Hogwarts, i am Dementor

"Pfft—"

A strange sound escaped from the Sorting Hat's mouth, like a balloon being punctured and leaking air.

"Ha, kid, I can tell you're very kind—hmm…"

The Sorting Hat lowered its voice, sounding like it was coaxing a cat about to knock over a wobbly glass on the edge of a table.

"Uh… very clever, and quite ambitious too. Perhaps Slytherin—"

"Gurgle gurgle gurgle." Cohen made a noise with his mouth, mimicking a hungry stomach.

"Oh—I suddenly think that, as a… er, 'special' kid, having the courage to enroll is also a… brave thing—" The Sorting Hat squirmed awkwardly on Cohen's head, muttering in a strained whisper.

Cohen was pretty pleased with the Hat's second decision.

Now he wouldn't have to be hunted down by Rose—

"Gryffindor!"

The Sorting Hat shouted in a raspy, throat-tearing yell.

On his way to the Gryffindor table, Cohen gave Harry—who was still in the dwindling line of unsorted students—an encouraging gesture.

He even adjusted his position to ensure this display of friendship and goodwill among young witches and wizards was noticed by Dumbledore at the staff table.

A perfect combo move.

When it came to being a healthy, cheerful, and positive half-Dementor, Cohen felt he was getting the hang of it.

Once seated, Cohen turned his attention to Harry's sorting.

But since the Sorting Hat spoke to the young witches and wizards in such hushed tones, Cohen couldn't hear a thing about the tug-of-war between it and Harry.

Watching a silent play where the actors barely moved wasn't exactly thrilling—

"So hard to guess which Gryffindor Harry'll end up in," Cohen mused sarcastically.

"Gryffindor!"

The Sorting Hat's announcement was followed by a second of silence in the Great Hall.

The next moment, the Gryffindor side erupted into deafening cheers, loud enough to blow the roof off Hogwarts.

Harry walked to the Gryffindor table, his legs trembling slightly.

The Weasley twins were shouting, "We've got Potter! We've got Potter!" Percy stood up as Harry passed, giving him a firm handshake like he was greeting some important international figure.

The other Gryffindors expressed their joy in all sorts of ways, and the chaos got so bad that the Sorting Hat had to bellow the next student's house assignment just to quiet the hall down again.

Ron was sorted into Gryffindor too, though only his brothers congratulated him.

"That scared the life out of me…" Harry said, sitting next to Cohen, still shaken.

"I almost got put in Slytherin. Relax," Cohen said, rubbing his hands together and picking up his knife and fork, ready for the food to appear.

"You too?!" Harry leaned in, whispering so only Cohen could hear, his face full of shock.

"Yep. It first said it'd put me in Slytherin, but I refused. Rose would've hunted me down," Cohen explained, fully aware that Harry was still hung up on the Hat's initial choice.

Kids always felt uneasy about "standing out," but if they found someone else in the same boat, that unease would be replaced by the comfort of companionship.

Harry was clearly in that boat now.

"Phew…"

Harry let out a relieved breath.

The Sorting Hat's first call wasn't always right—in Harry's eyes, Cohen had absolutely nothing in common with the "evil" Slytherin house.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore beamed at the students, spreading his arms wide as if nothing made him happier than seeing them all gathered together. "Welcome to Hogwarts for a new school year! Before the feast begins, I'd like to say a few words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

The words symbolized the houses' biases against each other—maybe a pointless reminder from Dumbledore to the kids, or perhaps just a playful jab.

As soon as Dumbledore finished speaking, the tables in front of them filled with a lavish spread of food.

Aside from some of Britain's infamous "dark cuisine," most of Hogwarts' food was pretty tasty.

After all, it wasn't easy to mess up pork chops or beef, especially when the cooking was handled by a team of house-elves with top-notch culinary skills and experience.

Still, Cohen couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing along the way.

Wasn't there something at Hogwarts that should've shown up by now?

"Whatever. Time to eat."

Just as Cohen refocused on the food and took a big bite of the hefty lamb leg on his plate—

"Ow ow ow!!!"

A pained male voice burst out from the table in front of Cohen.

And there was something off about the taste of that lamb leg.

Why did a spicy-sauced lamb leg taste… sweet…?!!

Cohen instantly realized what he'd bitten into along with the lamb.

A pearly, translucent ghost in a ruffled collar shot up from the table.

[**Soul Strength: 10**]

Ghosts were popping up everywhere—under tables, out of walls—startling the first-years into gasps and yelps.

Every ghost had a consistent soul strength of 10, making Cohen suspect it was the minimum threshold for an adult wizard's soul. He hadn't seen any adult wizard with a soul strength below 10, after all.

The ghost Cohen had bitten was now floating above the table, clutching its head and muttering something like, "Should've listened to the headmaster and stayed away…" while sneaking cautious glances at Cohen.

Cohen recognized him—"Nearly Headless Nick," whose head dangled precariously.

Dumbledore must've warned the ghosts not to get too close to Cohen's mouth.

No wonder the ghosts, who usually greeted the new students earlier, had held off until now. But Cohen figured showing up during dinner was an even worse idea—like Nearly Headless Nick nearly losing what was left of his head to Cohen's lamb-chomping bite.

Nick didn't say anything, though—what was done was done. Could he really ask Cohen to spit it back out?

Bound by Dumbledore's orders not to reveal Cohen's Dementor nature—lest it spark panic among the students—Nick opted to introduce himself to the first-years from a safer distance away from Cohen.

"I know who you are! Nearly Headless Nick!" Ron exclaimed, slapping his forehead as he recalled what his older brothers had told him about Gryffindor's house ghost.

"I'd prefer if you called me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—"

"But why are you 'nearly headless'?"

At Seamus Finnigan's persistent questioning—the sandy-haired boy wouldn't let it go—Nick, exasperated, yanked down his head, revealing a fresh chunk missing from the top. Cohen's handiwork.

Cohen, engrossed in his meal, didn't look up at the "appetizing" severed neck stump.

"Like this," Nick said dryly.

Clearly, Nick wasn't keen to dwell on the topic. In the dull world of ghosts, his half-attached head was a rare source of mockery, and he couldn't exactly argue back—he couldn't use his head for ghost bowling, after all.

Still, the little witches' and wizards' reactions pleased him. Ghosts loved scaring people—it let them pretend they were still alive.

(*End of Chapter*)