Chapter 37: It Seems Rather Peculiar for an Orphan to Visit Relatives

"He didn't catch the Snitch! He nearly swallowed it!"

Even as most of the crowd was leaving the stadium, Flint of the Slytherin team was still bellowing with indignation. But no one paid him any mind; even if Harry had caught the Golden Snitch with his backside, it was still one hundred and fifty points for Gryffindor.

"He looks like a baboon that just had its banana stolen," Cohen remarked as they walked toward Hagrid's hut.

"It was Snape," Ron explained to Harry. "We all saw him. He was jinxing your broomstick. If Cohen hadn't been standing there muttering counter-curses the whole time and Hermione hadn't set Snape's robes on fire, you might have died!"

"Nonsense," Hagrid said, still skeptical. "Why would Snape do something like that?"

"Maybe he didn't get along with Harry's dad back in the day?" Cohen was pleased that no one suspected him. He didn't dare imagine how Harry would feel if Quirrell later told him, "Cohen was helping me try to kill you too."

"I remember my dad mentioning—"

"What? Your father knew my father?" Upon hearing this, Harry even forgot that Snape had just tried to kill him; he was desperate for any news about his parents.

"They were friends, I suppose—you know, Hogwarts is the only school in Britain, and there are only about ten students per house in each year. It’s hard not to be friends," Cohen said, raising an eyebrow.

The afternoon tea wasn't particularly harmonious, as their persistent questioning caused Hagrid to let slip two things: the three-headed dog was his, and a name relevant to the situation—Nicolas Flamel. This left Hagrid in a sullen, irritable mood, clearly angry with himself.

"We need to look that name up in the library," Hermione said on the way back to the castle. "Maybe we can figure out what that dog is guarding—"

"Nicolas Flamel is an alchemist," Cohen said suddenly.

Hermione looked at him.

"You didn't ask," Cohen said, spreading his hands innocently. "He created the Philosopher's Stone—an alchemical artifact that can turn lead into gold. It can also be used to brew the Elixir of Life."

"The Philosopher's Stone is the pinnacle of ancient alchemy, as its ultimate goals were always gold and immortality. I read about it in *Advanced Alchemy Explained*."

"I promise never to complain about you reading in the common room again," Ron said, stunned. "Alchemy—is that really something we should be studying at our age?"

"That’s not the problem, Ron," Hermione said worriedly. "This artifact must be incredibly valuable. No one could resist stealing something so tempting."

"We have to stop him," Harry said, sounding every bit the protagonist.

"Count me in," Cohen nodded. They certainly had to stop the Stone from being stolen—Cohen wanted it for himself. A plan was already forming in his mind, a perfectly reasonable way to swallow the Philosopher's Stone—provided Dumbledore cooperated.

Because they now knew about the Stone, they stopped questioning Hagrid, who assumed they had lost interest. By December, Harry and Cohen were seemingly on their best behavior. During this time, Cohen had whittled the Forbidden Forest's Acromantula population down to just a dozen young adults. Aragog had retreated into the depths of his burrow with his remaining progeny; every time Cohen visited, he could hear the spider’s furious screeching from deep beneath the earth.

"Kill them, go ahead. Someone has to die, why not spiders?" the Count said languidly in the Room of Requirement. The weather was growing increasingly cold, and he rarely left the warmth of the fireplace.

"Killing spiders is getting boring," Cohen said dangerously.

"Oh, are you going to start on the little wizards and centaurs now? Wonderful, Dumbledore will surely want to have a go at you. Don't worry, you're a match for Dumbledore," the Count cheered.

"I suppose I'm soloing him in my dreams again, am I?" Cohen glared at the Count.

"No, I meant he could solo you five times in five seconds," the Count corrected. "When are you getting me that wand you promised? Hedwig is becoming harder to arrange meetings with—I saw her flirting with a sickly yellow owl in the shed—"

"Do you have to use words like 'flirting' in front of a child?" Cohen retorted. "Wait until just before Christmas. I'll write to Ollivander to order one, so you can come with me to explore the ruins of that manor, lest—"

"Can an orphan use the term 'visiting family'?" the Count asked with mock curiosity. "I mean, you don't even know what you're made of—"

"I think your feathers are in need of a plucking," Cohen said coldly.

***

On a morning in mid-December, they only had one day left before the break, and many students had already packed their trunks. Malfoy almost never bothered Harry when Cohen was around; Cohen was certain that Lucius Malfoy had written to warn his son. It seemed as though a handful of people knew Cohen's true identity, yet Cohen himself could find no records of it anywhere. Fudge was truly terrified of a headline like "Shocking! Undead Dark Magic Experiment Monster Appears in the Wizarding World!"

The snow outside the castle was piled several feet high, and the lake was frozen solid. The giant squid moved beneath the ice of the Black Lake like a phantom; walking across it at night felt like being in a horror movie. After the last Potions class, the cheers of the students nearly blew the roof off once Snape left—holiday time!

Cohen’s plan to "visit family" officially began. The Count spent only one day delivering Cohen's remote wand order and returning to Hogwarts with a brand-new wand; it was clear he really wanted it.

"You're never this efficient when delivering my mail," Cohen pouted.

"Delivering your mail is work; buying myself a wand is life," the Count said philosophically. "It’s what I deserve."

Cohen let the Count play with the wand in the Room of Requirement all night, having cleared out all important items beforehand so they wouldn't be struck by the Count’s erratic spells.

Early the next morning, Cohen took the sleepy Count and blended in with the crowd of students heading home for Christmas—the forms for staying or leaving were filled out by the students themselves. To ensure he had enough time to explore the abandoned manor, Cohen hadn't signed the list to stay at school.

Halfway to the station, after crossing an arched bridge, Cohen slipped into a small grove of trees, parting ways with the students heading for the train.

The manor in Northumberland... Could he really still find information from ten years ago?