Cohen didn't claim loyalty to anyone; loyalty to himself was loyalty enough!
After passing through Flitwick's mechanisms, they arrived at an even larger room—it was pitch black initially, but lit up brightly the moment they entered.
At the entrance was a giant black-and-white chessboard, with towering chess pieces on either side, faceless.
Professor McGonagall's creation—only by winning this game could they advance further.
The chess pieces, transformed by Professor McGonagall, also possessed virtual souls formed by magic, similar to the teacup bird Cohen had encountered before; Cohen could even consume them.
[Soul Strength: 5]
"I've studied chess—" Quirrell took a deep breath. "I'll win."
"You're not really planning to play chess, are you?" Cohen asked, barely containing himself. "Have some awareness of being a villain, okay?"
"?"
"Follow me."
Cohen walked directly onto the chessboard.
"McGrimm's magic is—"
Quirrell tried to call out, but what happened next sent chills down his spine.
When Cohen stepped onto the board, the chess pieces drew weapons and swung at him—but within two meters, streams of transparent, illusory matter were drawn into Cohen.
What had he done?!
Weren't these pieces created by Transfiguration? It seemed Cohen had extracted their souls.
"What…is this magic?" Quirrell swallowed hard.
"Follow me…hurry…" Voldemort urged from the back of Quirrell's head. "Stop talking nonsense…"
Quirrell quickly followed, but dared not get too close.
If this kid had Dementor-like abilities…maybe he really was a Dementor.
Since joining Voldemort, he hadn't been able to use the Patronus Charm—Quirrell tried once but nearly got bitten by black maggots summoned by the spell.
The next challenge was Quirrell's troll—pregnant and extremely irritable.
Quirrell wanted to prove himself to Voldemort—but Cohen beat him to it. The troll, its soul drained, wandered mechanically like a zombie, no longer attacking.
"!"
Quirrell was terrified—not even Voldemort could terrify him like this.
Even cowardly, he might survive as a ghost—but if Cohen got angry…he wouldn't even qualify to become a ghost.
How could Dumbledore allow this thing to enroll?
Quirrell's legs trembled, putting almost four meters between himself and Cohen.
He had thought Cohen's abilities were a result of experiments—like Dark Lord shapeshifting magic—but now it seemed the Burke family had fused a Dementor and a human.
Quirrell found the thought absurd, but to Voldemort, Cohen was a treasure, a vessel yearning for darkness.
"Why are you so far away?"
Cohen urged Quirrell, "Hurry up, after we finish with the Philosopher's Stone, help me stage a murder scene. Dumbledore will be back soon if we delay."
Quirrell followed awkwardly—a first-year wizard leading an adult wizard was strange indeed.
Next was Snape's potion challenge.
Magical flames ignited at front and back doors: black led forward, purple returned.
On a table were seven bottles. Three poisons, two nettle wine, one could pass to the next level, one returned to the previous.
Cohen planned to try solving it…then realized it wasn't necessary.
Transforming back into his Dementor form, Cohen radiated an almost tangible chill. No normal flame could harm a non-existent species.
Wrapping Quirrell in his chilling presence, they passed through the flames to the final treasure trove.
The Mirror of Erised stood in the center, the Philosopher's Stone hidden within.
The process felt like a level-based game; the professors' magic, while strong, was ineffective against Cohen—and even without him, Quirrell could get through with Voldemort's help.
It seemed these trials were meant for Harry and friends.
"It's that mirror again…" Cohen noted, "Last time I saw my Dementor empire—could the Stone be hidden there?"
"Y-probably…" Quirrell felt utterly useless; Cohen had done all the work.
He didn't dare complain; Cohen could kill him as easily as snapping a finger.
They reached the mirror.
"Let me see…" Voldemort's voice hissed from behind.
Quirrell obediently untied his scarf.
The noseless face neared the mirror.
"I see the Philosopher's Stone…get it…"
Voldemort longed for something he couldn't reach, and turned to Cohen:
"Cohen…can you get it…?"
"Move aside, let me see again." Cohen shoved Quirrell aside, touched the mirror, and the image changed.
"It's my Dementor Empire again, but this time I'm holding the Philosopher's Stone," Cohen said. "Damn it, should I just smash this mirror—"
"Don't worry…" Voldemort hissed, "There will be a way…I feel it…"
Voldemort's intuition proved correct—the boy had survived and walked through the flames.
Harry was stunned by what he saw.
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(End of Chapter)