Hogwarts, i am Dementor

Defense Against the Dark Arts with Quirrell was the class little wizards were most excited for—even someone like Harry, who'd never touched the wizarding world before, had built up unrealistic expectations thanks to Ron's constant hype.

In the Great Hall, breakfast time.

"Fred and George say this class teaches real combat—" Ron repeated this every five minutes, his eyes gleaming with longing. "Fighting dark wizards…"

"We're not going to learn how to fight in the first lesson," Hermione said, sitting across from the three boys. She snapped her pre-read textbook shut and tilted her head to correct him. "We'll start with the basics of dark magic, ways to defend against it, and *then* move to practical stuff—"

"Yeah, Professor Granger," Ron muttered, pursing his lips. "Like you've already taken the class…"

"…"

Hermione didn't bother arguing further. She stood up with a huff and marched off without looking back.

"Seriously, I think she's a bit too fond of lecturing," Ron said, turning to Harry and Cohen to vent.

"Maybe we shouldn't tease her like that…" Harry said uncertainly.

"Ron, she's actually right," Cohen said, finishing his last spoonful of oatmeal and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "The first class will definitely be theory. Plus…"

Cohen glanced at the empty staff table.

"Don't forget it's Quirrell teaching us. He stutters every other word—I seriously doubt his teaching skills."

Cohen wasn't wrong. Quirrell's class turned into a catastrophic joke.

The room reeked of garlic. Some said it was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania— 

But Cohen knew the truth: the overpowering garlic smell was to cover up the stench of decay wafting off Quirrell. 

Thanks to Voldemort's possession, Quirrell's body was probably already rotting, just like the small animals Voldemort had clung to in Albanian forests.

The first five minutes of class were fine—Quirrell stuck to reading from the book. But when Seamus eagerly asked how to defeat a zombie, Quirrell lost it.

His face turned beet red, and he mumbled something vague about the weather.

Since Quirrell had dropped that bait for Cohen the day before, Cohen kept catching the professor sneaking glances his way—like he was waiting for Cohen to approach him after class.

But Cohen wasn't ready for a second, deeper encounter with Quirrell just yet. Voldemort's first move had been a test. If they went for an alliance next time, knowing Voldemort's nature, he'd probably have Quirrell use Legilimency on Cohen to check his loyalty.

Unsure if his half-Dementor nature could resist the spell, Cohen planned to test it on himself first—or at least pick up some basics of Occlumency.

Quirrell's skills weren't exactly top-tier right now. A little practice should be enough to block him.

Otherwise, in the books, Quirrell could've just used Legilimency on Harry in front of the Mirror of Erised to figure out if he'd nabbed the Philosopher's Stone.

"You were right, Cohen…" 

After class, Ron slumped, looking like he'd lost all energy and hope.

"I've never sat through a worse lesson," Harry groaned, joining the complaint chorus.

But Harry had spoken too soon.

For Harry—and most Gryffindors—the *real* torture was Snape's Potions class, followed closely by Professor Binns' History of Magic.

The afternoon Charms class was a lot more normal. Professor Flitwick might've needed a stack of books to reach the lectern, but his teaching skills towered far above his height.

Even the driest theory became bearable with Flitwick's sprinkle of quirky case studies and the occasional well-timed joke, keeping the little wizards happily engaged.

After dinner that evening, Quirrell didn't pull a repeat of yesterday's interception—doing it two days in a row would've been too suspicious.

But Cohen didn't head back to Gryffindor Tower with Harry and Ron either. Instead, he made for the library.

He needed books on Occlumency.

"Occlumency?" 

Madam Pince, the librarian, eyed Cohen suspiciously. A first-year asking about something like Occlumency—something not even on Hogwarts' curriculum—after just two days of classes?

"Is it something we're not allowed to learn…?" 

Cohen gave Madam Pince his best pitiful look, feeling like he could force out tears any second. He genuinely hadn't found a single book on Occlumency—he'd scoured the entire Charms section already.

"It's not that you *can't* learn it…" Madam Pince wasn't fooled by Cohen's crocodile tears, but Occlumency wasn't exactly restricted by year either.

In fact, it was perfectly safe—so safe it was even documented in— 

"*The Power of Sorrow*. Borrowing period is one week, max," Madam Pince said, placing a thick, peeling book in front of Cohen. "Take care of it."

[*If you tear, rip, crease, soil, damage, throw, drop, or in any way harm, mistreat, or desecrate this book, I will ensure the most dire consequences within my authority.*] 

The warning on the borrowing slip, penned by Madam Pince herself, oozed her loathing for anyone who dared harm a book—sharp enough to cut through the page.

With the book and slip in hand, Cohen finally understood why he couldn't find it in the Charms section.

Who'd have thought *The Power of Sorrow* would be the book on Occlumency?! 

It was shelved in the Magical Theory section—a dusty corner full of books on structural principles and foundational magical knowledge, not the evolved spell branches.

The library closed at eight. Cohen opted to borrow the book and study it in the common room. He'd considered an empty classroom, but if Quirrell caught him with it, it could throw a wrench in his plans.

"Cohen, have you lost it?" 

Back in the common room, Ron gaped at Cohen lugging in another thick book, incredulous. 

"It's only been *two days* since term started!" 

"I didn't want to either, but Hogwarts won't let me bring a gaming console," Cohen said, throwing up his hands. "Reading's about the only entertainment I've got left."

"You could play chess with us—round-robin style—or hang with Fred and George. They're trying to give a Pygmy Puff a haircut," Ron said, nodding toward a crowd by the fireplace.

The Weasley twins each wielded a pair of scissors, facing a pink Pygmy Puff that had somehow wandered into Gryffindor Tower.

These fluffy, marshmallow-like creatures were a wizard favorite. 

Lots of people adored Pygmy Puffs—assuming they didn't mind that their diet included dried boogers.

Normally, Pygmy Puffs were docile, but this one didn't seem shy. It was currently climbing one of the twins' faces like a facehugger, sparking shrieks and gasps from the onlookers.

"Nah, I'll pass," Cohen said, shuddering as goosebumps prickled his skin. A fuzzy ball crawling up his face would itch like crazy.

He picked a quieter corner and settled in to figure out how Occlumency worked. In the books, during Harry's one-on-one lessons, Snape had just said, "Close your mind." 

Surely a spell wasn't that vague—no incantation at all?

(*End of Chapter*)