Chapter 6: Goodness, Dementors Can Speak

The shopping trip lasted only the entire morning, and after Edward hurriedly sent Cohen back home, it was already one in the afternoon.

Less than an hour remained before Edward’s game time. Anxious, Edward used magic to prepare lunch for Cohen and then dashed out the door, leaving Cohen alone at No. 5 Privet Drive.

Like a scientist eager to conduct a sinister experiment, Cohen rubbed his hands together after eating and returned to his bedroom. On the desk sat an owl whose soul strength was peculiarly intense.

“Animagus? Blood curse werewolf? Or something else entirely?”

Cohen pulled out his chair and sat down, his eyes level with the owl named “Count” inside its cage.

“That should be ‘something else entirely,’” came a slightly humorous male voice as Count’s hooked beak opened and closed.

???

“Holy hell, you can talk???” Cohen’s eyes widened.

Animagi cannot speak in their animal forms, and blood curse werewolves lose the ability to speak once transformed because their physiology cannot mimic human speech—parrots aside.

“Wow, a Dementor that talks?” Count tilted his head, sounding completely unphased, as if sharing a casual banter in English with Cohen.

“Your dad’s human, so your mom must be a Dementor?” Count continued without restraint.

“I’ve lived many years and this is a first—for a bird, this is downright creepy.”

“...”

Cohen’s expression shifted from surprise to calm, then settled into cold indifference.

“Why aren’t you speaking? Never seen a talking bird before?”

Count rotated his head, which was originally cocked 90 degrees clockwise, now 90 degrees counterclockwise. Such a gesture would be endearing in an ordinary owl.

“Isn’t it strange that a Dementor talks and so does a bird? Or do you not even know you’re a Dementor yourself?”

“...” Cohen’s face darkened.

“Uh-oh, didn’t scare you off, did I? Does your dad know the spell to break the ‘owl purchase contract’?”

“You know, a bird can’t use a wand, but since your dad can handle having a Dementor for a child, I bet breaking a contract is no problem for him.”

“...” Cohen’s forehead grew darker.

“Of course, as a trade for freedom, I could steal Galleons from other wizard families—this I’m good at.”

“Every wizard thinks owls just deliver mail; they never consider that a bird might steal from their homes. How about thirty Galleons? Thirty Galleons to buy me the rest of my free bird life—”

“Wait, I need a moment to calm down.”

Cohen’s expression stiffened as he left his chair, stepped out of the room, and slammed the door behind him.

Not sure if it was still possible to return the owl now. This wasn’t just a fake purchase—it was something downright bizarre.

Whose owl curses “f**k” every few seconds and spouts filthy jokes nonstop?!

Even Cohen’s soul felt queasy just listening!

Yet the idea of “stealing Galleons from other wizard families” was oddly tempting…

But this talking owl had already discovered Cohen’s Dementor nature. Would it spill the secret everywhere?

After all, Cohen had wandered Diagon Alley for so long without anyone screaming, “Dementor incoming, run!” or “Dementor’s here! Cast the Patronus Charm and remember to recall your happiest memory to conjure a corporeal guardian and smash this monster!”

Of course, most ordinary wizards probably wouldn’t know the Patronus Charm, a high-level spell.

Knowing Dumbledore, he likely just accepted Cohen’s half-Dementor existence and the Ministry of Magic probably knew nothing, or Cohen wouldn’t be wandering Muggle streets so freely.

Keeping his identity secret was crucial at this stage—at least until his soul strength surpassed most wizards—so too many people shouldn’t know.

This talking owl, already aware of Cohen’s identity, was clearly an unpredictable factor.

But a talking owl was undeniably cool!

Cohen was torn, deciding to give this owl one chance to live.

*Snap*

Cohen returned to the room and sat back down.

*Hoot hoot—*

“I’ve thought it through. First, let me clarify: my mother is not a Dementor, and my dad is not a Grim—”

“Who’s the Grim?” Count the owl asked, eyes wide with confusion.

“Little owls shouldn’t know so many shady things,” Cohen refused to explain, “Back to the topic: my parents are normal because I was adopted—and—”

Cohen emphasized “and.”

“You know Dumbledore, right?”

“Yeah, last time I delivered mail to Hogwarts, he was staring at a photo of a young man in the tower. Want to know his name? Three Galleons—”

“Grindelwald. Next question—and no changing the subject!” Cohen warned.

“You asked me first!” Count retorted angrily. “You unreasonable little—”

Cohen deliberately licked his lips, and Count suddenly stopped complaining as if choked by owl nuts.

“Continue,” Count said dryly.

“Dumbledore placed me in this family on purpose, got it?” Cohen asked.

“Hmm?” Count pecked at his wing. “You sound like you’re about to pluck my feathers one by one asking if I agree, ‘Do you agree? Do you agree?’—”

“Do you agree?” Cohen asked seriously. “I’m democratic. If not, I’ll devour your soul.”

“You never said what I was supposed to agree to!” Count bit off one of his own feathers in anger. “Or—guess what—you probably don’t know—owls have no right to agree on anything!”

“It’s you wizards who made the ‘Owl Purchase Contract’! I swear, once I’ve devoured every field mouse in the world, I’ll start eating wizards—devouring all you creatures who exploit small animals—”

“Wait, you mean... you have to obey my orders, right?” Cohen was starting to understand the secret behind Count’s complaints.

“Otherwise, do you think every owl would be bought for life by you wizards whose brains weigh the same as a tiny owl’s?” Count snapped.

“Let me verify that—I’m a bit insecure,” Cohen raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I bet you often worry an owl might attack you—after all, I carry a wand. Every time a wizard buys me, I shout ‘Avada Kedavra’ at them—then you’d realize I’m just a damn owl! Owls don’t have hands to wield wands!”