This stretch of road wasn't a long one for either the Earl or Cohen.
The monster and the bird flew into the clouds so that Cohen wouldn't be seen by the wizards—the Dementors were all under control in Azkaban, and the sudden appearance of a stray Dementor would definitely attract a group of people from the Ministry of Magic.
These past few days, Cohen had also modified the horned camel skin handbag that Hagrid had given him to make it more spacious—the person who invented the Unseen Stretching Charm was a genius.
Cohen planned to research new magic himself later—he felt that wizarding magic was still not modern enough, and spells still retained the basic characteristics of the Middle Ages, like "spitting fire," "sprinkling water," and "blocking arrows."
It was as if human technology had only created nails, planks, and wheels, but hadn't assembled them into a vehicle.
However, these weren't things Cohen needed to consider right now—he and the Earl were almost at the manor.
The once magnificent main house of Burke Manor was now reduced to crumbling brick walls and scattered, charred wooden beams, its foundation buried deep in stones and snow.
The manor was surrounded by a ring of evergreen trees, enchanted with a Muggle-repelling charm to prevent any reckless Muggles from approaching.
Even after ten years, Cohen could still see traces of spells of varying depths on the ruins through his magical vision; some of the effects of dark magic were indelible even with time.
"Tsk tsk tsk," Cohen murmured, floating above the clouds, looking down at the ruins. "These spells look like they could still kill even after ten years."
"It's really hard to guess who cast these spells," the Earl said dryly. "No wonder you hairless wizards have to keep a gatekeeper here—"
"A gatekeeper? Who?"
Cohen's eyes darted around, searching for the person "guarding" the ruins.
If it weren't for the sudden wisps of smoke rising from the almost uniform-colored forest, Cohen certainly wouldn't have been able to spot the house.
Its roof was still piled high with snow, almost blending into the snowfield from above.
The person living in the inner circle was definitely a wizard, living in seclusion. This wizard probably had to frequently replenish the Muggle-shielding charms around them—that job was either a civil servant's or a prison sentence.
After confirming that no one nearby would see them, Cohen and the Earl landed in the woods.
"I bet you're going to kill him. I wager a field mouse,"
the Earl said from a tree branch.
"You can't possibly search through that ruin without making a sound, so I think someone like you—"
"That's racism. Be careful I don't spread rumors that you discriminate against non-human races," Cohen gave the Earl the middle finger. "While Dementors are theoretically not good people, that doesn't stop me from being a good person. No, that's weird."
Cohen reached the door of the cabin. There was the sound of boiling water inside, accompanied by a man's humming.
The guy inside was humming the Scottish folk song "Loch Lomond," quite the refined fellow.
"Knock, knock, knock—"
Cohen, hooded, knocked on the door, intending to prove to the Earl that he was a reasonable person.
"Who is it?"
the voice inside asked alertly.
Then, the cabin door creaked open—
"Faint!"
"Faint!"
Cohen and the man inside almost simultaneously cast their spells; the trust between them ended before it even began.
"Alright, you win," Cohen conceded to the Earl. "I went first."
The man inside lay stiffly on the ground. In fact, both his and Cohen's spells had hit each other, and the man's spell had even struck Cohen's head—because he hadn't expected the stranger appearing at his door to be an eleven-year-old child.
"He probably didn't expect the one knocking on the door to be a Dementor,"
Cohen said with a hint of regret.
A Patronus Charm might have been able to stun Cohen, but being knocked unconscious…
had anyone ever seen a Dementor knocked out?
Cohen went inside. Lying on the floor was a thin, middle-aged man, his clothes old and patched, his unkempt black hair streaked with white.
The furnishings inside were simple: a small bed covered in old bedding, a wooden table against the wall marked with knife cuts, a rickety chair, and an iron pot resting on a fire.
Something seemed to be simmering inside. Cohen peeked inside; it looked like rabbit—he had roasted rabbit before, so he was familiar with it.
"Has he forgotten he lives in a wooden house?" The Earl stopped at the table, tilting his head to look at the blazing fire.
A normal fire is surrounded by stones, but this one was simply a few pieces of wood; it was a miracle the wooden floor underneath hadn't caught fire.
"Magic, isn't it amazing?" Cohen said dismissively.
He was searching the unconscious prisoner's clothes for something—Cohen's reason for identifying him as a prisoner was the shackles on the man's right wrist; only prisoners would have such handcuffs with half a chain attached.
Moreover, the handcuffs had magical marks similar to a location charm, making the man's identity obvious.
"You want to find something on a man?" the count asked Cohen incredulously.
"If you can't speak, shut up. Don't make me want to kill you." Cohen glared at the count with a terrifying look.
He had just found a large stack of things in the prisoner's jacket pocket:
many crumpled slips of paper, a broken quill pen, and some silver scimitars and bronze knuckles.
Cohen spread these things out on the wooden table.
"He's really poor…"
Cohen was even embarrassed to take the money.
Sweeping the pitiful pile of coins to the corner of the table, Cohen began to unfold the slips of paper, reading what was written on them one by one.
"Participated in inhumane and evil black magic experiments...participated in the trade of prohibited creatures of XXXX level or higher danger..."
Cohen saw a judgment from a very long time ago.
"Joint punishment decision...lifetime guard of the ruins of Burke Manor, which still retains many dangerous magical remnants...Wisengemoor Trial Chamber..."
The name of the prisoner written on it was—
"Herbert Burke?"
Cohen turned to look at the prisoner lying on the ground, then at the name on the judgment.
The Burke family... Burke Manor...
Edward had mentioned when he took him to Diagon Al
ley that his foster mother Rose's family was the "Burke family."
"No way, this guy is my uncle?"
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(End of Chapter)