Chapter 48: Sorry for Making a Mess All Over the Room

But the Patronus Charm was still somewhat beyond the reach of a single Dementor—even though Cohen had tried hard to recall those joyful memories, the silvery smoke simply refused to take shape.

The mist didn’t dissipate; instead, it lingered on the ground like ordinary fog.

Is this how a Patronus Charm looks? Cohen thought it resembled more the dense mist conjured during Dementor attacks.

Only, Cohen’s mist brimmed with “happiness.” He could clearly see the emotion of joy settling and drifting in the air.

Cohen attributed this failure to his own constitution—his spell and emotions were definitely correct; there was no reason for a casting error.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cohen caught sight of Dumbledore’s spectral outline. The old man had been sitting on the table but shifted and stood up slightly after seeing Cohen’s spell—only to sit back down moments later.

It seemed Cohen’s unsuccessful Patronus Charm wasn’t unexpected for Dumbledore—but at least Cohen managed to produce some silver mist, which showed he hadn’t been immersed in dark magic.

Dark magic required extremely malevolent emotions to cast; witches and wizards steeped in it couldn’t produce even a wisp of mist with the Patronus Charm.

“Ahem—” Harry suddenly coughed, choked by the drifting smoke, hastily scrambling off the floor. “Where’s this smoke coming from?”

“I was just trying out a spell, but it seems I failed,” Cohen said. “Last time, I read about something called the Patronus Charm. It can summon a corporeal protector using joyful memories—I just saw a warm scene in the mirror, so I wanted to try if that memory would work.”

Normally, the mist from a Patronus Charm shouldn’t be choking, but Harry didn’t understand these things.

“It must be very advanced…” Harry gazed at the magical mist on the ground, thick as forest fog, then suddenly recalled something. “This…”

“Sorry, I’m really clumsy; I made a mess all over the room,” Cohen scratched his head. “Why don’t you keep watching the mirror? I’ll clear the mist—”

Harry felt something odd about Cohen’s words.

Then Cohen pointed his wand at the ground, and all the mist his spell had released retracted back into the wand’s tip.

“Ahem—”

An aged cough echoed.

Dumbledore wouldn’t be choked by his own mist.

So Cohen guessed the old man was probably too tired and wanted to sleep, pretending to be a ghost to scare Harry and Cohen into going to bed.

“What was that sound!?” Harry whispered warily, immediately searching around for his invisibility cloak that had fallen to the floor.

If Filch caught them, Gryffindor’s house points would surely plummet below zero—they only had just over eighty points now.

“Don’t tell me it’s Filch?” Cohen frowned, feigning surprise—he saw Dumbledore heading toward the door, like someone who never looks back at an impending explosion.

“Hurry!” Harry flung open the invisibility cloak like shaking off a blanket, urgently beckoning Cohen to hide. “If Filch spots us, we’re doomed!”

Under the cloak, they backtracked the way they came. Cohen noticed Harry silently mouthing the route—poor kid wanted to come back tomorrow night.

Just seeing his parents was already a luxury for Harry—even if their images were only faint reflections in a mirror.

On the way, they encountered Filch, but he couldn’t see through the cloak and was only circling, following the scent left behind by Mrs. Norris, his cat.

Back in the common room, Harry and Cohen nestled into their beds amid Ron’s steady snoring.

Harry couldn’t sleep; his mind was still filled with the image of that mirror.

Cohen couldn’t sleep either.

Because he had just lied—what he saw in the mirror was far from a loving family.

Cohen saw many different scenes, like snippets from a cut film, rapidly playing out on the mirror’s surface.

He watched all of Voldemort’s souls swallowed up by himself, saw the Ministry of Magic strewn with corpses, black magic creatures feasting on the dead, and even glimpsed his own evil Dementor empire…

Anyone unaware would think they were watching a horror movie.

Could it be that he was truly born evil? He hadn’t felt that way before!

Of course, Cohen also saw a scene of himself standing with his adoptive parents—that showed there was more than just darkness and heaviness in his heart.

Moreover, although those deep desires were bloody and cruel, they weren’t entirely bad.

Voldemort had to be killed—that was a good thing.

Some corrupt Ministry officials were dogs who deserved to die—that was also good.

The only thing possibly out of line with societal values was the Dementor empire—but that wasn’t bad from Cohen’s perspective.

With that, everything became clear…

Cohen stretched contentedly, changed his position, and fell asleep.

Evil? He was clearly a savior—the savior beside him was still playing hide-and-seek, while Cohen was already planning a bright future.

The next morning, Cohen woke groggy, finding no sign of Harry, suspecting the boy hadn’t slept again.

This could lead to sudden death, surely?

But Cohen had no time to accompany Harry to look for the mirror; he needed to ponder the Patronus Charm and skim through the pile of books he’d scavenged from the basement of the Borgin and Burkes shop.

Although last night’s Patronus Charm was a total failure, Cohen sensed the spell was functional—it was just that the path was wrong.

Hard to explain; it was like managing several different classes simultaneously, but only the wizard class could cast a fireball, so if the warrior class tried, an error message would pop up…

The empty common room showed no sign of Harry, but Cohen spotted the Count outside the window.

Opening it, the Count flew in, dusted with fine snow, scattering icy crystals all over the carpet.

Thankfully, house-elves cleaned the common room; if it had been Filch, he would have probably roared, “I’ll slaughter you!” at the Count and locked Cohen in detention.

“I had to deliver the message just a few steps away, like I have no legs of my own. If it weren’t for that ugly, noseless face on the back of his head, I’d have pulled out all his hair!” the Count grumbled, tossing a letter to Cohen.

It was from Quirrell.

It asked Cohen to come to his office before lunch.

No reason was given—probably to avoid Dumbledore seeing the letter.

Was it time to start planning the theft of the Philosopher’s Stone?

Cohen felt an itchy excitement building—