Chapter 16: The Innately Malevolent Dementor Imp Prepares to Join Voldemort’s Ranks

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Pettigrew was not the type to casually reply with a “What a coincidence!”
Even while fleeing, he didn’t forget to draw his wand, intending to cast the Killing Curse on Coen—
“Avada—”
“Stop! You fool!”
Voldemort’s low growl was loud enough for Coen to hear it clearly with both ears.
“He’s useful… remember him…”
Coen felt no effect from the Killing Curse—after all, the curse is supposed to extract a person’s soul from their body, killing both simultaneously. But Coen’s soul was already free to enter and exit his body at will, and once the soul left, Coen’s body would be as good as dead.
He was ready to pull his soul out ahead of time at any moment—after all, “you can’t kill a corpse that’s already dead.”
*Coen is unaffected.*
What did Voldemort mean by “he’s useful”? Did he intend to use the inherently evil Dementor-like Coen to help him?
Fine!
Fine!!
Fine!!!
Is it about to happen?
Coen was just worried about how to earn guilt points by casually littering and snatching lollipops from first-years at Hogwarts.
Pretending to aid a doomed villain and then betraying him, finally pressing a wand against Pettigrew’s head and saying, “Voldemort, give it up, Dumbledore’s everywhere outside”—just imagining that scene was thrilling!
Then, in front of everyone’s eyes, secretly pocketing the Philosopher’s Stone, knocking Pettigrew to his knees, and dragging him home as a trophy—
“Whoosh—”
A strange gust of wind blew fiercely as Pettigrew’s cloak and wand swung, causing Coen’s hood to be ripped off.
No surprise, Pettigrew saw Coen’s face.
Yet since Coen hadn’t attended any Defense Against the Dark Arts classes so far, Pettigrew couldn’t place which student he was.
But that was enough. Pettigrew, currently the only living teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, could easily identify a student by face.
After the black-hooded figure memorized Coen’s appearance, he slipped into the far edge of the Forbidden Forest while fleeing alongside Coen toward the exit.

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It seemed Pettigrew knew that wearing a black robe and hood in broad daylight on Hogwarts grounds looked suspicious, so he probably intended to sneak farther away, cast a Disillusionment Charm, and then return to class.
“So busy, having to attend class and help Voldemort catch unicorns…” Coen watched Pettigrew’s retreating figure and clicked his tongue in pity, “and he has to shave his head too…”
In that case, let’s at least help him out a little later. Even Coen, who usually kept a cold front, had a soft spot in his heart.
“Coen?”
Behind Hagrid’s hut, Harry spotted Coen, whose robe was covered in dried leaves and dirt, and called quietly.
What? It was already three o’clock?!
“Ding—dong—ding—dong—”
The castle’s bells tolled, signaling that some students needed to rush to class—though Coen and company only had one Herbology lesson in the afternoon, before dinner, so there was no hurry.
“Harry? Why are you outside?”
Ron poked his head out from Hagrid’s back door and saw Coen emerging from the Forbidden Forest.
“Has your friend Coen arrived?”
Hagrid’s heavy breathing came from inside the hut. Coen hurried into the garden, pretending to admire Hagrid’s pumpkin patch—not that he had just been chased out of the forest by centaurs.
After Coen gave Hagrid a long, heartfelt compliment about “your pumpkin seedlings are amazing, could you teach me gardening?” the initially skeptical Hagrid immediately forgot Coen’s possible forest escapade.
Hagrid was a good man.
After Harry reintroduced Coen to Hagrid, mentioning how Coen was the “only friend he’d ever had,” Coen received a pile of rock cakes and incredibly sticky toffee candies.
Hagrid, even in tears, gave Coen an animal-hide satchel to carry these “snacks”—the hide looked just like that from the old textbook “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them” by Edward.
“Is this Thestral hide, Hagrid?” Coen felt the small treasures beckoning him, “I thought they lived in the mountains—”
“Oh… yes,” Hagrid said sadly, “Grove used to live in the mountains, but he was too old, so they drove him out…”
“If you don’t like Thestral hide, I have a deer leather pouch too—”
Hagrid thought Coen had an objection to Thestral hide, but Coen would never give up Thestral hide for deer leather.
This material was even tougher than dragon hide; most spells couldn’t affect it.
Coen already planned to take it to the kitchen, find the house-elves, and have them craft it into a vest—a magical bulletproof armor.
Perfect!

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Afternoon tea passed quickly. Reluctantly, they left the warm hut and arrived just in time at the Herbology greenhouse classroom.
The first Herbology class was mostly theory; the bizarre magical plants in the greenhouse could only be observed, not touched (“Watch your wand in your pocket, Mr. Finnigan! It’s sparking!” Professor Sprout loudly reminded, “Those stinging nettles hate fire!”).
Coen didn’t enjoy this class—not because of Professor Sprout or Herbology itself—but because of the magical plants.
Some even made noises and moved like animals in their pots, yet Coen couldn’t see any [Soul Strength: X] tags on them!
Why don’t plants have souls? (Annoyed)
Coen wanted to speak up for the plants.
*“Am I alive? Am I really alive?”*
After class, Coen and the others returned to the castle, covered in mud. To avoid being caught by Filch, they took the chance to serve detention and went to shower and change.
By the time everything was done and they hurried to dinner, most had already finished eating.
After the feast, Coen planned to return to the dormitory with Harry and the others to relax after a busy day when—
“Mr. Norton…”
Stammering, Pettigrew blocked the three. His gaze lingered a second longer on Harry but mostly stayed on Coen.
Harry and Ron didn’t understand what was happening, thinking Coen had skipped lunch to wander the forest and been caught by a professor, so they quickly stepped a foot away from him.
“You don’t have to distance yourselves from me so quickly…” Coen hissed under his breath.
“I heard from Professor McGonagall… you did… really well in Transfiguration class…”
Pettigrew rubbed his hands nervously, looking like a scolded office worker apologizing.
“I have… some books on Transfiguration. I guess you might like them…”
Pettigrew’s words made Coen feel like he could dig a Hogwarts castle out from under his feet.
Do you only see me as some odd uncle watching goldfish?