Chapter 21: Oh, oh, oh—what about the next day?

Thursday was the day students hated most, for their schedules were packed from dawn till dusk.

Their resentment ran as deep as the chasm separating the alluring witch featured in the prophecy newspaper’s popular culture section, for most young wizards longed for their flying lessons, which wouldn’t come until the following week.

Friday, however, was different—at least for the Gryffindor students. They had only one Potions class in the morning, meaning their weekend would arrive early once the lesson ended.

During breakfast, Harry received a letter from Hagrid inviting him, Ron, and Cohen to visit the hut that afternoon.

“I can’t go,” Cohen shrugged. “I have to return a book to Professor Quirrell—he’s been dangling it in front of me. The book’s only half there, and it ends right at a crucial part.”

Afternoons were Cohen’s social time, with none other than the great Lord Voldemort himself as his company.

Cohen now believed he had trained himself well enough to keep a straight face no matter how absurd the situation. Before, whenever he thought of how Quirrell’s scalp flakes got stuck to the scarf around his head and then rubbed into Voldemort’s mouth, Cohen couldn’t help but laugh.

In Potions class, Cohen watched in full as Snape bullied Harry—starting the lesson by asking a first-year to answer next term’s questions was a bit too blatant.

Snape’s animosity toward Harry was visible to the naked eye.

Especially after Neville exploded his cauldron, almost the whole class noticed (“Potter, why didn’t you tell him not to add the porcupine quills? Do you think pointing out his mistakes makes you look better? Gryffindor lost a point because of you”).

“He hates me, I can tell,” Harry muttered gloomily after class.

“He hates you because you gave me extra homework… and I was clearly laughing at you,” Cohen said, equally confused.

Could it be that Snape was a protector who only permitted himself to bully Harry?

Merlin’s moleskin underpants, the English are terrifying.

“You dare bring that up!” Harry immediately grabbed Cohen by the neck. “You were the loudest laughing at me in class!”

“I thought with your ears turning that red, you couldn’t hear anything—”

“I heard it! Both ears heard it!”

-----------------

That afternoon, Harry and Ron set off to find Hagrid, while Cohen took the half-finished book on Dark Magic to Quirrell’s office.

Strange noises came from inside.

“Master… please…”

“We could have a more… intimate arrangement…”

Were they playing some new kind of roleplay?

Although Cohen knew it was Quirrell speaking with the Voldemort on his head, he still felt it was a bit inappropriate to barge in now.

Suddenly, the noises stopped as if those inside sensed someone eavesdropping.

Cohen felt that if he didn’t knock soon, it would seem impolite.

“Knock knock knock!”

Cohen rapped on the door.

“Please, come in…” Quirrell’s weak, stammering voice replied.

Pushing the door open, Cohen caught sight of Quirrell hurriedly wrapping the purple scarf around his head.

“Mr. Norton…” Quirrell forced a twitching smile, growing increasingly adept at feigning nervousness. “Is there a question you’d like to ask?”

“Ah, I read the book you gave me—though it has little to do with Transfiguration—I really liked the spells inside,” Cohen said bluntly.

“R-Really?” Quirrell stammered happily, “Then—”

“What about the second half? Do you have it?” Cohen asked. “The last part covers the Patronus Charm—I even looked up other references, but since I can’t borrow Restricted Section books, I only found old newspapers mentioning it—about creating Inferi, right?”

“Ah, Mr. Norton, I’m not sure you, as a young wizard…” Quirrell hesitated, trying to show his upright side.

“Isn’t this the book you wanted me to read?” Cohen looked at Quirrell earnestly. “I thought you’d be more open-minded about Dark Magic—”

“Let me speak to him…” came Voldemort’s slow voice.

“But Master—”

The whispered conversation that followed was unintelligible to Cohen.

“Very well…”

Quirrell cast a spell at the office door, slowly turning his back and exposing the back of his head to Cohen, while unwrapping the scarf layer by layer.

Cohen understood Voldemort’s plan—to recruit him or perhaps erase his memory—after all, under Dumbledore’s watchful eye, Quirrell dared not harm students outright.

The purple scarf fell to the floor, revealing Quirrell’s entire head.

Where the back of his skull should have been, there was a pale human face, its eyes blood-red and seemingly glowing, with two snake-like nostrils beneath.

Voldemort’s rigid face turned toward Cohen.

Yet Voldemort was surprised to find no trace of fear on Cohen’s face.

He concluded that Cohen’s desire for power outweighed his fear of horror, which suited his plans—trust was no foundation for cooperation; only mutual benefit mattered.

“Very brave… child…” Voldemort rasped. “I have always admired courage. You wish to learn more powerful magic, correct?”

“Are you Professor Quirrell? Or…” Cohen tilted his head, pretending not to recognize him—after all, Voldemort had been dead for ten years, and an eleven-year-old would only know the name, not the face.

“Who I am is unimportant…” Voldemort tempted. “But I can teach you knowledge… knowledge Hogwarts dare not teach… powerful knowledge…”

“How powerful exactly?” Cohen asked with reasonable skepticism.

“I have personally killed hundreds… before me, none could resist…”

Voldemort hissed:

“I can grant you power above all others, lead you to mastery… even conquer death…”

“Hundreds, huh…” Cohen thought about his own achievements. “What about the next day?”

“???”

Voldemort fell silent for several seconds; the awkward silence stretched on.

“I mean, if you killed hundreds in a day, what about the next day?” Cohen asked seriously. “After all, Dumbledore said I killed over three hundred people in an instant when I was one year old—”

“Lying is not something to be taught—”

“Master… it’s true…” Quirrell whispered tremulously to Voldemort, back turned to Cohen. “It was a Boggart family experiment gone wrong ten years ago… over three hundred people in the labs lost their souls…”

“…”

Does such a monster even need to learn Dark Magic?!

It is the most malevolent curse itself.

Voldemort wanted to scold Quirrell for not telling him sooner; ten years ago, he must have been wandering in soul form, unaware of this.

“Alright then, it’s understandable if you haven’t killed many people—there aren’t many wizards anyway…” Cohen said regretfully. “How about this: you teach me more magic, and I’ll fulfill one of your wishes. Deal?”

When had Voldemort ever needed others to fulfill his wishes? It was always the timid wizards begging him.

Cohen felt like this offer made him sound a little too cheap.

“Do you have a wish you want to fulfill?”

Seeing Voldemort silent, Cohen pressed on, knowing he wouldn’t actually help.

“Steal a pile of Galleons?”

“Rob Hogwarts’ treasures?”

“Or help you kill thousands more—based on what you said, killing seems to give you pleasure—and Hogwarts lacks many things, but not living people…”