After breakfast, Harry left the table with Wood and the others, while Hermione and Ron planned to return to the common room—the Gryffindor students were preparing banners and cheering props for the Quidditch match.
Cohen was called into Quirrell's office.
"The Dark Lord has a plan..."
Quirrell closed the office door tightly and cast a soundproofing spell, then whispered to Cohen,
"We'll work together to kill Harry Potter."
"Thank goodness, you've finally figured it out,"
Cohen said, feigning satisfaction .
"How? How do you plan to kill him? A bunch of teachers and students are watching today."
"After he gets on his broomstick, we'll all cast a curse on it—faking an accidental flying broomstick fall to his death."
"Indeed, it's his first match—it's normal for a newcomer to make a mistake the first time," Cohen nodded.
"The spell is—"
"Wait." Cohen wasn't going to let Voldemort use him as a henchman so easily. "I've already spent a lot of time and effort on you guys…"
"?"
Quirrell looked at Cohen, puzzled. He thought Cohen would be interested in this—after all, every time Cohen killed small animals in his office, his eyes were more Voldemort-like than Voldemort's.
"…"
Cohen held out one hand to Quirrell.
"What are you doing?"
Quirrell asked, confused, thinking Cohen wanted a high-five or a handshake, so he placed his hand on Cohen's.
"What are you doing!"
Cohen shook Quirrell's hand away in disgust:
"I need payment—working for you carries the risk of exposure. I've spent a lot of money on textbooks and props for school. What if I murder a classmate and get caught by other teachers? Who will make up for the money I lose…"
"This is nothing…"
Quirrell didn't quite understand Cohen's strange thought process, but it wasn't a difficult matter.
The Dark Lord's goal was far more important than a few Galleons; this kid's ideals weren't lofty enough.
A helpless Quirrell pulled out three Galleons and placed them in Cohen's hand.
"Harry is my dearest friend, my brother...we even sleep together every night..."
Cohen sighed.
Who were they trying to fool with three Galleons?
A Hogwarts professor gets a minimum of 150 Galleons a month!
"?"
Quirrell couldn't believe his ears.
"You'll have to pay more," Cohen continued.
"..."
...
Finally, after getting 180 Galleons from Quirrell for free, Cohen agreed to Quirrell's plan to kill Harry.
Actually, this plan was destined to fail; with so many teachers on the pitch, even if Harry fell, he wouldn't be seriously injured.
Cohen suspected that Voldemort's order was probably just to vent his anger, after all, Harry's lack of martial ethics and the use of Thorns had killed him.
"Did you remember the spell?" Quirrell asked worriedly.
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"Got it."
Cohen demonstrated to Quirrell's headband—the scarf, magically stuck to his head, instantly fell away, revealing Voldemort's sneezing from the sudden exposure to cold air.
"If you don't believe me, I'll demonstrate again—"
"No need!"
Quirrell quickly stopped him, and before Voldemort could get angry, he hurriedly rolled the scarf back up on his head.
The sudden exposure of the back of his head also made Quirrell shiver.
"Tsk tsk tsk…"
No wonder bald guys wear hats in winter…
Cohen showed a look of pity for Quirrell's bald head—
then Quirrell kicked him out.
Carrying a heavy bag of money, Cohen returned to the Gryffindor common room with satisfaction.
The Gryffindor students were busily preparing for the game, including but not limited to—a banner painted from a sheet stained by Peter Pettigrew (Cohen thought Peter had a nightmare and wet the bed, disgusting!), proclaiming Potter's victory; a whole bunch of red and gold cheering sticks; some kind of amplifying tube (not all wizards know amplification spells)...
"Cohen! Look at Hermione's spell!" Ron excitedly waved the banner at Cohen, "The paint on it's alive!"
"No need to wave—I can see it." Cohen quickly dodged, not wanting any contact with the middle-aged, short, sleazy rat-like man's sheet stained with some unknown stain.
"Now Harry can definitely see it—what's that in your hand?" Ron said enthusiastically, suddenly noticing the money pouch in Cohen's hand.
"The pocket money I got working for the professor wasn't wasted working overtime at Quirrell's for several weekends in a row," Cohen said, shrugging. "When's the Quidditch match? Should we go pick a good spot?"
"Preferably the top floor—the view is better," Cohen added.
Of course, it was to better keep an eye on Harry, but although he'd taken Quirrell's money, Cohen didn't intend to actually do anything for him.
With Snape, Quirrell, and Cohen's spells piled on Harry's broom, Quirrell certainly wouldn't be able to figure out what Cohen had done.
After Cohen's reminder, the Gryffindor students immediately rushed to the Quidditch pitch at 10:15 to prevent the Slytherin students from taking the top floor spots—as if their competition for the spots could affect the outcome of the match.
When they arrived at the circular pitch, quite a few students were already scattered around. The weather was nice today, and everyone was very interested in the performance of Harry, the first Seeker to join the Quidditch team in his first year in a century.
"Hagrid? You're here so early too?" Cohen saw Hagrid already seated in the top row, who looked a little nervous.
"Of course—Harry's first Quidditch match!" Hagrid rubbed his beetle-like eyes, a sob escaping his nose. "Just like his father… um—want you guys sit here and watch with me?"
Aside from Cohen, Ron, and Hermione, the other young wizards didn't dare sit next to the big guy Hagrid.
Not because Hagrid was intimidating, but because his movements were always so exaggerated that sitting next to him made it easy to get elbowed.
Almost simultaneously, Cohen and Hermione pulled books out of their bags within the five seconds of the game starting.
"Wait—you guys—it's Saturday!" Ron looked incredulously at the two guys next to him who seemed to be reading even on the Quidditch pitch.
"Waiting for the game to start is boring," Cohen said logically. "You know, we only have seven years at Hogwarts, and after the holidays, that's only 266 weeks—time is running out."
Hermione nodded in agreement.
"That sounds like something my distant cousin would say after he got dragonpox. He always complained about not having much time left to live." Ron's lips twitched. "We still have hundreds of years until graduation—"
"Only six and a half years left," Hermione corrected, but her gaze never left her books. "Not hundreds of years, Ron. You need to focus more on your studies."
Cohen remained noncommittal.
The "266 weeks" comment was just an excuse; Cohen didn't want to be the top student at a time like this.
But he needed to hurry and learn the counter-spell for the "Disruptive Charm" that Quirrell taught him, lest he accidentally cause Harry to fall—at least he could put on a show in front of Quirrell and show that he was involved in casting the spell.
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(End of Chapter)