To mess with Voldemort's bizarrely simple and sloppy frame-job plan, Cohen decided it was time to pull out the reward he'd snagged last year.
**[Death Tracker Cloak]**
**[Description: Turns hills and valleys into gateways leading to endless screams.]**
**[Passive - Shadow Itself: When you consume a creature's soul, you and your belongings gain invisibility for 20 minutes.]**
An invisible Dementor!
All Cohen needed was a few small animals stashed in his pocket, and he could go invisible anytime, anywhere. Regular Dementors didn't bother with little critters, so Mick, the tiny Dementor in his pocket, probably wouldn't fight him for them either.
He'd used a Transfiguration spell to disguise the cloak as a school uniform robe—perfect for vanishing on the fly whenever he needed to.
For the next few days, Cohen kept a close eye on Lockhart, just waiting for him to make a move so he could swoop in and ruin it.
But Lockhart, for some reason, stayed quiet. He hadn't even gone near Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
Then came Wednesday—their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the term.
Right at the start, Lockhart did his usual thing: handing out a quiz titled "All About Gilderoy Lockhart." Cohen, Harry, and Ron all turned in blank sheets.
"I'd rather die—jump right out of here—than read his garbage books," Ron growled.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Hardly anyone remembered my favorite color is lilac. I mentioned it in *Year with the Yeti*…" Lockhart muttered as he flipped through their nonsense answers. "A few of you need to brush up. In Chapter Twelve of *Wanderings with Werewolves*, I clearly wrote that my ideal birthday gift is harmony between all magical and non-magical people…"
"Who cares what he did with a werewolf?!" Harry grumbled under his breath. He'd only skimmed a few pages of Lockhart's books.
"The book says the werewolf was a woman," Cohen chipped in. "But I bet he threw that in for drama. No way a spell could cure a werewolf. If it did, she'd probably be so grateful she'd throw herself at him—which is exactly what Lockhart wants readers to imagine."
"?" Ron stared at Cohen, disbelief written all over his face. "You actually *read* it?!"
"I already spent the money…" Cohen said with a shrug. "If you ignore the fact it's all fake, it's not half bad as a story…"
"Quiet, please!" Lockhart called out, shooting a warning glance at their table. "Next, I'm going to teach you how to handle the most wicked things known to the wizarding world!"
"But don't worry—as long as I'm here, you're safe. Just stay calm, that's all I ask."
Yeah, right.
Cohen didn't buy a word of it. If Lockhart was so great, let's see him summon a solid Patronus. Without that, he wouldn't even stand a chance against Cohen.
**[Soul Strength: 14]**
Pathetic. Might as well sit at the kiddie table with Edward.
Lockhart dragged out a big cage covered with a cloth from behind his desk. Whatever was inside was making a racket—like a flock of parrots fighting.
"I must ask you not to scream!" Lockhart said, lowering his voice dramatically. "It'll only provoke them!"
He was laying it on thick, and it worked—most of the class was now glued to that covered cage.
Lockhart yanked off the cloth.
Inside was a swarm of Cornish pixies, their skin a steely blue, each about eight inches tall with tiny wings.
The second the cloth came off, though, the noisy little things went dead silent. They'd spotted Cohen. Luckily, the other students didn't catch on to why the pixies froze—they just assumed that's how they were supposed to act.
"Very good," Lockhart said, hamming it up. "Freshly caught—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Why were these pixies acting like they'd just seen a ghost?
Seamus snorted, and that one laugh set off a chain reaction—soon the whole classroom was cracking up.
"Don't be so sure of appearances!" Lockhart snapped, clearly annoyed. "They could be as cunning and destructive as little devils!"
He pulled out his wand and muttered a spell under his breath at the cage. Cohen noticed it worked—the pixies, who'd been huddled together in fear, started buzzing around again, restless.
Cohen figured it was the Frenzy Charm. He'd seen it in that intro-to-dark-magic book Quirrell gave him last year.
So Voldemort *had* taught Lockhart a few tricks.
"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see how you handle them!"
Then he opened the cage door—a pretty reckless move, considering Voldemort hadn't taught him much beyond that one spell.
Frenzied pixies were way more dangerous than their normal selves.
They shot out like bullets, tearing through the classroom—ripping up books, smashing ink bottles against the floor and walls, even lunging at a few students' faces with their tiny teeth bared.
"Professor!" Hermione shouted, frowning as she blasted a pixie off Neville's ear with a Freezing Charm.
It was chaos. Too dangerous. The little witches and wizards were panicking, their brains turning to mush—none of them could think of a single spell.
The smarter kids had already ditched their bags and bolted for the door. The less sharp—or maybe just kinder—ones stayed behind.
Even under the Frenzy Charm, though, the pixies wouldn't go near Cohen. A few that got too close—his "pixie前辈s"—had already lost their souls and dropped to the floor.
"Watch me!" Lockhart said, rolling up his sleeves with a confident flourish. He waved his wand at the scattered, frenzied pixies.
"*Peskipiksi Pesternomi!*"
After his useless spell flopped, one of the pixies snatched the wand right out of his hand and chucked it out the window.
"Ha—" Lockhart yelped, his eyes darting to the students still in the room. "Could you all be dears and round up the rest of these pixies back into the cage?"
And with that, he bolted out of the classroom like a gust of wind, slamming the door shut behind him.
Cohen got it now. Voldemort only taught him the Frenzy Charm and nothing else—no counter-spell, no follow-up. He wanted Lockhart desperate, dependent, and obedient.
"Help!" Neville whimpered, cowering under a desk as the crazed pixies swarmed him. They'd pegged him as an easy target—Ron and Harry were smacking them away with heavy books, and Hermione was freezing them with spells. No one else was such a pushover.
Amid the madness, Cohen caught a familiar voice—one that absolutely shouldn't have been here.
*["Where… where… find him…"]*
The basilisk!
Cohen whipped his head toward the sound. It was coming from inside the wall at the back of the classroom.
**[Soul Strength: 40]**
Wait, no…
He turned toward where Lockhart had run off. Lockhart's soul was glowing on the other side, nowhere near the basilisk's position. That didn't add up. It'd been less than ten seconds since Lockhart bailed, and the halls were packed with fleeing students. No way he had time to summon the basilisk.
(*End of Chapter*)