Chapter Seven

Headmaster Dumbledore's office was large, and filled with portraits from the past headmasters. There were many tools and artifacts to witness, some spinning wildly without purpose, or perhaps with purpose. Dumbledore was currently bent over a parchment, muttering words that a floating quill actually scribbled down on his paper. I didn't make much noise climbing the stairs, or so I thought, but his voice did ring clearly through the office.

"Mister Umbrus," he said amiably. "You found quite the interesting challenge to pit your Ravenclaw wits' against so soon," he looked up, his eyes glinting with warmth as a smile adorned his old, wrinkly face and the large, grey beard did little to hide it. It made everyone feel at ease. There was a reason Dumbledore was perhaps the most loved of wizards; he could make anyone feel at ease. He was the grandfather you never knew you had, until you found him right there in front of you.

This didn't mean he was infallible, and knew everything of course. He was only human. He wasn't a Hive-Mind of Min-Maxing Cost-Benefits.

"Headmaster, I'm sorry to bother you," I said, "But while you won't believe me at first, please hear me out. Tom Riddle made seven horcruxes, and they're-" I babbled on, the Headmaster listening on amiably and nodding every now and then. He didn't look puzzled, shocked, or surprise. I actually finished speaking after a few minutes, and the man simply laughed at the end of it all.

"I see! Quite the interesting tale on how you found out my office key word," he smiled as he said that. His eyes twinkled. "I suppose I will be giving ten points to Ravenclaw for such a witty finding. It's rare for a student to come seek me out by themselves. Normally, they are brought here due to their pranks."

I faltered with my next words, "But...Headmaster, I just told you that I know of Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter's fate, the entire thing about the Horcruxes and there's Tom Riddle in the back of Quirrell's head. I mean, that's what..." my words failed me as the Headmaster nodded amiably once more.

"Your burning curiosity will be answered then, Mister Umbrus. Do take a seat. I was growing bored with writing this latest piece for the Wizengamot," he gestured at the chair in front of his desk, and I numbly walked forward, taking the offered seat. "Dealing with the Wizengamot, being a supreme mugwump and a headmaster is quite the strenuous work, I admit." He grinned, and gestured at the lemony sweets on his desk. "Sherbet lemon?"

I grabbed one in a state of daze, opening the wrapping and putting the sweet in my mouth.

The sour taste of lemon did little to assuage my shock as Dumbledore spoke about how he used a leather-bound book to keep notice of his appointments. Remembralls were useless since they didn't specify what one forgot. I nodded, every now and then trying to pitch in some tidbit of knowledge. Pettigrew being alive, Sirius Black being innocent, Harry Potter acquiring the cloak of invisibility and so forth...they all failed. Every question hung in the air for a while, became a question about the peculiarities of a job, turned into querying how he learned to do this or that, and by the time I had slumped my shoulders in defeat, the Headmaster gently dismissed me because he really had to get back to work.

He did offer me one last sherbet lemon, which I took.

I stared, my eyes probably showcasing the death within my soul, at my reflection in the Ravenclaw's common room. There was a saying that if you wanted things done well, you had to do them yourself. There also was another saying which clearly claimed that if you didn't want to sweat, you just had to let someone else work for you.

Technically speaking, I could just wash my hand clean of everything. At the same time, this forced me to deal with another problem. I needed to speak with the Deputy-Headmistress about my situation. Was I an orphan? How was I going to breach that particular topic?

Hello Professor McGonagall, I can't remember if I have a family or not. Could you please help me?

Well, she might just be able to help me, if she didn't dismiss me out of hand. That could wait, however, until I got down my extra practice with spells.

"But first, we must skip ahead a few years," I muttered, staring at the old, dusty books the Room of Requirement had provided me with. The Protego Charm was hard to learn and master, and many an adult wizard failed it regularly. However, it was essential. If I wanted to survive, I needed to learn that spell. I had the Flipendo, and it would be enough, but without a shield, then the first strong curse would see me dead in a matter of seconds.

The wand movement was a simple straight line, followed by the words Protego. It wasn't that difficult. It shouldn't have been that difficult. How hard could it be? "Protego!" I swished my wand down, and strangely, nothing happened.

I blinked a bit at the lack of anything even remotely shield-like. Then again, the shield was invisible unless a spell was cast against it, so...how could I do that?

I stared at the Mannequin. It stood on a pivoting base. If I hit the thing with Flipendo, it would spin around. The Protego spell protected against physical entities too, so theoretically...

I ended up with a bruise on the side of my cheek as if someone had punched me straight ahead.

No, the Protego charm had not worked. Even so, as I nursed my bruise briefly, I didn't let this go. Bruises would pass, but bowel-rupturing curses would be the death of me.

Since I couldn't let Dumbledore deal with everything, I had to step in when required to ricochet events off their planned stages. The first year had relatively little to alter, if anything at all. The Philosopher Stone would remain protected as long as Harry Potter and his usual trio went doing their usual stuff, and since death didn't enter the equation until the fourth year...but perhaps, I could avoid the entire Basilisk accident?

I'd need to stalk Moaning Myrtle's bathroom in the second year during the night, strike the youngest Weasley unconscious, grab the diary and then...throw it in an incinerator? Fiendfyre it to death? I doubted I'd learn how to use Fiendfyre in a year. I doubted I even wanted to learn Fiendfyre. Like, a dangerous fire that burns without ever stopping is a pretty dangerous thing to try to learn by yourself.

I could leave a scribbled message on it citing 'Horcrux', and drop it inside Dumbledore's office. Would he even understand, or would he use it to write down his memories and end up being possessed by Tom Riddle?

The thought made me balk. No, I had to take the diary, throw it somewhere safe, and leave it there. Maybe I'd dig a hole in the Forbidden forest and leave it down there to rot forever.

"First things first," I mumbled, the sting in my cheek having diminished. "Protego charm, then dinner, then..." I blinked. The next day I had defense against the dark arts in the afternoon. I hadn't done the assigned homework yet.

"Counter-plan," I amended to myself in the emptiness of the Room of Requirement.

First came the call of duty...

...then came the battlefield of war.