As eleven o'clock drew closer, it seemed like the entire school—students and staff alike—had gathered in the stands around the Quidditch pitch.
Many students had brought binoculars since the field was so vast. Cohen felt he should've brought a pair too—pinpointing Harry among a bunch of distant, identically colored figures was proving trickier than expected.
As the two teams emerged from the locker rooms below, the entire stadium was engulfed by the deafening cheers of the crowd.
Compared to the hyped-up spectators, Cohen was experiencing something a little different.
A thirst stronger than ever before.
The faces of the students and the roar of their voices faded away—replaced by colorful, wispy threads of emotion floating in the air, soft and fluffy like cotton candy.
A feast surrounded him!
Normally, he could easily suppress this hunger with a bit of willpower, but plopped into a place overflowing with positive emotions , Cohen found it hard to resist.
Little gluttons like him were all the same…
No wonder the Dementors in the books couldn't help sneaking into Quidditch matches—this place was a literal buffet.
"Cohen? Cohen! Harry's taken off!"
Ron's voice came from Cohen's left, but when Cohen turned, all he saw was "edible happiness," maybe mixed with a dash of "nerves" and "anxiety"…
Cohen shook his head. This felt like being high—so *this* was the world eyeless Dementors "saw"?
He wasn't about to lose control. "Forced" to act against Harry was one thing; going wild in front of a crowd was another.
If Dumbledore came knocking later, Cohen could claim he'd been secretly casting counter-spells to protect Harry—but if he started sucking up emotions right here on the field, there'd be no washing that stain off.
He was only a first-year, after all. He had to at least build a decent reputation.
Cohen pulled a piece of candy from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. A wave of sweetness flooded his throat—ah, bliss!
Another day of saving Hogwarts from himself.
Cohen's eyes finally returned to normal—or rather, he wasn't quite so ravenous anymore.
"He's circling the field looking for the Snitch—but it doesn't seem like he's spotted it yet…" Ron said, sounding worried.
Hermione gasped as Flint from the Slytherin team deliberately rammed into Harry. Harry's broom veered sharply off course, though thankfully he clung on tight.
The Gryffindors around them erupted into furious shouts.
"Send him off! Referee! Red card!" Dean Thomas, sitting in the row ahead of Cohen, bellowed.
"This isn't soccer, Dean," Ron said, practically leaning out of the stands, keeping one eye on the match while correcting him. "You can't send people off in Quidditch—and what's a red card?"
"And so—after that blatant and despicable bit of cheating—" Lee Jordan, Gryffindor's commentator, struggled to stay impartial.
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall growled from beside the announcer's booth.
"I mean, after that open and revolting foul—"
"Jordan, I'm warning you—"
"Alright, alright. Flint nearly killed Gryffindor's Seeker, which I'm sure happens to everyone at some point, so—Gryffindor gets a penalty shot!"
Around this time, Cohen, who'd been keeping an eye on Harry, spotted traces of a jinx.
Back when he'd studied dark magic with Quirrell, Cohen had learned how to identify magical signatures—and he was good at it. Magic and souls were deeply connected, after all. By tapping into that soul-observing vision, Cohen could clearly see the faint or vivid trails of magic lingering in the air.
Quirrell had made his move.
Harry's broom gave a sudden, terrifying lurch, then began zigzagging wildly through the sky.
"I don't know what Harry's up to…" Hagrid muttered, peering through his binoculars at Harry. "If I didn't know him so well, I'd think he'd lost control of his broom—but he *can't* have…"
Cohen joined Quirrell in casting a three-second jinx toward Harry—just enough to leave a magical trace. Had to keep Quirrell and Voldemort from thinking he was slacking.
Harry's broom trembled even more violently, looking like it might buck him off any second. He was hanging on by his arms alone, dangling precariously in midair.
Then Cohen caught sight of a third spell's trace hitting Harry's broom—also coming from the staff section.
"When Flint crashed into him earlier, could that have messed up the broom?" Seamus whispered from the front row.
"No way," Hagrid shook his head. "Nothing short of powerful dark magic can mess with a broom like that—kids couldn't cast anything strong enough to affect a Nimbus 2000."
Suddenly, Hermione snatched Hagrid's binoculars. Instead of looking up at Harry, she frantically scanned the crowd.
"What are you—" Ron started to ask.
"I knew it," Hermione said, breathless. "It's Snape—look."
She handed the binoculars to Ron.
"He's jinxing it—Cohen, what are *you* doing?!"
Hermione caught Cohen mirroring Snape's movements almost exactly.
"Huh? I'm jinxing—wait, no, I'm protecting Harry! Don't freak out—if I stop the counter-spell, he'll fall!"
Cohen hurriedly resumed chanting the counter-spell.
"You know how to do that?!" Hermione asked, stunned, but she chose to trust him.
Someone *had* to be casting a counter-spell—otherwise, Harry would've fallen already. Right now, his broom was holding a shaky balance, neither spinning like a washing machine nor steady enough for him to climb back on.
It was like two invisible forces were wrestling for control of the broom.
With a yelp, Hermione vanished from the stands.
Less than two minutes later, chaos erupted in the staff section—Snape was on fire, literally.
Hermione had snuck over and set his robes ablaze.
At the same time, Cohen naturally stopped his spell, since Quirrell's had also ceased.
Harry finally scrambled back onto his broom.
"Neville, you can look now!" Ron said excitedly.
Neville had been sobbing into Hagrid's jacket just moments ago.
The instant Harry remounted his broom, he dove straight for the ground—then…
He clapped a hand over his mouth like he was about to puke, before landing on all fours.
He spat a golden object out of his mouth.
"Gryffindor wins!" Madam Hooch declared.
[Ding! Kindness Points +100]
[Note: You've regained a shred of conscience—not much, but it'll do.]
Christmas was here—time for Cohen to go find his mom ().