For the first time in the entire conversation, Dumbledore looked like he'd been caught by surprise. "You've died?" Dumbledore hadn't lost his smile, but his face was focused and intense, and his blue eyes threatened to pierce Frisk's soul. "When was this?"
"The first time was with Undyne. I kept trying to talk to her, but she wouldn't respond. She just threw spear after spear at me, and I couldn't dodge them all. Eventually, my soul cracked and broke. I remember blacking out, and hearing a voice that I had never heard before. It told me that, 'You can't give up! You have to stay determined!' Then I woke up. I recognized when I was... it had been just before Undyne had jumped down to confront me. She didn't remember that we had already fought. This time, when she attacked me, I just started running, and I've told you the rest."
Dumbledore was silent during this. He appeared to be thinking, or perhaps remembering something. "You said 'First Time'. There were others?" he asked.
"Yes," Frisk said, remembering. It seemed like so long ago. It had happened on the very first loop. "Dad. King Asgore. Twice." Frisk shivered. "Please, please don't tell him. But that's when I realize it was his voice I'd heard before. "
Dumbledore's eyes closed in thought for several seconds, enough that Frisk began to worry about what he was thinking about. Was she about to be called an abomination? She was still herself, right? But the only question he asked was, "Why would you have heard his voice?"
"I think they were memories," Frisk said, "Just... not mine. I've been told that, when Mom, Toriel, I mean, took Chara out of the castle, she buried her in a garden of the ruins. In one of the few places in the Underground that saw natural sunlight: the hole under Mt. Ebott. When I fell, I fell onto her grave."
For a second, Frisk swore she saw a glimmer of realization cross Dumbledore's face. "She poisoned herself, you said, right?" he asked. Frisk nodded. "Could she have... unintentionally..." Dumbledore interrupted himself, scratching his beard. There was silence for a bit longer, as the headmaster must have been working down a line of thought that he wasn't willing to share with Frisk.
"Frisk," he said finally, "I still cannot promise what will happen. Again, I must stress, no magic can truly bring back the dead, but..." he held up his hand to forestall Frisk's further protests, "I need time to consider the possibilities. Then again, in a way, I've already made the decision, I just don't know what it is yet." He chuckled.
Frisk's confusion must have been evident on her fact, because he continued. "I do hope Kurt isn't squeamish. Hm, he always did like a bit of a flutter, maybe I can make a bet with him." He raised his eyebrows, to see if Frisk understood now.
Her eyes were wide, because she did get it. "You're going to ask him to dig up Chara's grave, to see if we did bring her body through time," Frisk said.
"Precisely," complemented Dumbledore, "While finding out locks us into a course of action, a rash decision normally, I think in this case, it is a good plan." Frisk got the feeling there was more to it, but she didn't want to push her luck. "Now, do you have any other questions, Frisk?" The matter of Chara was, for the moment, apparently closed.
"Two, sir. How do I tell Harry that I shouldn't have his help? Because people will wonder."
"Harry's relationship with his uncle being what it is, you will find that will take care of itself." Which seemed to be an answer, more or less. "What is the other?"
"How do I get a permission slip signed without Mom figuring out what I'm trying to do?" Frisk asked.
"I can take care of that," the headmaster said. "Did I read correctly, in the Quibbler, that Ms. Toriel Dreemurr had wanted to be a teacher?"
"Yes..." Frisk said, unsure why this was a question. What did this have to do with the permission slip?
"Excellent. Then I shall tell you not to worry about it," he said with a bright smile. "Focus on the other six, and do not worry about your own. Is that everything, Frisk?"
Frisk thought, but couldn't come up with any other questions. "Just, tell me what Mr. Kairos discovers? Please, sir?"
"As soon as I know myself." He smiled benignly at her. "Have a good evening, Frisk."
"Have a good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore," Frisk said, holding out a hand for him to shake. Before she left, she had to introduce herself to the beautiful bird that absolutely had to be a phoenix. She held out her hand, and he arched his body, allowing her to stroke him. His feathers were warm, borderline hot to the touch.
"That is Fawkes," Dumbledore said, smiling at her. "And I think he likes you,"
With that, Frisk saw herself out of the study, and back to Gryffindor Tower.
When Frisk got back to the common room, she got Ginny's attention, and they sat down with Harry, Ron, and Hermione together in one of the several alcoves. While the Weasley tried to hide it, Frisk noticed Ginny reddening slightly when she sat down near Harry. "What did you find out?" asked Hermione, eagerly.
Frisk began by saying they thought they had a way to retrieve Asriel's soul. She was intentionally vague on how they were going to do that. Time travel was Hermione's secret to reveal, not Frisk's. "But," she continued, "He wants each of us to talk to him, and we need to have our parents sign a permission slip.
All four of them looked crestfallen. "Mother and Father," Hermione said, "Don't know half the things I get up to at Hogwarts. If they knew I'd been attacked by a troll, sneaked away to find the philosopher's stone... they'd pull me out of her instantly. It's supposed to be a school, not dangerous like this. I don't even want to tell them about the dementors."
"And while Uncle Vernon might willingly put me into danger, he's not going to sign anything I ask him to sign. I know this all too well," Harry said.
"Mum wouldn't let us risk ourselves either," Ginny began.
"But Dad might," Ron said. "To rescue a child from a fate worse than death. He knows Dumbledore pretty well, too. I don't think he'd ask us to do anything that was too dangerous, not if he didn't think it was worth it. I mean, he never said anything after we threatened Lockhart and went into the chamber, right, Harry?"
"Right, Ron," Harry said. He snorted, "Besides, Lockhart deserved it."
Ginny was quiet with thought. Finally, she spoke. "And how could we deserve being rescued like that, if we weren't willing to rescue people ourselves. Alright. We can write a letter together, tonight, Ron." Ron nodded enthusiastically.
"I can look it over when you're done," Hermione offered, and Harry offered his help as well.
"You're sure you can't even ask, Hermione?" Frisk asked, trying, but failing, to keep the desperation out of her voice. "I mean..."
"I'm sure. My parents have some strong feelings on things like that. But I believe in you," Hermione said quickly, "If there's anything else I can do, just ask."
"Why don't you ask Neville?" Ginny asked. "After you kept him company with that howler, he might say yes."
"I... I don't want to make it sound like my help came with a price tag," Frisk said, "I don't want him to feel obligated to say yes because it was me asking." Frisk looked around, but didn't see Neville. "Did he make it in the common room tonight?" she asked.
"Gone to bed already," Ron said.
"I think I'm going to follow suit, Frisk said. "It's been a long day."
Frisk told Opal and Luna the Headmaster's condition the next morning at breakfast. They promised to get on their letter writing promptly. But that was all Frisk heard for a while. It was going to take time for the letters to be written, get to the parents, and then back.
In the meantime, there were still classes to get to, extra flying practice on Saturday, and on Sunday, her self-imposed visit with Madame Pomfrey.
At least, more recently, the healer had begun to expect her, and actually had things lined up for Frisk to help with. This particular Sunday, the hospital ward was occupied by a pair of sixth years, who'd apparently gotten themselves some nasty burns overheating something called a Volubillis Potion. They were in particularly low spirits, because this had meant they'd missed the chance to visit Hogsmeade.
"It happens, Frisk," Madame Pomfrey explained to her. "Potions are a tricky business, especially once you reach the NEWT level courses. This one in particular needs to be heated just right, or it froths rather spectacularly, and as it is acidic at that stage," she gestured to her patients. "Could you fetch the burn balm from the cabinet?"
Frisk was beginning to be very familiar with the healer's supply cabinet, located the burn balm in short order, and returned with it, watching the healer apply the balm. It seemed to melt away almost instantly, but the healer seemed satisfied. "The potion bonds with the skin," the healer explained. "It needs to be reapplied every few hours until the balm no longer melts. If you've ever wondered why Professor Snape is so particular about his potion teaching, this is a fine example of why."
Personally, Frisk felt Snape had other issues about his potion teaching, but she kept that to herself. Once they were done, she went to go put the balm away.
"That reminds me," said the Ravenclaw on the bed said, "Is it true that Sam Taylor came down with Dragon Pox?"
"You know I can't answer that, Sarah," Madame Pomfrey admonished.
"But Dragon Pox is infectious! We ought to know!"
"The chance you came down with it is near zero," the healer countered. Then she sighed. "You're right. You should know. He did seem to have come down with a very mild case of Dragon Pox, and was transferred to St. Mungos for observation and treatment."
"What's Dragon Pox?" Frisk asked.
"It is, as Sarah says, an infectious disease, one that leaves the skin pockmarked, like the more mundane Chicken Pox. Dragon Pox, however, only infects wizards, and turns their skin green, among other things. It gets its name for the sparks that the sufferer emits from the nostrils when sneezing."
"Oh," said Frisk, unnerved. "Is there a cure?"
"There is, which is why he was sent to St. Mungos. I detoxified the area extremely thoroughly afterward, so there's nothing to worry about," she said.
"So, what else can I help you with today?" Frisk asked, suspecting a full-on reorganization of the supply closet was about to be in order.
Another few days went by, and it was all Frisk could do not to ask her friends if there had been any response each time she saw them. Ron, in particular, was distracted writing an appeal for Buckbeak the Hippogriff, and she helped out where she could, if only for her own distraction. She was still trying to focus on trying to figure out the last two people who might lend their souls to someone they had never met.
Opal was the first to hear back. As Frisk discovered as she was being nearly tackled from behind into a hug on her way into breakfast. "They said yes!" she exclaimed as Frisk staggered forward, holding a signed permission slip in front of her like it was made of gold.
Frisk's heart soared, and she turned to return Opal's hug. "That's amazing. I need to thank them so much."
Opal handed her a separate paper. It was a letter from Opal's parents, and Frisk skimmed through how they'd had to talk with each other long and hard, on several separate occasions. About how if Dumbledore truly thought it was dangerous, he wouldn't ask, especially a first year. About how the risk was still incredible. But how the people who would try would be limited. And finally, how Ms. Oxtoby had become friends with Toriel, talking on the phone on multiple occasions, and meeting for tea. Frisk looked up.
"If we don't do it," Opal said, "who would?" She grinned at Frisk. "Two down, five to go."
That afternoon, Frisk was climbing the grand staircase toward Defense when the stairwell began to move under her feet. She gripped the banister in shock, staring up, still slightly more than two floors below where she needed to be. Once the stairwell stopped moving, she continued cautiously up the stairs.
At the top, she was stymied. She needed to keep going, but there were no stairways leading up from her landing. And it didn't seem like any of the others were going to do the favor of heading her way. So, with no obvious way towards class, Frisk went the only way she could, down the hallway in front of her. From ahead of her, around the corner, she heard a cry a pain. Thoughts of class forgotten, she hurried around the bend.
When she turned, the sight ahead of her was disturbing. A Slytherin of her year was sprawled on the ground, his books scattered around him. On the other side of him was a well built, older, Gryffindor, and he was laughing. Frisk stared at the scene for a moment, taking it in, then she quietly reached down to help the fallen boy regain his feet.
"What are you doing, Dreemurr?" her fellow Gryffindor snarled. She couldn't place his name, though she felt she should.
"Helping him," Frisk said. Her voice was soft, but determined.
"He doesn't deserve our help," he growled. "He's a Slytherin. You saw how their team interfered with our Quidditch match. You know what they're like."
"He's not on their team, and you can't really think treating them like this will make them more likely to respect us, can you?" Frisk asked, as the boy clambered back to his feet, then reached down to reclaim his lost book.
"Slytherins don't respect anything," the older boy said, and kicked out toward the knee of the younger boy.
In retrospect, the kick probably would have missed by a good distance, but Frisk didn't chance it. She stepped forward, and took that kick right on the shin with audible crack. Frisk cried out in pain, both in the body, and the soul as well. This wasn't some kick in frustration, he had meant it to hurt, and it did. Frisk's leg was unable to support her, and she collapsed.
From what must have been a secret passage, Professor Flitwick appeared. "What's going on here?" he demanded. His voice was as high pitched as it ever was, but Frisk had never heard him angry, and this wasn't just angry. His voice had gone straight to furious.
He looked between the students, and selected the Slytherin, who looked terrified. "Mr. Steven Marsh, what happened here?"
Steven's voice was as scared as he looked. "Professor," he answered quickly, "I was on my way from History of Magic down to Herbology when... when," he gestured, open handed, at the Gryffindor boy.
"Mr. Cormac McLaggen," Professor Flitwick provided.
"Just... runs into me, shoulder first. I dropped my books and fell, sir. When she," he gestured at Frisk, who was trying and failing to stand, "came, and was helping me up, and McLaggen tried to kick me. She took the strike."
"C'mon," Cormac scoffed, "Don't lie to..."
"Oh?" Flitwick said, raising an eyebrow, "You disagree?" He turned to a portrait of an older gentlemen, sitting comfortably in a rocking chair. "My pardon, Bernard, did you witness the altercation between the students just now?"
"I did, professor!" The painted man said, still rocking in his chair. "And the young Slytherin and I clearly saw the same things."
Flitwick turned back to the students, and spied Cormac trying to slip quietly away. In an instant, the professor's wand was out, and without either a word or a gesture, a green beam of light flew from it, striking Cormac in the back. He seemed to shiver for a moment, and then his legs began to quiver and wobble, and Cormac wasn't going much of anywhere, his limbs apparently had been given the structure of gelatin.
"Let's start with ten points from Gryffindor," Flitwick started conversationally. "It'd be more, but your house appears to be on both sides of this conflict." He looked at Frisk, being supported by the Slytherin. "Prefect!" he called in the empty hall, "I could use a prefect!"
After a few seconds, a older boy in Ravenclaw colors and a prefect's badge came hurrying from the direction of the stairwell. "Ah, Marcus, excellent. Can you assist Frisk here down to the hospital wing, please? And you, Steven, get yourself to Herbology. If you're late, tell Madam Sprout to ask me for the reason later." He turned back to Cormac. "As for you sir, you'd best hope your head of house has a free period. Because I know just how upset she gets at being interrupted. March!"
Cormac tried to take a step forward, his leg wobbled, and he toppled over. Flitwick glanced at the other three students and winked. "Ah yes. I forgot about that." He gestured with his wand, and struck Cormac with a silver beam. After waiting for Cormac to rise to his feet. "Now, as I was saying, march!" And, waving his wand like a conductor's baton, escorted Cormac out of sight down the hall.
"Here," Marcus said, "Lean against me, Frisk, right?"
Frisk nodded, her leg still weak and in pain. The Slytherin followed them as far as the landing. As they turned to head for Madam Pomfrey, he whispered, "Thank you", before disappearing down the stairs towards the entrance hall. Frisk limped with the prefect, wondering if she was about to get her first taste of Skele-gro.