Cohen hadn't *really* studied alchemy.
Sure, he'd skimmed a few books, and theoretically, a "Homunculus" like him should have a knack for it. But Cohen preferred mooching off others' work over doing it himself.
The old Basilisk didn't know alchemy. Neither did Sissoko.
"You can't expect a snake to mess around with potions and vials…" Sissoko said when Cohen's gaze landed on it.
"Wizards are pretty scared of dying, so even though I hung around those bottles and jars for a while—"
"I haven't even asked you to do anything yet," Cohen said, his face dropping.
This snake had "lazy" written all over it.
Good thing Voldemort didn't boss the old Basilisk around for attacks every day—Sissoko would probably be too lazy to even snitch.
"I need some of your blood," Cohen said to Sissoko. "Once I study it, I should figure out what's making you immune to Parseltongue control…"
Sissoko's head, which had dipped slightly, perked right back up.
"You get *that* excited just hearing you don't have to work?"
Why did every source of his bloodline have to be so *weird*?
A boozy Nightmare Unicorn, a Basilisk lazy enough to be a lump—compared to them, the unknown Dementor part of him was practically the most human-like…
Cohen didn't even want to imagine what that mystery giant beast from his memories might be like.
Plans settled: Sissoko would stay here to keep watch, ready to tip Cohen off if Voldemort tried siccing the old Basilisk on anyone. Meanwhile, Cohen took some blood from both snakes. Their scales were tough and tight-knit, so he had to get a little rough.
"Ow!" Sissoko flinched, its tail twitching as Cohen pried up a scale with Frostmourne—
That system-rewarded wand wasn't much use day-to-day, but it was sturdy. Its tip fit perfectly into the scale gaps, popping them open.
Plus, Cohen had noticed it was made of three detachable parts. The icy crystal at the top? Perfect for a funky surgical knife.
And since it radiated cold, it could even double as a hemostat. Cohen was pretty proud of his genius discovery.
"Suck it up. Might have to do this again later," he said, pressing the scale back down and hitting it with a healing charm.
The old Basilisk didn't even flinch when Cohen took its blood—just sat there, steady as a corpse.
Job done, Cohen grabbed the Baron and the two vials of labeled Basilisk blood to head back to the castle. Lingering in the Chamber wasn't smart, especially with attacks already stirring things up.
To be safe, he went invisible before flying out through the pipes.
Back in the Room of Requirement, Cohen untied the black cloth from the Baron's head.
"Felt like some weird kinky roleplay…" the Baron muttered in a weak, suggestive tone.
"Blindfolds… coercion… a threesome—you guys—"
"Maybe I should've left it on," Cohen said, his face darkening as he retied the cloth—this time over the Baron's beak.
Should've left it in the Chamber.
With Sissoko keeping an eye out, Cohen didn't have to worry about Voldemort pulling any sneaky moves. No-Nose wouldn't even dream Cohen had roped another Basilisk into playing lookout. Heck, he probably didn't even know there were *two* Basilisks in the school—Cohen had checked with Sissoko before leaving, and it said it'd ignored all the "Slytherin Heir" summons before.
Finally, he could stop wasting time trailing Harry and the gang. Cohen had his own stuff to handle now.
He set the two labeled vials of Basilisk blood on a shelf in the Room of Requirement, then dug out the pile of alchemy books he'd snagged from Borgin's estate.
Back then, all that technical jargon hadn't helped him figure out his bloodline, so he'd barely touched them.
Now? Different story. Nicolas Flamel was right—Cohen was suddenly *interested* in alchemy. If it weren't for the two-year wait, he'd be raiding Flamel's inheritance vault with that key right now.
Analyzing blood differences wasn't some impossible task that needed Flamel's help, though. As Cohen flipped through the books, he realized he *did* have a knack for this.
But it didn't feel like your typical "talent."
It wasn't like he was learning—it felt more like *rehab.*
Just glancing at the steps, related knowledge started popping into his head. He didn't need to experiment—he instantly knew what actions led to what outcomes, like an old alchemist piecing his memory back together.
**[A Homunculus is born with a vast array of knowledge.]**
That line from *The Alchemy Codex* was spot-on in a way.
Cohen was soaking up the info fast just by reading. He'd already grasped the basics—structure, extraction, repair, fusion, the works.
No waiting, no begging for help. He could start analyzing those Basilisk blood samples right now, figure out what the Borgin estate researchers had pumped into Sissoko to make it resist Parseltongue control.
After coaxing a dusty old alchemy kit out of the Room of Requirement, Cohen lit the fire.
To compare, he needed a clear view. First step: extract the magic from the Basilisk blood. Magical creatures—including wizards—had magic in their blood. It varied, but shared similar building blocks.
To spot the differences between two magic-infused blood samples, he had to strip out the common stuff first. That meant using Ramora fish skin as a filter to distill away the likely identical bits.
Ramoras—magical fish from the Indian Ocean—had stable, scale-free skin that blocked magic, making them perfect for alchemy filters.
The International Confederation of Wizards had anti-poaching laws to protect them, but Cohen didn't need to hunt one down. Basic alchemy kits came with Ramora skin, and the beat-up gear the Room dug up had a decent filter intact.
He poured the Basilisk blood into a flask for distillation. The magic would stay trapped in the hourglass-shaped bottom half, while the mundane stuff rose up—step one of pulling out the magic.
This alone would take days. Basilisk blood was a nightmare to distill.
And staring at a flask waiting for progress? Boring as hell and a total time sink.
Cohen wanted to jump into the next analysis step, but he couldn't camp out here forever, so…
Why not ask the magical owl?
"So, Baron, how's your love life? Snagged any new owl buddies yet?" Cohen asked out of nowhere.
"Not really in the mood to talk about it," the Baron grumbled. "I don't believe in love, and I don't need it—"
"Perfect!"
Cohen scratched the Baron's head.
"Then you can stay here and keep an eye on the heat. Give me a shout when the top half of the flask fills up with blood mist."
(Chapter End)