The ruins of Lestrange Manor weren't too far from Malfoy Manor, and since most of the buildings had been blasted apart by spells, Lucius had brought Cohen straight here with a quick Apparition. Under the sunlight, "Lestrange Manor" looked like a total wreck—just crumbling walls and broken foundations. The sight felt oddly familiar to Cohen; it wasn't all that different from what he'd seen at Borgin Manor.
Unlike that place, though, there weren't many traces of heavy dark magic lingering here. Probably why anything worth a Galleon had already been looted clean.
Gringotts really did serve a purpose—kept you from coming back from a stint in Azkaban to find your whole house picked bare. Wizarding law was pretty spotty when it came to enforcement. Outside the pure-wizard villages, most magical folk lived miles apart, making it impossible to keep tabs on everyone. Naturally, that led to more robberies and thefts popping up.
"Can you tell where the… fireplace is?" Lucius asked, eyeing the ruins with a skeptical squint. "Anything worth taking from here's probably long gone."
He was pretty sure the place had been stripped clean—especially since he'd helped himself to a few things back in the day, only to offload them to Borgin and Burkes later.
"That probably doesn't include wands," Cohen said, narrowing his eyes.
He could sense the emotions and "souls" of wands—same as he'd felt back at Ollivander's shop. These were faint souls, low in strength, tempting like a faint whiff of something delicious, but for some reason, he couldn't feed on them right now.
"Found it." Cohen strode past the debris, heading straight for where the wand's soul was calling from.
The spot was clearly hidden by magic—so well, in fact, that a person could walk right through it without noticing.
"Aparecium," Cohen muttered, tapping his wand against the hiding spot.
The spell worked, sort of. A vague outline of a fireplace flickered into view for a second or two before fading again.
Cohen tried again—this time brushing his hand against it. Solid. There was something there.
Good enough.
"Aparecium," he cast a third time.
"Try a Blasting Curse—" Lucius started to suggest.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light slammed into the half-visible fireplace. Dust and stone exploded outward, the protective magic shattered instantly, and a gaping hole appeared in its place.
Lucius sucked in a sharp breath, instinctively stepping back from Cohen. The fact that Cohen could cast the Killing Curse didn't shock him—after all, a creation from *that* experiment being some ordinary little wizard would've been weirder. But didn't the Killing Curse require intense hatred toward its target? Why the hell did Cohen have that kind of murderous intent toward a *rock*? Was his head just full of destruction and chaos?
"More efficient than a Blasting Curse," Cohen explained casually. He turned around, only to catch Lucius looking like he was about to bolt. "Relax, I wouldn't use it on you. I'm a good guy."
Lucius trudged back silently. It wasn't Cohen's flimsy "I'm a good guy" that convinced him—more like the vibe Cohen was giving off: *run, and you're next for an Avada Kedavra*.
Cohen easily pulled a small box containing two wands from the wrecked fireplace.
"Got it. Your turn now," Cohen said, tossing the box to Lucius. "Head to Gringotts and grab that goblet. Watch out for the Fiendfyre and Gemino curses on the treasure in there."
"Our vaults usually have those kinds of protections—I'll manage…" Lucius wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded.
---
Since Gringotts wasn't under the Ministry's thumb, Lucius's trip to withdraw the goblet went off without a hitch.
Cohen, meanwhile, got dropped back at Malfoy Manor. Dobby shuffled over with a tray of tea and juice, trembling as usual. His head was wrapped in a bandage—probably from punishing himself again. Cohen figured it was because Dobby had snuck off last night to tip off Harry.
Not that Cohen cared much. After that mess in first year, Harry wouldn't bat an eye even if Cohen was palling around with dark wizards. Besides, Cohen was getting scarily good at lying—so good he could even fool himself sometimes. Like when he'd cursed out Voldemort in front of Lucius—he'd actually *meant* it. That guy was a letdown.
By the time afternoon tea rolled around, Lucius was back with Hufflepuff's Cup in hand.
**[Soul Strength: 25]**
Compared to that diary Lucius had handed over yesterday—barely scraping 10 soul strength—the cup was a solid boost.
"What about the Dark Lord…" Lucius started, fidgeting nervously as Cohen tucked the cup into a creepy, ice-cold pouch.
"I'll handle him," Cohen promised.
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Lucius was still so naive—he'd actually bought the word of a Dementor.
After leaving Malfoy Manor, Cohen wasn't in a rush to head home. He'd promised himself a seven-day trip, and going back early felt like a waste. With Galleons jingling in his pocket, he figured he'd wander a bit. All he needed was…
"Welcome to the Knight Bus—emergency transport for stranded witches and wizards! Just stick out your wand hand, hop aboard, and we'll take you wherever you want to go. I'm Tuck Von Braun, your conductor today…"
A garish purple triple-decker bus screeched to a stop out of nowhere in front of Cohen. The guy rattling off the spiel wasn't Stan Shunpike from the books, but some older, exhausted-looking wizard who sounded like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"You lost?" Tuck asked, eyeing Cohen, who looked all of eleven or twelve.
"Nah, I'm on a trip," Cohen replied. "Muggle transport's too slow, and I'm out of Muggle cash."
That was true. Rose had swapped all his pocket money for Sickles and Galleons, leaving him with a grand total of seven pounds in Muggle money.
"Sounds like a little pure-blood lord," Tuck quipped tiredly, his drooping eyelids giving him the vibe of a grumpy old cynic. "What's your name?"
"Draco Malfoy," Cohen said, picking a name on a whim. No one from the Malfoy family would be caught dead on this bus, so he wasn't worried about getting called out. "How do I get to the Borgin Manor ruins?"
"Bit of a trek… uh…" Tuck's brain seemed half-melted from years on this bus. "One Galleon and… er, three Sickles. Add another three if you want some chocolate."
"Deal, throw in the chocolate," Cohen said, handing over a Galleon and six Sickles.
"Take this bed," Tuck said, shoving a ticket into Cohen's hand before leading him to a brass four-poster bed. No seats here—just half a dozen movable beds on each level.
"Ern—Borgin Manor…" Tuck mumbled toward the driver.
"It's *Bock* Manor," Cohen corrected, barely holding it together.
No wonder they'd replace this guy in a couple years. Tuck was clearly past his prime.
**(End of Chapter)**