"Cohen?"
Dumbledore's voice was soft enough to tremble.
Perhaps Cohen's soul possessed some of the same characteristics as a Dementor. He should not have died so easily. Dumbledore tried to sense traces of Cohen's magic lingering in the surrounding air, searching desperately for any abnormal fluctuation.
But there was nothing.
The only things he could perceive were the liquid curse still flowing through Cohen's body and the Philosopher's Stone glowing in his hand like a miniature sun.
Meanwhile, Cohen, floating nearby in spirit form, could do absolutely nothing.
So he simply watched.
Dumbledore's expression made Cohen feel a little guilty. It was like playing a cruel prank on an elder by pretending to die. Yet guilt lasted only briefly before being crushed beneath a far more important reality.
The Philosopher's Stone was already halfway fused into his palm.
Cohen could feel it clearly. The Stone was not merely repairing his soul—it possessed additional functions he had yet to understand. There was absolutely no reason to abandon something so valuable.
Dumbledore pressed his wand against Cohen's chest and murmured several complicated incantations. Layers of magic enveloped the body one after another, but every spell failed completely.
Nothing changed.
The horrible certainty of the outcome seemed to age Dumbledore by ten years in an instant.
A child had died here.
And he could have stopped it.
Because he believed he understood Cohen too well. He believed a half-Dementor could not be killed. He had personally witnessed Cohen survive countless Killing Curses as an infant, so he naturally assumed the curse would fail again tonight.
But assumptions were meaningless now.
He could have blocked the spell effortlessly. A simple Transfiguration. A summoned object. Even allowing Fawkes to intervene once would have been enough.
Instead, he had stood there and watched.
Dumbledore wanted to apologise, but the words would not come.
An apology could not restore a dead child.
If apologies truly possessed that power, Ariana would have returned to him long ago after countless sleepless nights and endless regret.
Dumbledore understood that better than anyone.
Age always created dangerous familiarity. People began believing they had already seen everything. Yet fate had a habit of hurling stones into stagnant water the moment someone forgot pain, forcing the ripples to spread once more.
But grief alone could not stop the world.
There were still responsibilities waiting for him.
How was he supposed to explain this to Edward and Rose?
Summer holiday would begin in only two weeks. They had been excitedly preparing to travel with their son. Dumbledore still remembered the joy in their letters whenever they spoke about Cohen's first year at Hogwarts.
And now they would receive news that their child had died at school.
Even a little empathy was enough to understand how suffocating love could become in moments like this.
Floating invisibly nearby, Cohen carefully monitored the progress of the Philosopher's Stone merging into his body. He needed to keep track of everything in case he had to return later.
Dumbledore levitated both Harry and Cohen from the ground before leaving the chamber.
Soon, they arrived at the hospital wing.
Harry was placed in one of the normal beds, while Cohen's body was moved into a private room. Leaving a corpse in the public ward would terrify the other students.
Madam Pomfrey hurried out after hearing the commotion. The moment she saw Dumbledore carrying two unconscious children, her expression immediately changed.
"Poppy," Dumbledore said quietly, "please look after Harry. He's exhausted. He didn't sleep last night, and he's experienced far too much today."
"Albus?"
Professor McGonagall entered the hospital wing moments later, still wearing her nightgown. Ron and Hermione followed closely behind her.
Because Cohen had devoured the magical souls inside the giant chess pieces, they had bypassed the chess challenge entirely. Ron had never needed to sacrifice himself.
After Harry drank the potion that allowed him through the black flames, the three of them had immediately gone searching for Professor McGonagall.
"How is Harry?" McGonagall asked anxiously while watching Dumbledore place him onto the bed.
"He's only exhausted," Dumbledore answered tiredly. "Nothing serious. Poppy will take care of him."
Then his expression darkened.
"Minerva. Come with me. There's something important we need to discuss."
The two professors walked deeper into the infirmary while Ron and Hermione rushed toward Harry's bedside.
"He just needs rest," Madam Pomfrey said firmly after checking Harry over. "I'll take care of him. Now both of you need to return to your dormitories immediately."
"But—"
"No arguments!" she snapped. "It's well past midnight. You're children too, and children require sleep. Unless you want to end up lying in one of these beds yourselves."
Madam Pomfrey never asked students how they became injured. Asking too many questions only made children afraid of seeking medical treatment, turning manageable magical conditions into irreversible disasters.
Cohen's spirit drifted after Dumbledore and McGonagall while glancing back briefly.
Ron and Hermione definitely would not sleep tonight.
Sure enough, the moment the adults disappeared into the corridor, Cohen saw two familiar souls wrapped beneath an invisibility cloak sneaking after them.
Cohen followed Dumbledore and McGonagall into the isolated ward.
His own body lay silently on the bed beneath pale candlelight.
From the perspective of a wandering soul, the sight felt profoundly strange.
"Cohen... this is..."
At first, McGonagall had not understood why Dumbledore brought her here. But the moment she saw Cohen's pale face drained completely of colour, her voice broke.
"Cohen is dead," Dumbledore said quietly.
The calmness in his voice somehow made the words even crueler.
"Quirrell forced him to take the Philosopher's Stone from Harry. But Cohen never truly sided with him. He refused to hand over the Stone... and Quirrell struck him with the Killing Curse."
Professor McGonagall covered her mouth silently.
No words emerged.
"I could have saved him," Dumbledore continued heavily. "There were many opportunities. Far too many."
"It isn't your fault, Albus..." McGonagall whispered weakly.
Yet she did not dare approach the bed.
Her hand pressed tightly against her chest as she stared at the child lying motionless beneath the blanket. She genuinely cared for every student, even the troublesome ones.
Then a thought suddenly struck her.
Cohen should not have died from the Killing Curse.
"Experience is not an excuse for recklessness," Dumbledore said bitterly. "We all need to remember that."
He sighed deeply.
"We need to write to Edward and Rose. I'll do it personally. This responsibility is mine alone."
After McGonagall left the ward in grief, Dumbledore slowly approached the bed again.
"Please don't do anything strange," Cohen muttered nervously while watching an elderly wizard approach his own corpse.
Fortunately, Dumbledore did nothing disturbing.
He merely opened Cohen's tightly clenched right hand.
The Philosopher's Stone could not remain here. Voldemort might attempt to retrieve it later.
But the moment Dumbledore saw Cohen's palm, he froze completely.
The crimson Philosopher's Stone had almost entirely melted into Cohen's flesh.
It looked less like someone holding the Stone and more like the Stone itself was dissolving into his blood.
Only a tiny corner still remained exposed, and even that fragment continued sinking into the skin at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Countless possibilities instantly flashed through Dumbledore's mind.
Cohen was a product of alchemy.
And so was the Philosopher's Stone.
....
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