Cohen never actually said who he intended to be loyal to. Loyalty to yourself was still loyalty, wasn't it? After passing through Flitwick's enchanted mechanism, the two of them entered an even larger chamber. The room had originally been shrouded in darkness, but the moment they stepped inside, brilliant light flooded the space from every direction.
Ahead of them stretched a gigantic black-and-white chessboard. Towering chess pieces stood on either side like silent giants waiting for war, though none of them possessed faces. The eerie emptiness of those smooth heads somehow made them even more unsettling.
This was Professor McGonagall's challenge. Only by winning the game could they proceed to the next chamber.
But Cohen understood something Quirrell did not. These animated chess pieces, though created through Transfiguration, still contained magically condensed pseudo-souls. They were similar to the teacup bird McGonagall had once shown him before—constructs animated through magic that carried traces of spiritual energy.
Which meant they could be eaten.
[Soul Strength: 5]
"I know chess," Quirrell said, inhaling deeply as though preparing himself for battle. "I can win this."
"You're not seriously planning to play, are you?" Cohen asked impatiently. "Could you at least try to think like a proper villain for once?"
Quirrell blinked blankly. "What?"
"Just follow me."
Without another word, Cohen stepped directly onto the board.
"McGonagall's magic is extremely—"
Quirrell's warning died in his throat.
The instant Cohen entered the board, every chess piece sprang to life. Massive swords and axes rose high into the air before crashing down toward the intruder. Yet the moment the weapons came within two metres of Cohen, streams of translucent mist were ripped from the pieces themselves. The ghostly substance poured into Cohen's body like flowing smoke.
The chess pieces froze.
Quirrell's scalp prickled violently.
What had he just witnessed?
Those things were Transfigured constructs. Why did it look as though Cohen had ripped the souls straight out of them?
"What... what kind of magic is this?" Quirrell whispered hoarsely.
"Move faster," Voldemort hissed impatiently from the back of Quirrell's head. "Stop wasting time..."
Quirrell hurried after Cohen, though he no longer dared to approach too closely. If Cohen looked like a Dementor and possessed abilities similar to one, then perhaps the answer was obvious.
Maybe he truly was a Dementor.
Ever since aligning himself with Voldemort, Quirrell had lost the ability to cast a Patronus Charm. He had attempted it once in secret, only for the spell to collapse into horrifying black maggots that nearly consumed him alive.
If a conscious Dementor that preferred devouring souls instead of happiness attacked him... how could he possibly defend himself?
The next chamber contained Quirrell's troll. The creature was pregnant, making it especially violent and unstable. Quirrell had once considered this challenge proof of his usefulness to Voldemort.
But Cohen reached it first.
By the time Quirrell entered the room, the troll had already become a hollow shell. Its soul had been stripped away completely, leaving the massive creature wandering aimlessly like a corpse animated by instinct. It no longer attacked. It barely reacted at all.
Cold terror spread through Quirrell's body.
This fear was different from what Voldemort inspired in him. Voldemort could torture him, punish him, even kill him. Yet if he died cowardly enough, perhaps he might still remain in the world as a ghost.
But if Cohen killed him...
Would there even be anything left afterward?
Quirrell's legs trembled violently as he kept nearly four metres between himself and the boy.
At first, he had assumed Cohen was simply the victim of some dangerous magical experiment, much like Voldemort's own unnatural transformations. Yet now he realised the Burke family's research had gone far deeper into forbidden territory than he had imagined.
How had they managed to merge a human with a Dementor?
The thought alone sounded insane.
Yet the Dark Lord attached to the back of his head felt no disgust whatsoever. If anything, Voldemort seemed fascinated. Longing radiated from him whenever he looked at Cohen, as though he had discovered some priceless treasure.
To Voldemort, Cohen was valuable beyond measure. A creature that desired darkness. A being naturally suited for corruption. Something that could perhaps be used.
"Why are you so far away?" Cohen asked suddenly.
He turned around and noticed Quirrell lingering far behind him.
"Hurry up," Cohen urged impatiently. "Once we get the Philosopher's Stone, you still need to help me fake the murder scene. If we waste any more time, Dumbledore will come back."
Quirrell forced himself to move forward again. The entire situation felt grotesquely wrong. He was an adult wizard, a Hogwarts professor, and yet he found himself obediently following behind a first-year student who had only attended the school for several months.
The next chamber belonged to Snape.
The moment they entered, magical flames erupted across both exits. Black fire blocked the path forward while purple flames sealed the way behind them. In the centre of the room stood a long table holding seven differently shaped bottles beside a sheet of parchment.
Seven bottles.
Three contained poison.
Two held nettle wine.
One would allow passage through the black flames ahead.
One would permit retreat through the purple flames behind them.
Cohen initially intended to solve the puzzle properly, but after staring at the parchment for a few moments, he lost interest entirely.
"I can't be bothered reading this."
The game suddenly felt pointless.
Cohen transformed once more into his Dementor form, no longer suppressing the icy aura pouring from his body. The cold became almost tangible, swallowing the room in unnatural frost. Normal magical fire meant nothing to a creature like him. Unless the flames were created through a Patronus, they could not truly harm something that barely existed in the conventional sense.
Without hesitation, Cohen grabbed the shivering Quirrell and walked directly through the fire.
Moments later, they entered the final chamber.
The room was completely empty except for a single object standing in the centre beneath the light.
The Mirror of Erised.
The Philosopher's Stone was hidden inside it.
The entire obstacle course suddenly seemed ridiculous. Each professor's protection was impressive enough to stop ordinary intruders, but against Voldemort, most of the challenges were meaningless. Even without Cohen's presence, Quirrell would never truly have become trapped. If necessary, Voldemort would eventually devise a solution himself.
The protections felt less like true defences and more like a carefully designed trial.
A trial prepared for Harry Potter.
"It's this mirror again," Cohen muttered.
He tilted his head slightly before asking, "Last time I looked into it, I saw myself ruling a Dementor empire. Could the Philosopher's Stone really be hidden inside there?"
"I-I think so..." Quirrell answered weakly.
By now, he felt utterly useless. The Dark Lord no longer needed him for anything except as a temporary vessel. Cohen had effortlessly solved every challenge that should have required Quirrell's assistance.
More importantly, Quirrell no longer dared offend him in any way.
Because Cohen could kill him whenever he wanted.
The two approached the mirror slowly.
"Let me see..." Voldemort whispered from behind Quirrell's head.
Quirrell obediently untied his turban.
The pale, noseless face emerged and stared greedily into the mirror's surface.
"I see it... I have the Philosopher's Stone..."
Longing filled Voldemort's crimson eyes as he gazed at the reflection. Yet no matter how desperately he reached for it, he could not obtain the Stone itself.
At last, Voldemort spoke again.
"Cohen... perhaps you can retrieve it..."
"Move aside. Let me look again."
Cohen pushed Quirrell away and stepped before the mirror himself. His fingers brushed the cold surface lightly as the reflection shifted once more.
This time, the image inside had changed slightly.
"It's my Dementor empire again," Cohen said thoughtfully. "Except now I'm holding the Philosopher's Stone."
He frowned immediately afterward.
"Honestly, why don't I just smash the mirror?"
"Don't..." Voldemort hissed softly. "There will be another way... I can feel it..."
For once, Voldemort's instincts proved correct.
The moment he finished speaking, someone emerged through the flames behind them.
Harry Potter froze the instant he saw the scene before him.
....
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