Cohen had some Basilisk blood simmering in the Room of Requirement, and the Earl agreed to keep an eye on it now and then—mostly because he didn't get out much anymore.
Back in regular school life, things started feeling normal again. Voldemort hadn't pulled off another attack in a while, and Cohen figured he was probably cooking up something big.
The students were still buzzing about "who got Filch," with some pointing fingers at Lockhart. But most agreed this time was different from the last—Lockhart's classes now screamed "taught by a Squib" no matter how you looked at them.
According to a certain spider-fearing, anonymous Gryffindor second-year guy, Lockhart had successfully cast exactly three spells in class. Total.
"Lockhart's a complete clown," Ron whispered to Cohen during Defense Against the Dark Arts. Up front, Harry and Hermione were helping Lockhart act out a scene from his book. "Feels like he's worse than Quirrell—"
"Accurate, direct, fair, and straight to the point," Cohen nodded.
Without Voldemort propping him up, Lockhart was totally useless now. After that pixie disaster, he'd stopped showing off his pathetic magic. Instead, he'd taken to reading huge chunks of his textbooks aloud to "teach" them.
The punchline? He wrote the damn books himself.
Onstage, "Werewolf Harry" was lunging at "Daughter Hermione," only for Lockhart to swoop in and hit him with some fancy spell to turn him human again.
"See? Simple, effective—and another village will forever remember me as their hero, freeing them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks," Lockhart said with a proud grin after the skit, like it was something he'd actually done.
After class, he told them to write a poem about "Lockhart Defeats the Wagga Wagga Werewolf." You'd think they were in some bard poetry class or something.
It was obviously pure fiction—werewolves don't just snap back to human with one spell. Fine for fooling little witches and wizards, or folks who'd never seen a werewolf, but Lockhart seemed to have bought his own hype.
"Unbelievable. Not one person's called him out on his books being fake?" Hermione grumbled as she stepped off the stage, her face sour.
"You were his fangirl a week ago," Ron said, risking his life. "I distinctly remember your timetable at the start of term—Lockhart's classes all had little pink hearts next to them—"
He shut up fast when Hermione shot him a death glare.
"If he's so useless, how could he attack Filch?" Harry asked, scratching his already-messy hair in frustration. "I asked around—people say Lockhart was in Ravenclaw back in school. No way he's Slytherin's heir."
"I don't think that writing was Lockhart's either," Hermione said. "It's too sloppy—way beneath a bestselling author, even one who's… well, incompetent. I bet Slytherin's heir just threw it out there to distract everyone, so they could stay under the radar."
"But he's the only new professor this year," Ron pointed out. "What if we start with Slytherin's first-years?"
"Who're we kidnapping?" Cohen perked up. "I'll help!"
"Not kidnapping!" Ron said quickly. "Don't you think that new Slytherin kid Harper's kinda shady? He's way too loud for a first-year. I overheard him calling my family 'blood-traitor trash' the other day—"
"You just want payback, don't you?" Hermione said, lips pursed.
"It fits that old Slytherin jerk's whole vibe, though," Ron argued. "He could totally be the heir…"
"Slytherin must've been real spry for an old guy, popping out all those family lines after leaving school," Cohen teased. "Most Slytherins still swear by that pure-blood nonsense."
Their suspect list bounced from Harper to Malfoy, then landed on Snape.
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Hermione said. "You know Snape and Filch actually work together sometimes. Snape's always asking Filch for detention kids to handle tricky potion stuff—like prepping horned toads."
Suspicion aside, they hadn't done anything about it yet. Cohen was in on it too—he really wanted to figure out which student Voldemort had roped in as his lackey.
Time flew by until the first Quidditch match of the term rolled around: Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Cohen remembered from the books—Dobby had hexed a Bludger to go after Harry, hoping to break an arm or leg and get him sent home. Sweet, naive house-elf logic. Like that'd get anyone out of school.
Madam Pomfrey could fix a busted bone in seconds. Unless Harry died, he wasn't going anywhere.
Thanks to Cohen's chat with Lucius about "reviving Voldemort," Dobby still thought something awful was coming to Hogwarts this year. So yeah, that Bludger was probably already cursed.
But Dobby was basically yelling into the void. Voldemort's target was Cohen now, not Harry. He *really* wanted Cohen on his side, but he had no clue Cohen could peek at the game from a god-mode view. The whole framing scheme just looked childish once it was out in the open.
"Slytherin's got faster brooms. This match is gonna be rough…" Ron said from the stands, sounding worried.
His mood matched the weather—dark clouds blanketed the sky, the air thick and humid, with faint thunder rumbling in the distance.
"Gryffindor's trained harder, though," Hermione said, crossing her fingers. "Harry's spent practically every free weekend practicing."
The match kicked off, both teams soaring into the air. The Quaffle went up, and the chaos began.
Ten seconds in, Harry was already being hunted by a rogue black Bludger. He kept dodging it by the skin of his teeth, while Hermione—watching him—let out scream after scream.
"Why's that Bludger only going for Harry?" Ron asked, baffled. "It's been chasing him for minutes!"
"They need to call a timeout!" Hermione said, frantic. "That Bludger's broken—it's trying to kill him!"
But Cohen's eyes were on someone else.
Draco Malfoy looked distracted—like he didn't even notice the Snitch zip past his ear.
Normally, Cohen might've chalked it up to "evil, brutal Cohen's watching," but this was Quidditch. Lucius was up in the governors' box, eyes on him…
Cohen had a hunch about where Voldemort might be.
(*End of Chapter*)