As Cohen stepped in front of Harry, the Acromantula seemed to recall the fear it had once felt—when Cohen had it utterly under his control…
Click-click-click!
The spider clicked its mandibles threateningly as it began scrambling up the hedge with incredible speed.
"Quite the typical behavior for its kind," Cohen nodded approvingly. "Whichever champion chose the left path is in for a real treat—facing both a Dementor and an Acromantula…"
"Why is it running away?" Harry asked.
"Acromantulas are afraid of snakes," Cohen replied smoothly, conveniently leaving out the fact that he had once ruthlessly wiped out half the Acromantula colony. "I've got a bit of a serpent scent on me. So do you."
"Huh? Really?" Harry's eyes widened as he sniffed his own sleeve.
"The old water snake must've rubbed against your back," Cohen pointed out, gesturing to a muddy smear on the back of Harry's robes. "It loves slithering around in the mud."
After passing the Acromantula, the trophy was now less than a hundred meters away.
Everything had gone so smoothly along the way that Harry felt like he might be dreaming.
"A thousand Galleons doesn't seem all that appealing now," Cohen said as he gazed at the Triwizard Cup resting on a pedestal in the distance.
They stopped just a foot away from the trophy, exchanging looks.
They'd have to grab it together. Cohen was just thinking of how to suggest it without sounding too eager.
"You take it," Harry said suddenly.
"Hmm?" Cohen raised an eyebrow.
What's this? Surely Harry couldn't have figured out something was wrong with the cup…
"Cohen, without you I wouldn't have even made it through the second task," Harry said seriously. "We've made it this far thanks to you—the win should be yours. Besides, I don't really need the thousand Galleons—"
"That's a bit disrespectful to money," Cohen sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Ron would definitely start ranting if he heard you say that. Do I look like I'm short on Galleons?"
"True," Harry chuckled, thinking of the unicorns Cohen kept.
"Let's take it together," Cohen said as he stepped closer to the cup. "This way, we're both champions. Even the Dementors and Dumbledore will be thrilled."
"Would Dementors really care about winning the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry couldn't help but laugh. "You said all they want is to feed—this is just you wanting the trophy, isn't it?"
"Saying it like that makes me sound like a team player," Cohen said nonchalantly. "Otherwise I'd just come off as a smug little prat."
"That's exactly the kind of thing Fred would say," Harry grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, together, then—"
"Three, two, one!"
Each of them grabbed a handle of the cup. In a flash, it was as if a gust of wind yanked at their navels—lifting their feet off the ground, the world around them twisting and spinning, wind howling in their ears—until both Cohen and Harry vanished from the maze.
Crack!
Cohen heard the sound of the cup shattering—Portkeys weren't supposed to break like that.
When he looked down, he was holding only half of the trophy. Harry, who had been gripping the other half, was gone. Cohen was left spinning through a whirl of shifting color and violent winds.
The Portkey had definitely been tampered with—designed to split and send each person to a different destination…
Soon, Cohen hit the ground—hard.
But instead of the Riddle graveyard where Voldemort was supposed to be resurrected, he found himself in a place he knew all too well:
The ruins of the Burke family estate.
Off in the distance stood Herbert's little wooden hut—though with Herbert gone, it sat in eerie silence, no light in its windows, looking abandoned under the heavy night sky.
And right beside Cohen stood four figures, each draped in silver cloaks. Their shadowed faces turned toward him in perfect unison—the Portkey had delivered him straight to them.
[Soul Strength: 23]
[Soul Strength: 21]
[Soul Strength: 24]
[Soul Strength: 30]
"You're here, Cohen," said the one with a soul strength of 30. "The Destroyer of Worlds."
Cohen flinched as that absurd title—The Destroyer—was spoken in such a serious tone. It gave him goosebumps.
Especially because… it was being used to describe him.
It felt like someone barging into your first job interview after university and yelling out the cringey nickname you gave yourself when you were twelve.
"You've been standing here for over an hour in dramatic poses just to deliver that line?" Cohen twitched as he looked at the stiff, stoic group.
For some reason, the Silver Key people always gave off this weird aura of absolute conviction—one you couldn't help but envy.
If only Cohen had that kind of faith when trying to build his Dementor empire, the Ministry wouldn't be giving him so much grief.
"My leg's gone numb…" one of the silver-robed ones muttered under his breath.
"Silence!" barked their leader, glaring at the unfortunate speaker. "The plan over there has already failed—we're the only backup left. Don't lose your nerve!"
"Over there?" Cohen raised an eyebrow. "You mean the attack on Edward and the others—that was your side, wasn't it?"
"They failed. But luckily, we had a contingency." The leader narrowed his eyes at Cohen. "Your feeble soul has occupied the Master's body long enough… We're here to purge you. Once you're gone, the Master's grand design can proceed—"
"I earned this body with sheer skill and dumb luck, and you're yapping like I stole it," Cohen said flatly. "You really think making me angry will help your cause?"
"Our Master will pass judgment as He sees fit," the leader said stubbornly. "Once we tear you apart, He will awaken—"
"I'm guessing His judgment will be to devour your souls and digest them completely," Cohen shot back.
"Have you ever been a dark god? Don't spout nonsense about things you don't understand—" one of the Silver Key members snapped.
Cohen: "?"
Leader: "?"
Random guy: "?"
"…Is this the recruitment standard for Silver Key now?" Cohen muttered, beginning to wonder if he'd lose control of his facial expressions if this dragged on much longer.
"No more of his nonsense," the leader growled. "With the hopes of the Silver Key on our shoulders—take him down!"
Cohen hadn't quite understood why they called themselves the "hope" of the Silver Key—until now.
These four, it seemed, were among the few in the cult capable of casting the Patronus Charm, the only magic effective against Dementors.
"Expecto Patronum!" the four of them shouted in unison, raising their wands.
Silver animals burst forth from their wand tips.
"Alright then," Cohen said, raising his own wand. "Expecto Patronum."
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