Dumbledore called out softly.
Maybe Cohen's soul carried some Dementor traits? He shouldn't be dead…
Dumbledore scanned the air around him, searching for any trace of Cohen's magical energy.
But there was nothing—just the liquid curses swirling in Cohen's body and the Philosopher's Stone glowing like a miniature sun in his palm.
In his spirit form, Cohen couldn't do anything.jpg
Dumbledore's trembling expression gave Cohen a tiny pang of guilt—like he'd pulled a nasty prank on an elder, claiming he'd died.
But for the sake of the Stone, Cohen temporarily shoved his conscience aside.
The Philosopher's Stone was already halfway fused into his hand. To Cohen, it wasn't just about soul completion—it might have other uses too, and he wasn't about to let it go.
Dumbledore pressed his wand to Cohen's chest, muttering incantations. Several different spells enveloped Cohen, but they did nothing.
The irreversible, horrific outcome seemed to age Dumbledore ten years in an instant.
A child had died here, and he hadn't stopped that killing curse—because he thought he understood everything about Cohen, assumed a half-Dementor couldn't be killed.
He'd seen hundreds of killing curses fail against Cohen before, so he'd taken it for granted that this one wouldn't work either.
He could've stopped it—easily. A flick of his wand to transfigure a pebble, or a quick rebirth for Fawkes…
Dumbledore felt he owed Cohen an apology, but instead, he silently lifted the two children off the ground with magic.
An apology wouldn't bring back a young life. If it could, Ariana would've returned long ago amidst his countless nights of regret.
Dumbledore knew that too well.
A long life always made everything feel eerily familiar. Fate loved to toss a stone into the pond just when you'd nearly forgotten how the ripples felt.
He still had responsibilities to face. How was he supposed to explain this to Cohen's parents? In two weeks, summer break would start. Edward and Rose were planning a family trip with Cohen—full of excitement and anticipation—only to get news that their son had suddenly died at school.
A little empathy was all it took to imagine the suffocating pain born from love.
Cohen kept an eye on the Stone's fusion progress while trailing Dumbledore, making sure he'd know where to hop back into his body later.
Dumbledore brought Cohen and Harry to the hospital wing.
Cohen, though, was placed in a private room—leaving a corpse in the main ward would freak out the other students.
Madam Pomfrey rushed out at the sound, spotting the headmaster with two motionless students.
"Poppy, please look after Harry—he's exhausted. He didn't sleep last night and went through a lot today…" Dumbledore instructed her wearily.
Professor McGonagall burst into the wing, still in her nightgown, with Ron and Hermione trailing behind. Since Cohen had drained the magical souls from those giant chess pieces, they hadn't needed to play the game, and Ron hadn't "sacrificed" himself.
They'd gone to fetch McGonagall after Harry drank the potion to cross the black flames.
McGonagall's face was etched with worry as she saw Harry being settled into a bed by Dumbledore.
"Harry's just tired—no serious harm," Dumbledore said, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Poppy will take care of him… Minerva, come with me. There's something important…"
Once the professors stepped deeper into the ward, Ron and Hermione darted to Harry's bedside.
"It's just sleep deprivation—I'll handle it. You two need to go to bed!" Madam Pomfrey barked, shooing them off. "It's past midnight! You're kids too—you need sleep unless you want to end up in a bed like him!"
She never asked how students got hurt. Prying could scare them off from seeking help, letting treatable magical injuries fester into incurable conditions.
Cohen's spirit glanced back while following Dumbledore and McGonagall. Ron and Hermione definitely weren't sleeping tonight—it was bound to be a restless one.
Sure enough, the second the professors left, Cohen spotted two souls under an invisibility cloak sneaking back in.
He followed Dumbledore and McGonagall into the private room where his own corpse lay, cold and still. Seeing it from a soul's perspective was downright creepy.
McGonagall couldn't quite process why Dumbledore had put him here at first. But when she saw Cohen's bloodless, pale face, her voice caught in her throat.
"Cohen's dead," Dumbledore said calmly to McGonagall. "Quirrell forced him to take the Stone from Harry, but he never truly helped Quirrell—he refused to hand it over and took a killing curse for it."
McGonagall clapped a hand over her mouth, speechless—
"I could've saved him," Dumbledore said, his tone laced with regret. "So many times, so many chances."
"It's not your fault, Albus…"
McGonagall didn't dare approach Cohen's body. She clutched her chest—she'd always cared for every student, even the troublemakers.
Suddenly, she remembered something she'd seen—Cohen shouldn't have been killed by a curse—
"Experience shouldn't excuse taking risks. We both know that," Dumbledore sighed.
"We need to write to Edward and Rose—I'll do it. This is my fault…"
After McGonagall left, stricken with grief, Dumbledore approached Cohen's body—
"Don't do this, I'm scared…" Cohen watched, heart pounding, as the century-old man got closer to his corpse.
But Dumbledore didn't do anything crazy. He just pried open Cohen's tightly clenched right hand.
The Philosopher's Stone couldn't stay here—Voldemort might come back for it.
But when Dumbledore saw Cohen's palm, he froze.
The bright red stone had almost fully sunken into Cohen's hand—like it was melting into his blood.
Only a small corner remained visible, and even that was visibly sinking deeper into his flesh.
A flood of possibilities raced through Dumbledore's mind.
Cohen was a product of alchemy, and so was the Stone.
**[As above, so below; thus is the miracle of the One accomplished.]**