After helping Hagrid clean up his hair and trimming his overly long beard, Cohen left with the hiccuping unicorn.
If it drank any more, it wouldn't be dancing tonight—it was already so drunk it had started making horse-like neighing sounds.
"Hard to believe you were still so pure three years ago…" Cohen muttered as he brought her back to the Room of Requirement and gave her some Sobering Solution.
He'd originally made that potion for Arly, only to discover that it did absolutely nothing for her. Her blood was practically wine by that point, and the potion couldn't even slightly dilute the alcohol. Since then, it had just been sitting in Cohen's potions cabinet gathering dust.
"Maybe get some sleep first?" Cohen said to the dazed unicorn. "If you wake up, tell the Count to come get me—I'll escort you out. Hogwarts is an easy place to get lost."
"Friendly reminder—I don't speak horse," the Count said with a yawn. "But you could always sleep beside her—"
"That's way too dangerous," Cohen replied. "It's best if there's no living thing next to me when I sleep. You can't expect me to suppress my instincts in my sleep—especially when she doesn't even know how to cast a Patronus."
"Scary," the Count muttered, clicking his beak with a sound like stones grinding together. With a smug tone, he added, "Good thing I don't have to sleep next to you."
"And it's not like you sleep with any other birds," Cohen shot back sharply. "Don't act like you've got a wife—"
"I did have one!" the Count protested angrily. "Hedwig definitely liked me for at least one night!"
"That's called being a simp. Simps don't have wives," Cohen said mercilessly. "Bringing it up again just proves you're a desperate bird—"
"Say that again! You toxic single little Dementor!" the Count yelled.
"Oh, you wanna go there? You three-hundred-year-old virgin owl who's never even seen a nest!" Cohen retorted with equal force.
"Just you wait! I'll find a female owl tonight! I'll hit a home run before you do!" the Count huffed.
"Well, that shouldn't take long. Owl mating only lasts a few seconds," Cohen said. "Anyway, I'm done chatting. Let me know when she wakes up—I need to check on the basilisk and Sisoco. I get the feeling Sisoco's about to strangle Harry…"
…
"You can't just give your sister to that little creep!"
That was the first thing Sisoco said as soon as he found Cohen again.
"You're being overly dramatic," Cohen replied as he flushed the toilet in the boys' bathroom. "And by the way, this is the boys' room—if anyone looks like a creep here, it's you."
"I refuse this marriage!" Sisoco declared firmly.
"They're not even dating," Cohen replied as he zipped up. "Harry just needs a dance partner, and Sophia wants to dance. That's all. Don't tell me you're one of those overprotective dads?"
"What are you rambling about? I don't get it," Sisoco said, shaking his head. "I want to switch Sophia's partner. That red-haired doofus—Ron—seems way safer."
"What is this, a dinner plate? You can't just swap midway." Cohen wasn't too worried Harry and the basilisk girl would hit it off—otherwise this bromance would evolve into a future in-law relationship. "Harry and Ron are pretty much the same. You're just overthinking it…"
…
But reality often doesn't match expectations.
Cohen and Sisoco found Harry on the fifth floor, attempting to sneak Sophia through a secret passage.
"There are loads of secret passages at Hogwarts," Harry was saying excitedly. "I know a bunch. I can show you around if you want—there's even one to the Chamber of Secrets, though it's hard to get back out from there…"
"Look at them!" Sisoco whispered urgently, pointing at Harry and Sophia's clasped hands. "Even their tails—err, hands—are all tangled up!"
"Hands can act like tails, but they're not the same…" Cohen corrected him.
"As long as they don't take it to a home run tonight, it's fine. Once the dance ends, they'll all go back to normal."
"Kathy? Where'd you go? I've been looking everywhere…" Ron arrived, panting. "Fred said he saw you with Cohen…"
"We were tailing Harry," Cohen said, nodding toward the pair ahead. "Ron, take some notes from Harry. He's already leveling up his game—"
"*He's holding hands?!*" Ron gasped, eyes wide. "I thought they were just dancing!"
"You can't let him beat you, little Ronald!" Cohen shoved Sisoco toward Ron. "Look—she's mad at you for not taking her seriously—"
"When did I say I was mad at him?!" Sisoco hissed angrily.
"Ah? Right… I meant—oh well…" Ron fumbled. "Then—uh—want to go drink some pumpkin juice?"
"Don't hesitate! Time to show us what you've got." Cohen gave them both a final push away, not wanting his argument with Sisoco to be overheard by Harry. "Don't let your partner slip away—"
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"But I don't know what I'm doing—" Ron muttered nervously to Cohen.
"Experience comes with practice," Cohen said encouragingly.
—
The Yule Ball was now only one good nap away—no alarms needed. When Cohen woke that afternoon, there were just three hours left.
From the dorm window, he could see Harry and Ron still having a snowball fight outside. But when Cohen arrived at the common room, he found Hermione already back.
"You're early," Cohen said.
"I'm getting ready for the ball," Hermione replied. "Besides, Ron's being rather snappy lately."
"Well, we all know why." Cohen raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to check on Hagrid soon."
"What's wrong with Hagrid?" Hermione asked, curious.
"I suggested he ask Madam Maxime to the ball," Cohen said. "You know—those two might be the last half-giants left in the world."
"True…" Hermione said, looking worried. "But before I came back, he was still pacing around in the garden. Do you think he's too nervous to ask?"
"Even if they don't dance, they should at least take a walk or something. Oh—speaking of which, I need to remind him of one more thing," Cohen said suddenly, bidding Hermione a quick goodbye and rushing off.
He had to warn Hagrid not to talk about giant blood in public—especially not in front of Madam Maxime. That wasn't exactly something to boast about, especially considering she was the headmistress of a French school.
And there was still that journalist lurking around—suddenly unafraid of Cohen and clearly eager for some juicy scoop.