one of them…"

(*End of Chapter*)