After filling their bellies, the first-year wizards began searching for all sorts of topics to discuss.
When the conversation turned to their families, it seemed everyone had endless stories to share.
Seamus told the tale of how his Muggle dad had been utterly shocked when his witch mom revealed her true identity—Cohen figured Edward wasn't much different. After all, Edward's main duties were cooking, grocery shopping, and playing *Dungeons & Dragons*. Pretty Muggle-like stuff.
The only difference might be that when Edward rolled a critical failure (a 1) in a board game, he'd secretly use magic to tweak the dice—Cohen suddenly realized why Edward always beat him at *Snakes and Ladders*.
"What about you, Cohen?" Seamus asked curiously.
"Me?" Cohen raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't until my birthday that my parents told me they were both wizards. I'm adopted, so they originally thought I was a Muggle—"
Though Cohen suspected Edward and Rose had known his true identity all along. Dumbledore had said it was their choice, and raising a monster plucked from a dark magic lab must've taken immense courage.
Cohen cherished this family bond and didn't want anyone—or anything—to ruin it.
Since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, it was time to kick his original plan into gear.
His gaze drifted past the house tables and landed on the staff table.
Quirrell, with his purple turban wrapped around his head, was easy to spot. He was chatting with Snape, his back—or rather, the back of his head—facing the students.
Snape's attention wasn't on Quirrell at all. His eyes were locked onto Harry, sitting next to Cohen.
[*Soul Strength: 9 (Fragmented) / 25*]
[*Soul Strength: 40 + 8*]
Quirrell's original soul strength had been a solid 25, but it looked like Voldemort, clinging to the back of his head, had siphoned off more than half, boosting Voldemort's own soul strength by that amount.
So… Voldemort's soul fragments and his shattered main soul all hovered around a consistent value—40.
What kind of logic was this? How high must Voldemort's original soul strength have been for even his fragments to clock in at 40?
Or… maybe splitting a soul into Horcruxes didn't follow simple addition and subtraction?
Either way, this wasn't bad news for Cohen. Voldemort could never piece his soul back together, so to Cohen, he'd always just be one—or eight—40-point elite monsters.
Well then… the Sin Points farming plan would start tomorrow!
After gorging themselves and enjoying dessert, Dumbledore laid out a bunch of school rules for the first-years.
"First-year students, please note that the forest on school grounds is off-limits to all students. Some of our older students would do well to remember this too."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flicked toward the Weasley twins.
"Also, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you all not to use magic in the corridors between classes."
"Quidditch tryouts will be held in the second week of the term…"
"And finally, I must warn you: anyone who doesn't wish to meet an unfortunate and painful end should steer clear of the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."
Harry burst out laughing, but only a few joined him, prompting him to glance at Cohen as if seeking confirmation.
"He's not serious, right?"
"You know, if you want people to go somewhere, the first step is to make it forbidden…" Cohen whispered back.
Of course, Cohen knew what was hidden in that fourth-floor corridor—
The Philosopher's Stone, the legendary alchemical creation said to turn stone into gold and grant eternal life.
To be blunt, Cohen wanted it.
Not really for the money.
And honestly, eternal life wasn't a big deal either—he strongly suspected he couldn't die of old age anyway.
No one had ever heard of Dementors having young or old phases. After some brief experiments, Cohen had confirmed that even without a body, he could float out as a soul and find a new one—though that felt a bit too shady for his taste.
Cohen insisted on being an upbeat, positive monster. In any world, good guys always had an easier time early on.
But he really wanted to know if the Philosopher's Stone could repair souls.
Human souls aged, just as young wizards' souls grew over time.
Immortality wasn't just about overcoming physical decay—it was about preventing the soul from falling apart too.
If the Stone could fix his soul, Cohen wouldn't have to steal nearly as many lollipops, and the Hogwarts kids might leave him some glowing reviews.
After Dumbledore finished the rules and led the students in a chaotic rendition of the school song, it was finally time to head to the dorms.
Percy led the Gryffindor first-years through shifting staircases and hidden doors behind tapestries until they reached the common room entrance.
A portrait hung there, depicting a plump woman in a pink dress.
"Dragon slag," Percy replied.
The portrait swung open like a door, revealing a round hole.
Cohen suspected Gryffindor only took brave students because brave kids loved running around and wouldn't get too fat—otherwise, they'd never fit back into the dorm and would have to sleep on the floor outside.
The Gryffindor common room was a cozy circular space filled with squashy armchairs. A roaring fire crackled in the fireplace, popping pleasantly.
It'd be perfect for afternoon tea on a class-free day—especially in winter.
[*Latest novels first on 69 Book Bar!*]
But right now, Cohen couldn't care less. He was exhausted—physically exhausted. His eyelids were drooping.
All he wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep until the world ended.
*Harry Potter and the Drowsy Dementor* (The End).
Harry, Cohen, Ron, and Seamus were assigned to the same dorm. Their luggage had already been brought in, including the cage of an overly excited Earl, who was gnawing at the bars.
"Let me out already! The nightlife's calling! Hurry up!"
Earl urged the moment he saw Cohen.
"And Harry Potter, your owl told me she wants to check out the Scottish Highlands tonight—"
"Did he fall for Hedwig at first sight or what?" Ron asked Cohen.
"Nah, it's not love at first sight. He's just a horny bird," Cohen judged.
"No! Didn't you hear it?! The owl *talked*!" Seamus shrieked, covering his mouth.
"Yup." Cohen opened Earl's cage and crawled into bed, yawning nonstop.
"Yup." Harry, equally sleepy, followed Earl's request and opened Hedwig's cage before climbing into bed.
"Yup." Ron, unfazed, opened the window to let the two birds fly out for their date.
Hedwig looked like she'd been duped by a sleaze. Before this, Earl's mind had been all about field mice—only wild owls hunted those, and a wild owl who'd lived for over a century must've had plenty of partners.
Earl soared through the night sky alongside Hedwig, swooping up and down beside her, chattering away:
"You smell so good—what perfume do you use?"
"Your wings are gorgeous—wanna compare sizes?"
"Your eyes are so pretty…"
"Can we skip going back tonight?"
"It's so late and so far—how about we crash at the owlery instead?"
Suddenly, a red feather dropped in an oddly precise arc, landing right on Earl's head as he flirted with a stone-faced Hedwig.
Earl's eyes sharpened, as if he'd realized something.
A flash of fire erupted, and the noisy owl vanished into thin air.
Hedwig hovered in confusion, circling a few times. Unable to find Earl, she turned back toward the Gryffindor Tower—at least Harry's owl nuts were better than that weirdo's field mice.