Who let this Dementor into Hogwarts!

Chapter 532 "Cohen's Manufacturing Manual"

Herbert glanced at them intently, but did nothing, continuing toward the innermost room.

Harry looked at Cohen with some concern. He recognized Sissoko's voice and never imagined that the basilisk who was so protective of its young and liked to cling to Cohen had such a terrible past.

However, Cohen didn't seem to have changed at all; he was unusually calm.

Next, they passed the room containing the Chimera Beast. It seemed that all three heads were asleep, and the lion's snoring faintly threatened to break through the silence spell on the door.

This was also the only room without a lock, most likely because this group of people were no match for the Chimera Beast.

"Ah, Herbert, you've come at the perfect time."

As soon as Herbert pushed open the door at the end, an old man's voice rang out.

The lab wasn't too different from when Cohen last visited. The overall structure was unchanged; it was still a large, square room with a long table on the left filled with all sorts of bottles and jars, and various animals in cages on the right.

Aside from the absence of the vast, tangible network of the devil's net, this place differs from the laboratory Cohen remembered in several ways—

In the center of the room, a bubble the size of a human head floated in mid-air, eerily still, with dense black mist floating inside, and the outline of an infant could be vaguely seen.

The speaker had a full head of white hair and an aged face, yet he was full of vitality.

“It’s him!” Harry exclaimed. “The minister we met at the Ministry of Magic—Cohen, remember—Ignatius Taft.”

“Of course I remember. I personally handed him over to Edward.” Cohen frowned. He hadn’t noticed the Silver Key leader when he looked at Herbert’s memories before, and thought that everyone in the laboratory had been wiped out long ago.

“When will Cohen come back to life…” Herbert threw the bag he was carrying to the ground and said hoarsely, “You said last time it would be soon—”

“‘Soon’ means you’ll need to wait a few more days.” Taft walked over to Herbert and untied the sack. “Well done, Herbert, two very healthy Thestral cubs.”

“And that snake, you said you'd kill it,” Herbert said, looking at Taft. “You only need a few basilisk eggs, why…”

"Torture it?" Taft sneered. "When did you ever show any sympathy for monsters? You killed your own brother, remember what happened last week? You shouldn't forget..."

“Then kill it—” Herbert said. “What are you doing to it now? Injecting it with nightmare blood? Gouging out its eyes over and over again? This has nothing to do with the experiment!”

“It’s related.” Taft tossed the bag of lifeless Thestral pups to another lab technician beside him. “Very related. It’ll still be useful, but it’s very disobedient, so it needs some corrective measures—do you think I don’t know who released that snake? You caused that basilisk escape accident, you killed your brother with your own hands, and he was the most dedicated person in this project…”

"..."

“But you don’t need to take any responsibility.” Taft patted Herbert on the shoulder with a smile. “You are the key to your son’s resurrection. He has been longing to hear his father’s voice... It’s very rare. The poor children in the past couldn’t have lasted that long. Rupert, get that newly hatched Dementor out of here!”

Cohen saw Mick squeezing into the lab through the ventilation ducts, but a researcher shooed him away by spewing a large cloud of silver smoke from his wand. "I remember Professor Norton saying dark wizards can't use the Patronus Charm?" Harry asked, puzzled.

“If a person believes he has never done anything wrong, then he can still use this spell, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Only those who yearn for killing and torture, whose hands are stained with blood and who have no remorse, will be rejected by their Patronus.”

“It’s not surprising that the madmen with silver keys would do anything,” Cohen said. “Their faith turns them into machines that can be manipulated at will.”

“Sometimes, the mind has a more profound effect than the Imperius Curse,” Dumbledore sighed. “Staying true to oneself is a very rare quality, Harry. I remember Alastor saying you successfully resisted the Imperius Curse?”

"Maybe Professor Moody went easy on us?" Harry said, sounding a little uncertain.

“If that’s the case, then Alastor wouldn’t have praised you in front of me,” Dumbledore said. “Cohen, the next part of the memory needs to continue…”

"Let's keep watching. Nothing unexpected has happened." Cohen shook his head.

The scene changed rapidly again. It was still the same room, but it was much later. Only Herbert was left in the laboratory. He sat under the bubble in the center, muttering to himself, as if he were talking to "Cohen" inside.

“Cohen, I know I did wrong… Don’t blame Dad… Dad just wanted you to live…” Herbert sobbed, “I only have you left… only you left…”

The baby absorbed a significant amount of the black mist from the bubble, seemingly in response to Herbert's question.

The next scene jumps to an argument between Herbert and Taft.

"You kidnapped my sister's son!" Herbert was slammed onto a laboratory table by several people. Shards of glass from the bottles that once contained potions pierced his face, but he didn't care. He glared angrily at Taft, "How dare you—"

“You can only blame your son for being too fragile,” Taft said. “Herbert, I thought you could make him stronger, but I’m so disappointed—but guess what we found? Her child’s soul is almost identical to your child’s soul, exactly the same, Herbert. If the God that Muggles believe in is real, that God would certainly be happy to see this experiment succeed…”

"You son of a bitch—"

“Drag him to the solitary confinement cell and tie him up,” Taft said. “Give him some water and food to keep him alive, and use it to draw blood—don’t worry, he won’t dare commit suicide…”

Then, he moved closer to Herbert.

"You wouldn't want to see you and your sister's child die together, would you, 'Cohen's' father?"

"Pah!" Herbert spat in Taft's face, which was leaning closer, within the limited space he could move.

“I bet this old man from Nantong got a good dose of nausea,” Cohen said, stroking his chin.

Because Taft simply pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, not looking angry at all.

(End of this chapter)