Chapter Thirteen

The next day was the first of November. The excitement died out, and just as expected, Gryffindor house had received some points. Probably due to the Troll accident. If I had dealt with it, then maybe Ravenclaw would have received the points. I didn't care about the House Cup, and about risking my life while awfully unprepared, and so I blissfully went down for breakfast.

"Harry Potter captured the Troll in the girls' bathroom," was making the rounds at the Ravenclaw table. "He and Weasley got points for it," someone else whispered. Well, clearly they did. Hermione was the one who got points taken away for attempting to challenge the Troll, or at least, lying about it to the professors. That was what memory reminded me, and so as I felt a hand tap on my side, I scuttled further away to allow Fizzy-Hair to take a seat.

"So," I said. "How does it feel to be in the same house as the great Harry Potter and his Weasley friend? They dealt with the Troll with surprising ease, didn't they?"

Fizzy-hair muttered something under her breath. "Stupid boys," she said. "That's what they are. Gits."

I raised an eyebrow. "No love lost?"

"They're just gits," fizzy-hair grumbled. "They call me names and are insufferable."

"Uhm, I see," I acquiesced. "Guess being a hero does not make someone a saint." Poor little Fizzy-Hair, truly fighting a losing battle against the trio of protagonist and...I blinked. I blinked as I vaguely remembered, no, actually, I sheer-out remembered, that the trio never really got around to calling anyone names. At least, not anyone who wasn't in Slytherin, and the only one they did it to was a single girl.

Dread pooled at the bottom of my stomach.

"Still," I continued, "it's unfair to expect children to be wise beyond their ages, Hermione."

Fizzy-hair rolled her eyes. "You're not like that."

"Well, I'm a Ravenclaw, Hermione," I said once more, dread starting to rise through my spine. She wasn't denying it, was she? Oh hell what had I done. "We are wise, witty and also odd."

Why hadn't I paid attention when they called the names for the Sorting Hat? If I had, I would have realized earlier whom Hermione was. Fizzy-Hair, why were you Hermione!? Why couldn't you be some random cardboard cut-out character and not the original author's self-modeled character that solves ninety percent of the problems by herself? Hermione! You need to go help the two dunderheads! Go be with them, not me! They'll die! I'm pretty sure they'll die if you aren't there to help them!

"I should have gone into Ravenclaw," Hermione mumbled, "The Sorting Hat wanted to put me there."

I awkwardly smiled. No, you shouldn't have. You should have stayed in Gryffindor, made a budding friendship with those two you are now calling gits, and then made sure to save their asses whenever they needed it. You are the Deus Ex Machina this story deserves, Miss Granger, and you need to go where you are needed.

"We are what we choose to be," I mused. "Not what we wish to be," I continued. "You chose Gryffindor, perhaps that is because you want to be a Gryffindor. Why should it be a bad thing that you seek to become someone else?" I patted my chest. "I want to become a musician. Maybe tomorrow, I'll be an Auror."

Judging by how deadly things would become, I'd need to become a frigging miracle worker.

All right, I needed a change of plans. How did I deal with the Philosopher's Stone now that Hermione wouldn't help Harry and Ron survive it? The answer was simple. I had to steal it first.

No, wait, that was a foolish endeavor. I refused to steal something by battling monstrous odds. I'd leave the Philosopher Stone right where it was. I could, however, ward it off? How would that even work? I'd need to keep my wits about me and find the right moment to interfere.

Or perhaps I'd have no choice but to actually join forces with Harry and Ron, just so I could throw Hermione in the mix and ensure she'd do what was needed to be done.

I did not fancy my chances. I did not like my chances. I did not wish to test my chances.

"So, what do you think?" Hermione asked, and I found myself dimly realizing I had outright blocked what she had said before.

"I'm sorry, but I'm always half-asleep in the morning, and I didn't catch what you said," I continued, being as innocent as possible.

"Study schedules," Hermione said. "We need to plan study schedules around not just the exams, but also the mid-year test. I'm sure they'll do them before, or shortly after the Christmas break, so..."

I nodded.

And wasn't that another can of worms. Did I even have the Galleons to buy Christmas gifts? Did I get some kind of allowance from the orphan-funds? How was I even supposed to know that? Could I even work as an eleven year old?

My questions needed answers.

Answers only a wise person could give me.

"No, Mister Umbrus, the orphan fund does not provide orphans with an allowance," Professor McGonagall answered me as kindly as she could, while I sipped on tea and ate a scone in her office. "And no, students cannot work if they are not past their OWLS."

"But then, how am I supposed to buy Christmas gifts for my friends?" I asked as innocently as possible. The look on Professor McGonagall's face told me that I hit her withered, cold heart of a Scottish Matron straight on. "I mean, if it's work, I'm sure I can do something. There's magic. I could learn cleaning charms or..."

"Mister Umbrus, there is no need for that," Professor McGonagall stressed. "Most often than not, what matters for a gift is not the cost, but the thought of it. Perhaps you could get two snitches with one seeker if you used transfiguration?"

I blinked. That was a great idea.

My thoughts must have been clear, because McGonagall's expression lifted a bit. "I suggest you practice on stones, and make simple crafts. Photograph frames, for example, or hair clips," she took a small breath, "And please do not make them explode. When you have done so, you can come by and I will put a charm on them to make the transfiguration permanent."

"Professor," I said. "Thank you."

I had two months to get something done with transfiguration.

How hard could it be?

"Hello ma'am Pomfrey," I said with a tiny smile.

"Mister Umbrus," Madam Pomfrey replied, "Is that a rock lodged in your stomach?"

"I thought removing it would make me bleed to death," I answered with a pained expression, half-crumbling inside the infirmary.

It was not my fault stone had a different viciousness factor from hairclips.

I had just changed a two into a dog-mouse-kitten! It wasn't supposed to work that way!

Transfiguration, my bane...

...why must you be so useful, and so frigging out of reach!?