Dumbledore wasn't entirely sure if helping Cohen create this magical trunk had been the right decision. In just a year, Cohen had already crammed three extremely dangerous creatures inside. Even Newt Scamander hadn't been this… ambitious at his age.
But if Cohen didn't have these magical creatures to keep him occupied, who knew what bigger trouble he might stir up?
"You didn't feel anything when you saw the Basilisk?" Dumbledore asked. "No paralysis, dizziness, or trouble breathing?"
"No," Cohen shook his head. "Was I supposed to?"
"I suspect you may share a small part of its bloodline, Cohen," Dumbledore said cautiously. "A trace of Basilisk blood might have made you immune to its gaze. It's a side effect of that cruel experiment… Though, in the future, it may prove quite useful."
"Not just Unicorns and Basilisks—perhaps more than that. You need to be prepared…"
"Oh, I already got used to it after a bunch of magical creatures started calling me 'Dad' the moment they saw me," Cohen said dryly. "At this point, I've got so much parental affection that it's overflowing."
Dumbledore must be jealous, right? He had to be.
The unattainable always seems alluring, while those who are favored can act with impunity.
"We should cherish what we have, rather than longing for what we cannot attain," Dumbledore said gently. "I won't ask you to abandon or harm the newborn Basilisk, but for the safety of the students, we must take certain precautions."
"Like enchanted anti-glare sunglasses?" Cohen perked up. "As long as we block its gaze, it should be fine. That's the only part the Basilisk itself can't control."
"Oh, I quite like that name." Dumbledore chuckled. "Anti-Glare Alchemy Sunglasses… Nicolas always said he lacked creativity when naming his inventions. But I believe this can be done. Most spells, aside from the Unforgivable Curses, can be blocked or deflected."
"Nicolas Flamel made something like this before?" Cohen asked.
"As far as I know, he never crafted glasses for a Basilisk specifically. However, you mentioned that its gaze doesn't affect you, while it does harm those Silver Key members…" Dumbledore mused. "Perhaps, if we could reflect its gaze back into its own eyes, the lethal curse might be neutralized."
"So, what now?" Cohen blinked. "Do I need to enchant the glasses with a Shield Charm?"
Of course, alchemical artifacts weren't as simple as slapping a spell onto an object and calling it a day.
Spells weakened over time—especially defensive ones like the Shield Charm, which required constant magical reinforcement. Besides, it might not even work against the Basilisk's gaze.
Alchemy and traditional spellwork operated on completely different principles. One relied on inscriptions and magical materials; the other depended on a wizard's innate abilities and emotional intent.
"Something similar," Dumbledore replied. "But we don't have an existing blueprint for it."
"'Made significant advancements in alchemy with partner Nicolas Flamel,'" Cohen quoted, scratching behind the ears of a small Thestral that had flopped into his lap. It seemed eager to return home, frustrated that Dumbledore's office furniture was too tough for it to chew. "I have your Chocolate Frog card, Professor. You're going to help me, right?"
"I'm afraid this extracurricular project is yours alone, Cohen." Dumbledore pulled an old, dust-covered notebook from the bottom of his bookshelf. "This is one of my early alchemy journals. Back then, I was deeply interested in extracting and replicating the magic from ancient artifacts. Of course, I later realized my mistake—some things are precious precisely because they're one of a kind."
"Still, I'll gladly help however I can. This research is crucial—not just for the baby Basilisk in your trunk, but for two other ancient lives as well."
Dumbledore's tone was meaningful as he clapped his hands together.
"Now then, that's enough for our late-night discussion. Get some rest. No need to rush—we have plenty of time."
The door to the Headmaster's office swung open, but Cohen didn't move.
"You're not seriously expecting me to climb down from the eighth floor to the first, cross the grounds to return this Thestral to Hagrid, and then haul myself all the way back up to my dorm, are you?"
Cohen stared at Dumbledore in disbelief.
"Right after Fawkes just *poofed* me from Hogsmeade Station to your office?"
—
"Petty old man!" Cohen grumbled as he stomped down the stairs with the Thestral in tow, muttering curses under his breath. "May all your Chocolate Frogs come without collectible cards! May you eat a Cockroach Cluster and find a real cockroach inside!"
Fawkes was *missing*? Yeah, right. Like Dumbledore didn't know exactly where his Phoenix was.
So what if Cohen had snuck off to crash a cult gathering in the middle of the night and brought back a baby Basilisk? It wasn't like he'd committed some horrible crime.
This was pure *revenge!*
The older they get, the pettier they become…
The Thestral whined softly, clearly unhappy about being away from home. Cohen sighed. He couldn't stand seeing it like this.
Weaving through the empty castle and across the grounds, Cohen finally arrived at Hagrid's hut.
The lights inside were still on, and Hagrid appeared to be working on something.
**Knock, knock, knock!**
"Who's there?"
A moment later, Hagrid swung the door open.
"Oh, Cohen—it's late! You oughta head straight back—wandering around at this hour is dangerous."
"I came to return this little guy. He was kidnapped by some cultists." Cohen stepped aside to reveal the Thestral, who flapped its wings weakly and let out a soft, whimpering sound when it spotted Hagrid.
"Aww, poor fella…" Hagrid's expression turned sympathetic. "No wonder the herd's been searchin' the whole forest. This one must've been born last year. Poor thing… I'll take 'im back to the others. Wuwu—he's one of my favorites—looked all anxious last time he was here. Thought maybe his mate was sick…"
"Hagrid, what are you making?" Cohen peered into the hut.
A pile of soft, tiny garments sat on Hagrid's table. They looked like baby sweaters.
"Clothes for the Mandrakes," Hagrid explained. "Professor Sprout's batch is nearly mature. They need to start wearin' warm clothes and keepin' from fightin' each other. The sweaters help 'em not bite each other's leaves off. Once they're fully grown, those poor Petrified folks can be cured."
"That soon?" Cohen frowned. Mandrakes usually matured around March or April. The timeline seemed… accelerated.
"All thanks to Norbert." Hagrid beamed. "Got a bit of his saliva, mixed with some dragon dung—great for plant growth—"
"Okay, *stop*." Cohen cut him off immediately.
That was *disgusting.*
Still, if the Mandrakes were maturing this fast, it might throw off Cohen's carefully planned *dramatic finale.*
He'd have to nudge Voldemort a little.
If he was gonna kill Harry, he'd better hurry up.
Not that Cohen would help him, of course.
But he *would* be on the sidelines, cheering everyone on—offering emotional support to both sides.
With the Thestral safely returned, there was no reason to stick around.
The walk back to his dorm was uneventful.
Since Filch had been Petrified, his nightly patrols had been handed off to an external hire—one Philip von Braun.
He was pretty lax—even if he caught students sneaking out at night, he would just give them a light warning and let them go.
A lot of students wanted him to stay, preferably replacing Filch altogether.
Cohen didn't interact with him much, mainly because he rarely broke the rules in any obvious way. Mr. von Braun wasn't the type to go snooping through a student's trunk for illegal creatures either.
So far, everything seemed normal—but when everything seems normal, that's exactly when you should be paying attention.
The most suspicious thing of all is when "everything is normal."
"Where were you?"
When Cohen returned to the dormitory, he found that Harry and Ron were still awake. They were sitting up against their headboards, looking like they had either just woken up or hadn't gone to sleep at all.
"I went to check on the Thestrals," Cohen said. "The ones in the forest were looking for a missing foal from their herd, so I helped them find it."
"They must be really grateful," Harry said, though he didn't look so great.
"Why are you guys still up?" Cohen asked as he took off his coat and slid under his covers. The bed was warm—house-elves made sure to heat the beds from underneath at regular intervals.
"Harry had a nightmare," Ron said. "We were just about to talk about it."
Seamus, on the other hand, was sleeping soundly.
"Might as well just blast the bloody thing first…" Seamus mumbled in his sleep.
"What'd you dream about? The monster from the Chamber of Secrets?" Cohen asked.
Half of Harry's nightmares were about Voldemort, which probably meant the Dark Lord was feeling particularly agitated tonight.
Maybe the king of bad ideas had come up with another brilliant plan.
"I saw a huge, pitch-black room," Harry said. "There were these enormous, terrifying yellow eyes—it was too dark to see much else, but I could make out fangs and some green scales. It lunged at me, and then I woke up."
"It's just a nightmare," Ron reassured him.
"Just a reptile with fangs," Cohen added. "At least it's not in our dormitory right now."
The dormitory…
Harry glanced over at Cohen's bed.
Was what he saw in his dream… the Chamber of Secrets?
That creature that sneaked into the dorm before—Cohen had mentioned it had scales, hadn't he?
Why would the monster from the Chamber of Secrets climb onto Cohen's bed? Unless… Cohen really was connected to the attacks?
Harry shook his head.
"You're right. It was just a dream…"
**(End of Chapter)**