Chapter 128: Christmas Is for Family, Little Voldy—Don’t Stir Up Trouble  

"So back then, I didn't get the angle right—I was too rushed. You get it, right? That feeling of finally getting payback after five hundred years of mockery—" Nick explained. "Last time, I didn't even flip my neck joint over in time—I forgot how humans eat. I thought you'd cut it up with a knife and fork—" 

"Who cuts a chicken leg with a knife and fork?!" Cohen burst out. 

"I've always avoided watching students eat too closely—it just bums me out more…" Nick said mournfully. "Back then, I regretted it—big time. Of course, this time I'll make it worth your while, whatever you want…" 

"That stuff doesn't really matter," Cohen said, dropping the playful tone. "But seriously, are you sure you want to ditch what makes you *you* just because of what other people think?" 

"Huh?" Nick's eyes clouded with confusion. 

"I mean, if you turn into some ghost with a totally detached head, you'd just blend into the crowd, right?" Cohen said earnestly. "You'd be 'Sir Nicholas with No Prefix,' 'That Random Headless Horseman,' 'Some Ghost Nobody Knows.' People remember the quirky, unique ghosts—not the ones who fit in too well." 

"So… you're saying I'm special… likable?" Nick's eyes widened. 

"Ask the students if you don't believe me. Even first-years know 'Nearly Headless Nick.' But if you asked them to name anyone from the Headless Hunt? Crickets," Cohen said. 

He was genuinely trying to talk Nick out of it—not just because the guy's neck stump wasn't exactly appetizing or because his request was kinda weird. 

"So, what's your call? Wanna be one of a million headless ghosts—or stay Hogwarts' one-and-only 'Nearly Headless Nick'?" 

Cohen lobbed the big question at him. 

Nick went quiet. 

He was wrestling with whether he was really set on this— 

"'Cause biting a head off is easy. Sticking it back on? Not so much," Cohen added, fanning the flames. 

"'Only when someone's completely forgotten do they truly die,'" Nick murmured, recalling the line. 

[**And what about you, Cohen Norton?**] 

"Thanks, Cohen—I've thought it over… I'll stick with this," Nick said, either coming to his senses or spooked by the idea of a bland, forgotten future. "You're right. I guess I've gotten used to 'Nearly Headless Nick.' If you ever need a hand with anything, just holler—I'll help if I can." 

Nick floated off, but Cohen didn't budge. 

Did I just hallucinate some weird voice? 

Hold up— 

Cohen whipped around, suddenly on edge. 

There was a soul strength tag outside the classroom wall he'd never seen before. 

[**Soul Strength: 31**] 

Too low for a professor, too high for a student—an outsider. Hiding behind the wall, and behind that wall… 

Cohen bolted to the window. That wall faced the Forbidden Forest grounds, and it was thin—no pipes or anything. 

Someone was out there. On the *fourth floor*. 

A stalker? Playing these cryptic villain games? Tired of living, huh? 

But the soul zipped downward fast. Cohen caught a blurry shadow darting along the path, vanishing into the Forest in seconds. 

What—or who—was that? 

No, that speed screamed wizard using magic. 

And that line they left behind— 

[**And what about you, Cohen Norton?**] 

What's that supposed to mean? 

Tacked onto Nick's "only when someone's forgotten do they truly die" bit? 

Two people "died" in Cohen's creation—one from Herbert, one from Rose. But they weren't forgotten. Herbert, Rose, and Edward still remembered them. 

… 

"Ugh, brain hurts. I'm done thinking. If someone's got a beef with me, they can slide-tackle my stomach and call it a day." 

After shooing off Harry, Ron, and Hermione—who'd bolted when Norbert "affectionately" rubbed them—Cohen hauled his suitcase to the Room of Requirement and hashed out the weirdness with the Earl. 

"They're obviously too weak to take you head-on, so they're pulling these flashy tricks," the Earl reasoned. "*And what about you, Cohen Norton?*" 

"Repeating it isn't gonna jog my memory," Cohen said flatly. 

"No, I mean they called you by name *and* seem to know something about you," the Earl tilted his head. "That's a big clue. They know your name, so they're either from the school, the Ministry, or that manor. And since they tied it to that life-and-death talk, it sounds like they've got dirt on your deeper secrets…" 

"So it's gotta be someone from the manor," Cohen frowned. "True, the Ministry just knows I'm a 'monster,' not the specifics. Only the Borgin Manor crew would've studied me—but didn't they all die?" 

*Only when something's forgotten does it truly die.* 

Wait… 

Cohen's creation wasn't forgotten—it was documented. Locked away in Borgin Manor's experiment logs! 

"You—go grab Mundungus for me," Cohen told the Earl. 

"Huh?" 

The Earl's eyes bugged out. 

"What the heck are you on about? I'm a freaking *bird*!" 

"But you're a bird with a wand. I've raised you for years—time to earn your keep. My peace of mind's riding on you, Earl," Cohen said, laying it on thick. "You know I've got classes to deal with, plus keeping an eye on that basilisk so it doesn't actually kill someone. Just don't off him—I need him alive." 

"Ha," the Earl let out a dry laugh. "You might be overestimating what an owl can do." 

"You're tougher than him. You've got the Patronus Charm down," Cohen said. "I'll lend you Mick. If it gets dicey, let Mick handle it." 

"Great, a Dementor—my savior. Thanks a ton," the Earl deadpanned. 

But no matter how you sliced it, the Earl was the best pick for the job. 

Owls had that tracking magic baked in—they could sniff out wizards no problem. With a wand in his claw pouch, the Earl was basically a self-guided missile. 

Now with little Mick the Dementor as backup. 

"Don't worry, you'll be back soon," Cohen soothed Mick, who looked glum about the separation as he got stuffed into the Earl's stretchy claw pouch. 

"It's not gonna flip out and eat me, right?" the Earl asked warily. 

"No Dementor's eating a bird's soul," Cohen said. "Except maybe me." 

"That's not exactly comforting…" the Earl sighed. 

Since they were nabbing a grown wizard, the Earl had to take Mick along, reluctant or not, to avoid getting taken out himself. 

"Just hit him with a Petrificus Totalus and shove him in your claw pouch," Cohen instructed. "And don't let other wizards spot you—non-humans aren't supposed to carry wands. If you end up in Azkaban…" 

"You'd bust me out, right?" the Earl asked hopefully. 

"I'd hook you up with the coziest cell," Cohen said, thumping his chest. "I'm tight with all the Dementors there—just kidding. If you get nabbed, no sweat. How'd I send letters to Edward and Rose without you?" 

The Mundungus hunt dragged on for days. The Earl popped back every few days with updates—Mundungus was tangled up with some folks from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and was dodging them all over the place. 

The owl's tracking magic had a lag, making it tough to pin down a guy sprinting across Britain. 

Cohen wasn't sweating it, though. Early or late, he'd get him eventually. 

Second week of December, after hearing Malfoy was heading home, Cohen snagged a ticket back too. 

He checked in with Voldemort. 

Voldy said he couldn't pull off any attacks for a bit—Dumbledore was sniffing around the school's walls. 

"Then I'm heading home. Don't screw up—I don't wanna come back to find Dumbledore's booted you out again," Cohen warned him before leaving. Voldemort looked ticked off. 

Love that "hate me but can't touch me" vibe. 

**(End of Chapter)**