Chapter 56: "The Pure Unicorn Is Your Lie"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s initial novelty over the dragon egg quickly faded, and it wasn't long before they remembered the purpose of their visit.

"Hagrid!"

Harry called out to Hagrid, who was busy adding logs to the fire.

"Thud, thud, thud... hmm-hm?" Hagrid was humming an out-of-tune lullaby to the dragon egg. When Harry suddenly shouted his name, he assumed Harry wanted to ask something about the egg.

"We think Snape is plotting to steal the Sorcerer's Stone."

"I've told you already, you don't need to worry about that at all. Snape would never—wait..." Hagrid suddenly realized something. "How do you know about the Sorcerer's Stone?!"

"It was—"

"It was Cohen," Cohen preemptively confessed in disappointment. "I'm jaded. There are no secrets here at all—every single one of you is a human time bomb."

"What's a human time bomb?" Ron asked curiously.

"We don't know if you can tell us... apart from Fluffy, what other traps are guarding the Sorcerer's Stone?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"Of course I can't tell you," Hagrid frowned. "First of all, I don't even know myself. Second of all, you lot know way too much already, so even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. That stone is perfectly safe right now..."

"Oh, Hagrid, you probably just don't want to tell us, you definitely know—is there anything that happens around here that escapes your notice?" Hermione asked in a sweet, flattering tone.

The destructive power of a young girl acting like this was undoubtedly astonishing—Cohen saw the corners of Hagrid's mouth beneath his beard curling up in an uncontrollable smile.

"Actually, we just want to know who designed those defenses," Hermione continued. "We want to know, besides you, who else Dumbledore trusts to help him."

Hagrid completely failed to withstand Hermione's coaxing.

"Well... I suppose there's no harm in telling you—let me think—he borrowed Fluffy from me, and then asked a few other teachers to cast spells... Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall..."

Hagrid started counting on his fingers.

"Professor Quirrell—and of course, Dumbledore cast his own spells as well. Oh, wait, there's someone else, that's right—Professor Snape is also part of the protection plan."

Terrifying!

Cohen only just realized that Hermione was merely an eleven-year-old girl, yet she already knew how to manipulate a man's heart at such a tender age—women were truly terrifying.

Good thing he didn't need to rely on such scheming; Dementors had no use for these social dynamics.

The Imperius Curse, the Killing Curse, or a Dementor's Kiss—any of them could make someone obediently fall in line. Or, he could use something with even more brutal effects, such as smearing his own liquid-curse-like blood across someone's face or summoning Yali for a maternal charge.

Thank goodness the Count wasn't here, otherwise he'd probably be complaining again that Cohen was a—

"Tap, tap, tap—"

A hard object struck the windowpane of the hut, and a brown screech owl landed on the windowsill.

"It's that talking owl of yours, Cohen," Hagrid reminded him, though he suddenly remembered that Cohen's owl could speak—and was quite the chatterbox. "It surely won't go blabbing about the dragon egg, will it?"

"It knows how to draw the line between keeping a secret and losing its feathers and cloaca," Cohen assured him with absolute certainty, cracking the window open just a fraction—

"Watch out!" The moment the cold air rushed in, Hagrid hurriedly blocked the hearth fire, terrified that the chilly outdoor wind would catch the dragon egg a chill.

"Easy! You're going to snap my feathers off, you jerk!"

The Count struggled as Cohen dragged it inside the cabin.

"Don't you have any sense of pet care! I run around everywhere for you every day—it's exhausting!"

"Ninety-nine percent of your time is spent sleeping and chasing Hedwig—though not a single owl egg has appeared yet." Cohen ruthlessly pierced the Count's lie. "And the owl feed I buy you costs a Galleon a bag. Don't forget your worth, you ten-Sickle bottom-feeder owl."

"A Galleon a bag..." Ron emitted a despairing groan, looking as though he might faint.

Cohen pulled a tightly rolled strip of parchment out from under the Count's claws.

It was in Quirrell's handwriting.

[Come to the office.]

It seemed Quirrell wanted to push the plan forward. In order to get his hands on the Sorcerer's Stone quite naturally, Cohen indeed needed to tag along with Quirrell. After all, under Dumbledore's watchful eye right now, Cohen was playing the role of "an innocent student coerced by Quirrell using an unknown dark curse."

Bidding farewell to Hagrid, Harry, and the others, Cohen left the area first.

When Cohen pushed open the door and stepped into Quirrell's office, he found Quirrell pacing back and forth inside, muttering to himself.

"Ah—Co, Cohen..." Quirrell greeted, still struggling to adjust his tone of voice.

"You can speak normally now." Cohen cast a room-sealing charm on the office door. "Have you figured out a way past that three-headed dog?"

"I have." But Quirrell's expression didn't look good at all. "The Dark Lord is getting impatient... He wants me to move faster. The strength I recovered using the unicorn blood last time is about to fade—but Dumbledore has been staying at the school... I don't dare..."

"Idolater..." Voldemort's voice roared from the back of Quirrell's head. "You're that terrified of that old man!"

Yet the one most terrified of Dumbledore was you, Mr. Voldemort.

Cohen found it hard to comment on Voldemort's behavior—perhaps he simply desired the Sorcerer's Stone too much, desperately yearning for a new body.

"Perhaps... perhaps I could get you some more unicorn blood... those centaurs... let's wait a bit longer..." Quirrell pleaded. With Voldemort attached to the back of his head, the motion made him look like he was talking to himself.

"You're after unicorn blood?" Cohen asked abruptly.

[Nightmares can blend right in among a herd of unicorns—because unicorns cannot tell the difference between curses; their own blood flows with curses, and to them, a Nightmare is merely a peer of a different color.]

This passage came from *A Sourcebook of Malicious Beasts* that Cohen had read previously.

Looked at this way, getting his hands on normal unicorn blood didn't seem like a difficult task after all—and if worst came to worst, he could just ask Yali for a favor.

"What, Cohen, do you have another way?"

Quirrell asked eagerly, like a drowning man clutching at a straw. This evil dark magic experimental subject always managed to provide plenty of "surprises," even though those "surprises" often turned out to be terrifying.

"I'm quite familiar with the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest. I'm the purest one of all, I can help you get unicorn blood," Cohen promised. "Guaranteed pure."

"Brilliant!"

Quirrell didn't even bother to doubt whether Cohen truly had a method—whatever, a child trusted by the Dark Lord surely couldn't go wrong, especially a child who tossed around Unforgivable Curses as casually as firecrackers.

"Unicorns possess powerful magic... If you can accomplish this... I am very pleased... child..." Voldemort's tone toward Cohen was markedly better than his attitude toward Quirrell.

"Then you're pleased a bit too early."

Cohen had no intention of letting Voldemort get a free ride—his labor came with terms.

"This is a transaction. I'll help you, and you have to pay me back."

"Very reasonable..." Voldemort was quite satisfied with Cohen's disposition. "Only clever people see through the true nature of human relations... between people, there are only interests..."