"Then you just stay put right here," Cohen said. "It's just Harry's blood, I'll go get it now—"
"Wait..." Voldemort stopped Cohen. "Not now..."
"What's the hold-up?" Cohen looked at Voldemort suspiciously. "You're not a double-crosser, are you? Why the sudden change of heart? Usually, only traitors try to stop things when the plan's about to succeed..."
"I'm not—wait... I'm the one who ca up with this plan!"
Voldemort suddenly rembered that he was the Dark Lord who wanted to kill Harry Potter – Cohen's sudden suspicion almost made him doubt himself.
He used to deceive others all the ti, so he was very skilled at dispelling suspicion when his "teammates" doubted him – but this ti, he was the leader! What kind of leader would be a traitor?!
"Then why are you stopping ? If we wait any longer, the students will all be back in their dorms, and it'll be harder for to make a move," Cohen said.
"My resurrection requires a more grand occasion... it absolutely cannot be in this corner..." Voldemort's tone was full of arrogance. "Those servants who are hiding everywhere, afraid to face their master, must co forward and beg for forgiveness..."
"Pretty ritualistic," Cohen said. "But what's that got to do with getting the blood now? We'll need it sooner or later, and I'm ready to slit Harry's throat right now—"
"The blood needs to be fresh..." Voldemort said. "It can't be out of the body for more than five minutes... The spell to restore my body requires three things... the blood of an enemy, the flesh of a servant, and the bone of my father..."
"You have parents?" Cohen said, feigning surprise.
"..." Voldemort felt offended.
"So we still need to dig up your dad's grave, huh?" Cohen continued. "You're a little unfilial, but I'm happy to help you with that. I've never dug up a grave before."
"He was a foolish Muggle..." Voldemort had no affection for old Tom Riddle. "I killed him with my own hands, so naturally, I wouldn't care whether his grave is intact or not..."
"Well, that's a life," Cohen nodded. "If you hate him that much, I can help you go do a little jig on your dad's grave."
"Whatever... that's not important..." Voldemort said. "And then there's the flesh of a servant... I've found a very suitable and safe candidate..."
"That rat?" Cohen said. "Is his na Peter Pettigrew?"
"Yes... he's an Animagus..." Voldemort explained to Cohen. "He's the one who delivered the letter to you today..."
"Ooh la la!" Cohen raised his eyebrows. "We can use his flesh for the servant part."
"Exactly..." Voldemort said. "Now we just need to get Harry Potter to my father's graveyard... it's very secluded... we can complete the resurrection outside of Dumbledore's sight... and then summon the Death Eaters..."
"Good idea," Cohen said. "So how exactly am I supposed to get Harry from Hogwarts to your dad's grave under Dumbledore's nose?"
"You can't Apparate in Hogwarts... but we can use a Portkey..." Voldemort said. "There's a spell to create a Portkey... but it requires a very powerful wizard..."
"You, teach ," Cohen said, holding out his hand.
"..."
Voldemort was silent for a mont.
He and Cohen were just regular partners, right? Was Cohen being a little...
"Alright..." Voldemort said helplessly.
Peter was too weak; he'd never be able to learn this spell.
His other slightly stronger followers were either locked up in Azkaban, missing, or suspected of betraying him.
It seed like Cohen was the only slightly normal option – that kid could cause a huge explosion with the Killing Curse, which ant his magical power was definitely strong enough.
After Voldemort explained the casting points of the "Portus" spell to Cohen in detail, Cohen confidently said that he understood.
"Don't worry, it doesn't sound that hard," Cohen said.
Then, Cohen rummaged around the room and found an old cup, took out his wand, and pointed it at it.
"Portus."
A flash of blue light appeared, and Voldemort praised him delightedly.
"Very good, very good..." Voldemort felt like this plan was much simpler than the previous two years. "Take with you, let's try and see if we can get to the destination..."
From every angle, the magic looked successful – Voldemort saw the correct magical fluctuations, the correct magical influence, it couldn't have been more normal—
Cohen picked up the book where Voldemort was and placed his finger on the cup.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
"Did you teach a fake spell?" Cohen asked.
"Impossible," Voldemort said firmly.
He had taught it correctly, Cohen had cast it correctly, and the spell definitely looked like it had worked—
"Then why isn't it working? Are you saying my casting level is the problem?" Cohen said, feigning annoyance. "Avada Kedavra!"
A beam of green light hit the cup precisely, and it shattered instantly from the curse filled with killing intent and rage.
The Earl flew up to the higher rafters in fear, wanting to avoid whatever these two lunatics might do next.
"That's not the reason either..." Voldemort didn't want to fall out with Cohen over this little thing – he had never seen this situation before. "It doesn't make sense... the spell looked like it worked..."
High-quality counterfeit spell! Little Voldy!
Cohen's facial expression control was excellent – his face was now full of dissatisfaction and anger.
He used to think that book, "High-Quality Counterfeit Spells," wasn't very practical – but it seed pretty good at fooling people.
Voldemort couldn't figure out the problem, and Cohen also "didn't know" what was wrong.
Finally, Cohen suggested looking for other more powerful Death Eaters – there were always a few hiding, like Barty Crouch Jr.
"He's already dead..." Voldemort said. "He died in Azkaban..."
"Nope, he didn't die. Barty Crouch Sr. took him away," Cohen said. "The Dentors told . That's because Barty Crouch Sr. sent in a fresher soul around that ti."
"!"
A hint of surprise showed in Voldemort's glowing red eyes that erged from the book.
"The Dentors told you?"
"Yeah, they're pretty good to . You know, we Dentors stick together," Cohen said.
"Barty Crouch Jr. was indeed a slightly more useful Death Eater..." Voldemort agreed.
"I saw his na in the school's trophy room. He did pretty well in school – his skills should be better than Peter's, right?" Cohen said, stroking his chin. "I can go check out the Crouch place during the next holiday. Maybe I can get him out – Barty Crouch Sr. must have him locked up sohow."
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