Ok Felix, don't say anything you can play it of, Dumbledore has to award the Slytherins and come back that'll take at least 20 minutes you can get out. My thoughts raced through my borrowed mind, the unfamiliar sensation of Dumbledore's longer synapses making even thinking feel strange.
Clutching the hat harder in my hand, its weathered fabric rough against my aged fingers, I ran over to the door and pulled with all the strength in this elderly body, straining until my arms shook.
As hard as I could.
The door remained as immovable as the castle's foundations. Not even a creak of protest.
I spun around, eyes darting across the office before landing on a window. Without hesitation, I rushed toward it, my new robes billowing behind me as I slammed my shoulder against the glass. Pain shot through my arm, but the window remained pristine.
I unholstered my wand, the wood feeling strange and unfamiliar in these longer fingers, before raising it high. With a practiced flick and carefully controlled voice, I muttered, "Bombarda."
An explosion rippled through the office, the force of it making my ears pop. Papers went flying, delicate silver instruments crashed to the floor, and several of the dozing portraits were knocked askew. The sound reverberated off the stone walls, making the chaos seem even more intense.
However, when the dust settled, the window and surrounding walls stood completely unmarked. Not even a hairline crack marred their surface.
So I repeated once more.
"Bombarda!"
"Bombarda!"
"Bombarda!"
"Stop using the spell boy, I'm telling you can't get out, all you're doing is making a mess in here!" a portrait yelled over the commotion of my spells.
But I didn't listen I kept casting over and over, using as many charms and destructive spells I could think of, yet once the dust settled the glass stayed there unmarred.
Nothing. Not even a scratch.
"You won't be able to leave this place, I have closed it from the inside and out," the Phineas portrait said proudly, his painted face twisted with smug satisfaction.
My mind raced - no book had ever mentioned portraits retaining their magical abilities. This was a critical oversight in my research, another variable I hadn't accounted for.
Why couldn't my plan go well? Seriously, I wasn't asking for that much, was I?
I quickly went back to the door, pressing my palms against the wood and reaching out with my magical senses. The complex weave of charms and wards all at my disposal to see.
Explore more, analyze more, come on come on, find a way to get out.
But I couldn't.
I didn't know enough spells.
I didn't know enough wards.
I didn't know enough charms.
I didn't know enough magic.
I was trapped.
"Dumbledore left the Quidditch pitch, I've lost sight of him from the windows," Jarvey's voice reverberated in my ear like a tsunami, making my blood run cold.
Damn, damn, damn.
"Look at him trying, I'm sure he isn't a pure blood with that overreaction," Phineas said with a derisive laugh that was quickly echoed by several other portraits.
I looked at the portrait, anxiety bubbling in my chest as I focused once more on the wards, forcing myself to remain analytical despite the growing panic.
Over and over I traced the magical signatures, but they remained stubbornly opaque. For all my studying, all my preparations, I simply didn't know enough. Once I got out of here, and promise me I would, I was gonna study wards like no tomorrow.
I whispered into my ear piece, keeping my voice so low the portraits couldn't possibly hear, "Jarvey grab the marauder's map and fast tell me where Dumbledore is."
"I told you this was a shit plan."
"Just do what I say, do you remember the words to open it?"
"Of course I fucking don't."
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
I heard rustling through the earpiece, followed by Jarvey's muttered "I am One with Words" and finally the activation phrase.
"He's on the second floor."
"Ok this isn't working," I said, my grip tightening on the hat until my knuckles turned white.
"Hey not so hard, I'm gonna get wrinkles like this," the hat complained indignantly.
My eyes swept the room desperately, searching for anything that might help. Think, think, think. And then I saw it - or rather, him.
Fawkes. The phoenix.
The knowledge clicked into place - phoenixes could apparate wherever they wished, no known wards could stop them. I immediately launched myself toward the bird.
Fawkes screeched in alarm, but I managed to grab one of his tail feathers. The magical signature emanating from it was unlike anything I'd ever felt before.
"3rd floor."
Fawkes continued his piercing cry as I sensed the magic into the feather, just like I had done with every other magical beast I had encountered.
"Fourth floor."
The portraits were shouting now, their voices adding to the chaos.
"5th floor."
Then I noticed something crucial - the phoenix's magic was similar to my own. It willed itself into existence.
"6th floor."
I began channeling my magic into the feather, focusing all my concentration on one place, somewhere to hide the hat.
Suddenly, my head exploded with pain as a familiar vision manifested - the book, its pages flipping rapidly, golden letters dancing across my mind's eye.
"7th floor."
"Don't rush me!" I yelled into the ear piece, fighting to maintain focus through the splitting headache.
I gathered every scrap of magical knowledge I possessed - the twisting sensation of apparition that I'd felt with Dumbledore, mother and the house elves, the compression of the Floo network, the raw power of my magic. Drawing it all together, I pushed my power through my connection to the feather.
I was no longer even thinking about the hat, just one thing kept running in my migraine infested head.
A safe place, a safe place, a safe place.
BAM!
Dumbledore's POV
The sound of crackling flames echoed from beyond my office door, I pushed the brass knocker but realized that the door didn't move.
I frowned - the wards shouldn't be active.
Drawing the Elder Wand, I pressed it against the heavy oak, dismantling the magical barriers with ease, a right given to me as the headmaster of Hogwarts.
The scene that greeted me was one of utter chaos. Fawkes was screeching from his perch, the portraits were shouting over each other nonstop like kids in a Honeydukes sale, a constant echo, and an entire half of my office looked as though it had been hit by a localized explosion, and a multitude of other things, fire mostly.
"What in Merlin's beard happened in here?" I asked, though I suspected I wouldn't like the answer.
The portrait of Phyllida Spore, one of the first ever headmasters of Hogwarts, moved to the closest painting and yelled above the din, "Dumbledore we just got robbed! The sorting hat, it's been taken!"
A single phoenix feather floated to the ground.