The Daily Prophet's reporting speed was always swift. Cohen offed Barty Jr. in the middle of Christmas night, and by the next morning's paper, the headline was "Minister Crouch Once Again Shows Great Self-Sacrifice."
"How can he show great self-sacrifice twice?"
Edward nearly choked on his milk while reading the newspaper at breakfast.
"I feel like the last ti I saw old Crouch 'show great self-sacrifice,' the Daily Prophet had the exact sa headline—wasn't Barty Jr. supposed to be dead already?"
"Those who play politics like to use their strengths to win people over, over and over again," Cohen said while eating his fried eggs, looking like a seasoned pro. "Watch closely, learn well, Minister Norton."
"Learn a lot, Ed, prepare yourself well for becoming Minister of Magic in the future," Martha agreed with Cohen.
"If it ans offing your own son twice, then it's best to never learn sothing like that," Edward said, pulling a face. "Even if Cohen was wanted by the law, I wouldn't think about sending him to prison—if I were old Barty, I'd definitely take my son and run far, far away—"
"Do you really have to start considering family plans after Cohen becos a wanted criminal?" Rose said sternly. "Don't assign any evil goals to Cohen."
"Listen to Rose, Ed, don't assign any evil goals to Cohen," Martha also reminded Edward sternly.
"Listen to your wife and mom, Ed, don't assign any evil goals to Cohen," Cohen chid in.
"You think you can call Ed?" Edward retorted to Cohen, pretending to be angry.
Considering Dumbledore's previous reminder about "Nicolas Flal having a gift," Cohen had been carrying the key Nicolas gave him throughout the rest of the Christmas holiday. This way, he could feel any changes in the key imdiately and rush over to receive Nicolas' inheritance in ti.
On the last day of the Christmas break, the key changed.
The old key, which had been sowhat dull, started to beco shiny, gleaming with a brassy tallic luster.
According to Nicolas' description, as long as this key was inserted into any door, it would open a passage leading to Nicolas' workshop.
"Can you really stick it into any door?"
Earl stood at the edge of Cohen's bed, watching Cohen fiddling with the magical key at the bedroom door with great curiosity.
"I know what you're about to say," Cohen said without turning his head. "But you're not allowed to say it, and don't you dare interrupt my newfound interest in alchemy."
Cohen's bedroom had a lock, but Cohen never locked it. Edward and Rose also hadn't suddenly barged into Cohen's room except when they were secretly delivering Christmas presents.
Cohen began his first attempt.
The key inserted itself into the completely mismatched keyhole in a very bizarre way, as if the keyhole it touched had lost so of its material "rules."
With a slight turn, the lock clicked open.
When the door was opened again, Cohen was no longer facing the hallway outside his bedroom.
This was a quite spacious round room, and its appearance was extrely peculiar.
The ceiling was inlaid with a self-rotating orrery. The stars emitted a soft glow, projecting faintly blue magical star trails.
Many round glass jars burning with what looked like magical blue fire were scattered irregularly around the edge of the do, revolving with the constellations—as if the entire universe had been stuffed into this rooftop.
The air was filled with a strange scent, a mix of sulfur, ambergris, and mint. Compared to Cohen's bedroom, it was much warr here.
Bronze gears clicked and whirred within the walls, and occasionally, there was a woodpecker-like tapping sound from what looked like a runic inscribing machine. Around the walls were so curved tables, most of them piled with small bottles containing ingredients.
Unlike the alchemists' laboratories in other books, Nicolas Flal's workshop didn't have stacks upon stacks of bookshelves—he himself was the most knowledgeable encyclopedia.
The shelves here displayed all sorts of strange-looking gadgets: gold wriggling in transparent boxes, erald-colored stone slabs, potions in purple solutions...
In the center of the room were a few more prominent pieces of alchemical equipnt.
Although Cohen had never seen them before, he seed to instinctively know what they were.
A half-person-high object resembling a giant bronze tortoise, spouting golden-blue flas from its mouth—the Athanor Eternal (Philosopher's Furnace), capable of lting Thunderbird feathers, Goblin silver, and even the sand from an hourglass.
And a round platform with tal discs corresponding to the seven planets inlaid on its surface, and a slightly deeper groove in the center, with so remaining scarlet crystal fragnts—the Transmutation Table, used to change the properties of real substances.
Besides these, there was also an inverted cone-shaped crystal container hanging in the air, which still had half a bottle of pale golden liquid left—this was the container for making the Elixir of Life. Nicolas Flal hadn't even finished using it, and there was even a line inscribed on it:
[Don't let the cat touch it—1642, Perenelle]
"So, where's Nicolas Flal?" Cohen looked around. He didn't see any other exits, nor did he see Nicolas Flal himself.
"Maybe he hasn't gotten up yet," Earl, who had followed him in, stopped at a table with a little space.
"Maybe he's grabbing a bite," Cohen guessed. "Old people usually get up early."
"Maybe he's already dead," an old voice said playfully.
"So soon?" Cohen asked. "Without even saying a proper goodbye or anything..."
"Farewells are always sad, child," Nicolas' voice said. "Young people don't need to experience this pain too early."
Following the direction of the voice, Cohen found a thick book. The cover of this book had been replaced by a frad photograph.
Nicolas Flal was waving hello to Cohen on the cover.
"This book is the gift I'm leaving for you," Nicolas said with a chuckle. "Compared to a boring alchemical notebook, I think leaving behind my mories will be much more effective than those words."
"Then can you visit the portraits at Hogwarts?" Cohen asked curiously. "If I take you to Hogwarts, you can still chat with Dumbledore often..."
"Unfortunately, no," Nicolas shook his head. "I'm not exactly a portrait. Portraits are a mixture of paint and mories—I'm pure mory, without paint as a dium, so I can't leave this book."
"But I think following you, my life shouldn't be too boring," Nicolas added. "As long as you don't stuff in a trunk for a year without taking out once..."
"If you're also going to chat with Cohen, then won't I be useless?" Earl said warily.
"I won't let you talk about yourself like that," Cohen said to Earl.
"Touched," Earl said, although he didn't know what Cohen was going to say next, nothing good ever ca out of that kid's mouth.
...
"And then?"
Earl had waited a long ti for Cohen's next words. It seed a little incredulous.
"Are you actually comforting ?"
"Huh? No," Cohen said. "What I an is you've always been pretty useless, so Nicolas showing up won't make your value any lower..."
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