---
What Cohen needed to do wasn't complicated; in fact, for both Voldemort and Cohen, their objectives were quite straightforward and simple.
However, Snape's sudden appearance genuinely took Cohen by surprise.
Logically, Voldemort shouldn't have trusted Snape so quickly... he even directly mentioned the plan to retrieve the prophecy orb from the Ministry right in front of him.
Was it a change brought about by his own presence?
"Is that all?" Cohen asked. "You could have just told me in a letter, you know..."
"I don't trust letters," Voldemort said chillingly. "Some things are more reliable when discussed face-to-face."
"Alright, I'm off then," Cohen stated.
"Perhaps you should wait a moment longer," Voldemort said, looking amused. "I recall you once offered to provide me with your blood..."
"Haven't you already got your own body back?" Cohen replied generously. "But we've been working together for so long, a little bit isn't out of the question – got a bottle?"
Voldemort waved his wand lightly, and a small silver bottle slowly materialized before Cohen. It looked as if it were crafted from flowing silver, a clear display of Voldemort's magical prowess.
Though Cohen wasn't sure if such a magical creation could contain his liquid curse...
"..."
As expected, the bottle dissolved immediately after the lid was placed on it.
"How about a glass one?" Cohen inquired.
The atmosphere became a tad awkward – at least Voldemort's expression wasn't particularly pleasant.
It was hard to tell if it was because Cohen's blood was too destructive to be used for making a body, or if he felt he'd lost face after his spell was ruined by a few drops of blood.
"Liquid curse..." Voldemort stared at Cohen, hissing.
He had practically memorized *Secrets of the Darkest Art*, so he naturally knew what kind of liquid this was.
"Hurry up, or the wound will heal," Cohen said, wiggling his finger.
"It seems... it's of no use to me then," Voldemort's pupils narrowed into vertical slits.
Voldemort could create liquid curses himself, and Cohen's blood was no different from a liquid curse.
He wouldn't be foolish enough to use a liquid that could harm a soul to create a body.
But... how could a liquid curse be "blood" for a body?
Or perhaps, Cohen wasn't even considered a living "creature" at all?
Voldemort's gaze lingered on Cohen with a hint of curiosity, but it vanished quickly, replaced by his usual "Dark Lord's indifference."
Since there was nothing else to do, Cohen politely declined Narcissa's invitation to stay. The atmosphere at Malfoy Manor simply wasn't as pleasant as at the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters.
---
After sneaking back to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, it was already nearing afternoon.
Cohen first invisibly returned to his room and checked his trunk to see if anyone had entered.
"No strangers came in," the Goat said. "Only your friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, came to check on you. I told them you were in the castle, comforting that little snake."
"I bet Harry feels really guilty," Cohen raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with the little Basilisk?"
"It's been sulking in the castle, and Sisoko went to comfort it," the Water Snake's Tail sighed. "If that were my daughter, I'd go tie up that wizard and bring him over – he'd have no choice but to come, and he wouldn't leave until she was happy."
"I don't really understand emotions. Maybe it's because it doesn't have other Basilisks its age to play with... By the way, aren't snakes solitary creatures?" Cohen wondered.
"But chickens are social animals," the Goat reminded him. "Basilisks hatch from chicken eggs."
To avoid being "accidentally harmed" by the little Basilisk due to Harry's presence, Cohen decided to visit it later.
Just as he emerged from the trunk, Cohen heard a knock at the door.
"Cohen! The Earl is back – and he brought... ummm..."
"What?" Cohen opened the door and poked his head out.
"In the living room –" Harry said, his face looking strange. "You should probably go see?"
He didn't actually need to go see – Cohen could already hear the commotion downstairs.
A chorus of cooing sounds, as if an owl tea party was happening on the floor below.
"How many bloody owls did you buy?!" Cohen's eyes widened, and he uncharacteristically swore.
"Their lives were so tragic," the Earl said, his wing around one owl, another leaning against him from behind. He sounded utterly content. "They lived in those dark cages from birth, missing parents, emotionless feeders, lives priced for sale... If I don't help them, who will?"
"Can you even name them?" Cohen sneered. "You just want to satisfy your filthy reproductive urges."
"Making love is the most noble thing in the world," the Earl retorted, his argument sound. "You wouldn't understand owl matters, you little squirt."
"Cohen, so many owls..." Ron said, incredibly envious. "Can I have one? I'll give you all my pocket money –"
"Grab whichever you like," Cohen said. "Pick the one you fancy. Call everyone else, and they can each take one."
"Really?!" Ron exclaimed, delighted.
"Fake!" The two tufts of feathers on the Earl's head stood on end. "No! These are my wives!"
"Have some owl decency, you! Who keeps twenty-seven wives as an owl?" Cohen growled. "I can't believe which owl shop dared to sell twenty-seven female owls to one male owl –"
"I told them I was a cursed wizard, and that buying thirty owls would turn me back into a human," the Earl said proudly. "Too bad the shop only had twenty-seven. The owner wasn't too keen at first – but when he saw I had money, his whole attitude changed –"
"There's a reason you've been single for four hundred chapters," Cohen said coldly.
"Can I have this one?" Ron picked out a brown owl. For some reason, the more he looked at it, the more it resembled Hermione.
"No!" The Earl's eyes widened. "She's my tonight –"
"This is the one then," Cohen said, feeling quite satisfied. "Ron, take it. It's yours."
"You little brat, you can't do that –" the Earl protested.
"In the 'Owl Purchase Contract,' am I the (party A) or are you?" Cohen asked. "Buying so many female owls, are you running an owl brothel?"
"Hruuurrrr –" Crookshanks was letting out a harsh growl at an owl that was trying to snatch his food bowl.
"What's going on in the living room – Ron! What is all this?! Why are there so many owls?!" Mrs. Weasley had just returned, her arms laden with bags of groceries.