A mop smeared with crap—touch it, and you're done for.
That's pretty much the situation Cohen was facing now. Sirius Black had been roaming around as a dog for nearly a month, reeking of mud and garbage—so Cohen dodged him on instinct.
Still, the bed was toast. The sheets were already smeared with mud and mysterious black stains.
"You look more like the bad guy here!" Cohen shouted, ducking Sirius's lunge. "And I don't even know who your godson is!"
"Cohen! What's going on?!"
Edward must've heard the commotion. He came thundering up the stairs—he'd been downstairs scarfing a midnight snack after burning through some energy earlier.
In just a few seconds, Sirius seemed to realize Edward was closing in and made another grab for Cohen. He lunged again, but Cohen sidestepped him deftly. At the same moment, Edward burst through the door in a panic.
Dressed in pajamas, Edward collided head-on with the filthy Sirius. But the scrawny, half-starved escapee was no match for Edward, who spent his days lounging around the house. Sirius went down hard.
"What—how'd a tramp get in here—" Edward yanked Cohen behind him.
He pulled out his wand, ready to figure out who this garbage-stinking, hobo-looking guy was, but Sirius seized the moment. Scrambling, he grabbed his old wand from the floor, and with a loud *bang*, he vanished from the room.
"That was Sirius Black," Cohen said, flicking on the bedroom's overhead light as he turned to Edward. "Why didn't you hit him with a spell to trap him?"
"I thought you were in trouble!" Edward's eyes widened. "My first instinct was to make sure you were safe and protect you!"
"There's a bounty on him, you know," Cohen sighed. "We could've cashed in."
Catch him, hand him to Azkaban, let the Dementors "lose" him, then catch him again, rinse, repeat…
Of course, that was just a daydream. If Cohen really wanted to turn Black into a money-making scheme, he'd have stunned him the second he barged in.
Attackers are most vulnerable when they strike.
"What happened?"
Harry rushed out of the next room.
"Is Cohen okay?" Rose appeared at the bedroom door in loose pajamas, alarmed. "Was there an attack?"
"Sirius Black…" Edward muttered, staring at the smudges on his pajamas. He recalled the man's wild hair—long enough to hide his face—and his frail frame. "He's nothing like he used to be…"
Back in his glory days, Sirius had been full of swagger, not this ghostly wreck.
After the midnight ambush, Edward and Rose layered the house with defensive spells. Even Mr. Flondo had to pass multiple magical checks to get back inside from the yard. If anything was off, a howling alarm would scream in their ears.
It worked like a charm. For the rest of the summer, Sirius Black didn't show his face again.
Though Cohen was the one attacked, Harry took it hard.
"He must've come after you because of me," Harry said, guilt weighing him down. "Maybe he got the wrong room… I've caused you guys so much trouble…"
But with school starting soon, Harry had no reason to leave.
The day their Hogwarts booklists arrived by owl, they hit Diagon Alley and ran into Ron and Hermione.
Ron couldn't wait to spill about his trip to Egypt (Mr. Weasley had won a *Daily Prophet* prize), while Hermione was set on buying an owl—though she ended up with a cat named Crookshanks instead.
The second Crookshanks laid eyes on Cohen, it started purring like crazy and puffing up its fur—just like it did with Scabbers.
That gave Ron fresh ammo to call the cat a lunatic.
"It's just because Cohen smells like other dangerous animals!" Hermione defended Crookshanks. "Cats have sharp noses. Cohen's always feeding Norbert—Crookshanks is probably scared of that sulfur stench…"
"Could be Sissoko's scent too," Cohen added. "It shed yesterday, and I helped peel it off."
It made sense that pet shop critters—and even the school owls—gave Cohen a wide berth.
When they heard about Sirius's midnight sneak attack, Hermione and Ron looked horrified.
"He's a deranged murderer!" Ron said, voice tight with worry. "My dad says he killed twelve Muggles and that wizard, Peter Pettigrew!"
"The Muggles got a raw deal, sure, but Pettigrew was kind of a loser," Cohen said right in front of Scabbers. "If you suck, practice more. Sirius couldn't even take me out."
"Cohen! You can't talk about the dead like that!" Hermione scolded.
"I've got a feeling this year at Hogwarts won't be calm either…" Harry murmured. "It's been over a month, and they still haven't caught him."
"The Ministry's sent tons of Dementors after him," Hermione said. "Hopefully they nab him soon…"
"Hope so," Cohen echoed.
The Dementors probably wouldn't catch Sirius—but escaping *Cohen's* version of "Dementors" was another story.
Cohen was determined to nab Sirius himself. Sure, the guy was reckless, stubborn, and a former school punk, but overall, he'd been on the right side of the Wizarding War.
Plus, he hadn't actually killed anyone. For the sake of his friend Harry's mental health, Cohen figured it was time to set "justice" straight.
Especially since he needed the fame right now. Catching an escaped convict, overturning a twelve-year-old miscarriage of justice—all at thirteen? That'd make Cohen a legend.
And fame was the foundation for his future plans: clearing his name, shaking up the Ministry, all that jazz.
After grabbing their school supplies in Diagon Alley, Cohen and Harry returned to Number 5 Privet Drive to kill time before term started.
Harry had never had such a laid-back summer. Compared to the Weasleys' place, the Nortons' was way more chill.
Rose was often out, and Edward was basically a big kid himself, so Harry had almost no rules to follow. No Mrs. Weasley piling food on his plate at every meal either.
The good times flew by. On September 1st, with Edward escorting them, Cohen and Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express with five minutes to spare.
They found Hermione and Ron in a compartment—already occupied by someone else.
Who was asleep.
"I could sit on him," Cohen suggested. "I'm light, and kinda shy—don't wanna cram in with strangers."
"Sitting on a stranger isn't shy at all…" Hermione said, exasperated. "Besides, he's a professor. Look at his suitcase—Professor R.J. Lupin."
Lupin shifted in his sleep, making room for Cohen.