Hogwarts, i am Dementor

At least now this Muggle corpse—dug up after who-knows-how-long—wouldn't have to suffer any more wizardly desecration. Deep down, Cohen was still a pretty kind soul.

This dark magic lesson had been a roaring success. Even Quirrell shed tears.

After all, an eleven-year-old kid had just cast an Avada Kedavra in front of him—a spell so powerful it could cause a massive explosion even when it hit a corpse. If Cohen's aim had been just a smidge off, it wouldn't have been the corpse ascending to the heavens—it'd have been Quirrell himself.

No wonder the Dark Lord had his eye on this one. He wasn't your average kid…

"How about we learn the Imperius Curse next class? Can you prepare some test subjects for the spells?" Cohen asked eagerly. "Oh, and…"

"Of course… of course…" Quirrell stammered, slipping back into his nervous tic. "Anything else you'd like to learn, M-Mr. Norton—"

"Also… can I skip next week's Defense Against the Dark Arts homework?"

…

"Y-Yes, you can… next week's essay—or the one after that—you don't have to write them…"

What choice did Quirrell have?

It was like watching a tiny kid holding a Glock, asking, "Can I have your soda?"—all while a mob boss stood behind him saying, "Go teach him how to shoot."

Quirrell would bet anything Cohen wouldn't graduate normally. For a wicked little gremlin like him to last seven years at Hogwarts, Dumbledore would have to be blind.

Just as Quirrell was about to send this little terror on his way, Cohen suddenly piped up: 

"Wait—"

Quirrell broke out in a cold sweat.

"Didn't your boss mention last time that I should help you guys steal that thing hidden in the fourth-floor corridor?" Cohen asked.

"Uh… I'll figure something out—at least find an opportunity…" Quirrell fumbled, looking flustered. He hadn't come up with a solid plan yet—Hogwarts' professor schedule was packed to the brim.

"Didn't I suggest letting a dragon loose in the school to distract everyone last time?" Cohen reminded him.

"A dragon's a bit too—"

"I reflected on it later, and yeah, a dragon would be tough to sneak in," Cohen said seriously.

"So how about a troll? There are troll caves in the mountains. Next time there's a big gathering in the Great Hall, I could lure a troll somewhere far from the fourth-floor corridor…"

Cohen laid out his plan in detail—naturally cribbed from the original book. It was the only relatively safe idea he could think of, one that wouldn't hurt any students.

If Dumbledore asked later, Cohen could just say Quirrell forced him into it.

*"Quirrell and Voldemort Did It Too"*

"Y-Yeah, that's actually a good idea…"

Quirrell was almost getting used to Cohen being more enthusiastic about stealing the Philosopher's Stone than he was.

"Maybe you should head back, Mr. Norton… if Dumbledore finds out—"

"He won't. My lips are sealed."

Cohen swore with confidence.

---

In the end, Cohen still finished his homework on Sunday night.

He'd come to realize that procrastination solved nothing. Homework was the most evil thing in the world—it stole the precious playtime of a student's youth, and…

"Homework is important, Cohen! Next time, you have to write it yourself. I'm not letting you copy mine again."

In an empty classroom, Hermione issued a stern warning to Cohen.

"Don't waste your time running around with those boys—theory and practice for these spells come so easily to you…"

"Once you've learned something, there's no need to keep practicing it over and over," Cohen countered.

He knew Hermione was all bark and no bite. Once he'd copied her homework, he could keep borrowing it forever—Cohen hereby dubbed her the God of Homework.

"Besides, I've got my own stuff to deal with…"

"…"

Hermione pursed her lips helplessly, her expression eerily reminiscent of Professor McGonagall.

She clearly didn't buy Cohen's excuse. She'd heard Filch was on the warpath today over some dungbombs, hunting for a student named "Colson Golden"—obviously a fake name Cohen had scrawled on a wall. The Weasley twins had been praising him all day in the common room (Fred: "Did you see? Filch's face was red as a baboon's butt all day!").

"Ugh, boys…"

Luckily, Cohen had caught Hermione studying in the Charms classroom, or there's no way he'd have finished four essays in an hour—especially with Hermione's lectures eating up half the time.

By the time Cohen got back to the common room, only Harry and Ron were left—two best buds who'd just realized they needed to catch up on homework.

"Cohen! You've finished your homework, right?!" Ron's eyes lit up as he pounced on Cohen the moment he walked in.

"Cohen, save us!" Harry chimed in.

…

Good news: Harry and Ron managed to semi-complete their homework under Cohen's supervision.

More good news: Flying lessons started Thursday of the second week.

No bad news yet. On Thursday morning, Cohen patiently listened to Ron's eighteenth retelling of his "thrilling flying adventures" and got dragged by Hermione into a lecture about broom-flying tips from *Quidditch Through the Ages*.

"It's just riding a broom—same as driving a car," Cohen said reassuringly. "Worst case, you crash. No big deal."

"But there's no seatbelt!" Hermione fretted, raking her fingers through her bushy hair. She was clearly uneasy about a class she couldn't study for in advance.

"Oh my gosh, you're a witch…" Cohen rubbed his forehead. "The seatbelt's the wand in your hand, not some strap tied to the broom."

The arrival of the owl post cut off Hermione's near-tangible wave of anxiety, and the surrounding young witches and wizards visibly relaxed.

Cohen didn't like anxiety either—it tasted sour when he ate it.

For some reason (though Cohen probably knew why), the owls always took a wide detour around him when passing by. Only Earl dared to stop near Cohen, usually snagging a chicken leg on the way.

"Your mom's letter," Earl mumbled, dropping a thick envelope by Cohen's side along with a package stuffed with candy. "And some snacks your dad slipped in."

Harry cast an envious glance from the side but quickly looked away.

Cohen unfolded the letter. It was full of Rose's reminders, plus news that he might need to stay at school for Christmas—apparently, she and Edward were going to check on Edward's father, Cohen's grandpa, who was on his last legs.

"It's only September…" Cohen's mouth twitched. "No need to plan this far ahead…"

He didn't know why they weren't bringing him along—maybe because of who he was? Or some other reason.

Staying at school wasn't a big deal. Lounging in the dorms all day sounded fine by him.

On the other side, Neville had also gotten a gift: a Remembrall (filled with white smoke that turned red if you forgot something).

Cohen remembered this ball would kick off a chain of events—Draco taunting Harry and getting owned, McGonagall spotting a Quidditch prodigy…

But none of that had much to do with the ball's owner, Neville Longbottom, who'd spend today's class in the hospital wing.

And as flying lessons began, Cohen realized the class didn't have much to do with him either.

It wasn't that the broomsticks were scared off by him. No, it was…

"Is Cohen Norton here?" A higher-year student barged into the flying lesson area.

"Uh, me?" Cohen pointed at himself, confused.

Had Filch finally figured out he'd thrown those dungbombs? Or had Earl been bullying the other owls again?

"It's class time, Mr. Smith," Madam Hooch said, frowning at the older student.

"Er—it's Professor Dumbledore's request—"

The student, Smith, hurriedly pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to Madam Hooch.

Written in loopy, swirling handwriting were a few lines. Cohen sneakily sent half his soul drifting over for a peek.

The text was in that same loopy, swirling script.

[Please have Gryffindor student Cohen Norton come to the headmaster's office for a cup of tea. 

—Due to his parents' special request, he is excused from Hogwarts flying lessons.]

(End of Chapter)