Horace and the Horcruxes
For Silver Sailor Ganymede
Characters and basic plot belong to JK Rowling. Peeves' song and Harry's words to Dumbledore's portrait were taken from 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows', chapter 36.
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Horace Slughorn was sitting at the table in dirty pyjamas. He wasn't eating. He wasn't even looking at the food.
There were times when things got pushed into perspective.
The events that had been building up all year, and even before that, had finally reached a climax that night.
Now it was morning.
Owls kept flying in through the gaps in the general euphoria was slowly abating.
Minerva gave him a tired smile.
They had both been wrong about each other. Horace, some fifty years ago, when he had judged girls unworthy of joining the Slug Club, and Minerva, only hours ago, when she had doubted Horace's allegiance.
Brave and intelligent as she was - Horace had to give her that now - , the lioness had failed to understand that Slytherins could rarely afford to be heroes. What would she have done, had she been Head of a house that unconditionally supported headmaster Snape? Horace had needed their trust, and had ended up being trusted by no one. Just like Severus.
But it was over now.
He and Minerva had fought the enemy side by side. Side by side literally, they had been blasted away by Voldemort's fury, and side by side, they had watched him die at the hand of Harry Potter.
But was he really dead?
Now was the time to face the knowledge Horace had pretended to believe irrelevant for so long.
Of course, there was no way of knowing for sure that Riddle had followed through with his extravagant idea.
Seven Horcruxes...
There was always a chance he hadn't.
That's what Horace had told himself each time he had felt the jab of guilt.
Who could make seven Horcruxes?
If someone could, it was the man who called himself Lord Voldemort.
Horace knew this, as when one knows, but doesn't want to admit it. Because it's more comfortable to keep the Boggart in the wardrobe and the pixies in their cage.
Well, not really.
You didn't need to be a genius to guess what young Riddle was up to. That smirk, the way he twiddled that ring he had recently acquired...
Of course it wasn't academic.
The Slug Club had suddenly been put on hold that year, until Tom Riddle was safely out of school.
Safely away from Horace.
Safely? That's what Horace told himself.
Horace had developed a talent for denial.
Some talents aren't good to have, Horace reflected, as he smiled back to Minerva. Pure Gryffindors got killed by the right enemies. They didn't stupidly kill themselves by mistake, as poor silly Vincent Crabbe had done. Horace had never paid attention to the boy. Now it was too late.
He had paid attention to Blaise Zabini though, and that hadn't prevented him from joining... that other boy to whom Horace had once paid attention.
Horace knew he wasn't to blame. Young Riddle would have done everything he had done even if Horace hadn't liked him.
He would even have...
No, this time, Horace would not shirk his duty. This year and this night had taught him more than a hundred years of life. He had learned that he cared about his colleagues and students, all of them, talented or not. He cared about asthmatic Filch, drunk Sybill, Hagrid and his giant half-brother. He cared about the innocent first years who had all been crammed in Slytherin according to Voldemort's wishes, no matter what their aptitudes were. He cared for all these and for the rest of them enough to risk his comfort, and ultimately his life.
Horace wiped his wet brow. Was that blood? Ah, well, everybody was injured, it was only a matter of degree.
The castle was in shambles and so were its occupants. Minerva had a lot of work to do. He would help her.
He had misjudged Minerva and a few others too, the most remarkable of whom being Molly Prewett, now Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. Not to mention Severus Snape.
What a fool he had been. It should have been obvious. Horace had never forgotten the winning team in his Potions class, the quiet pale Slytherin boy and the happy cheeky Gryffindor girl. How had anyone believed he would join the one who had murdered her?
Severus was dead now. All one could do for him was find his body before it was disfigured by vermin. If there was a body.
Slowly Horace got up. It was urgent to find Severus, but there was something else that was even more urgent. His duty.
He had waited much too long already.
No one paid attention to Horace as he dragged himself out of the Hall towards the chamber where the Death Eaters' bodies had been lain.
All had been his students, sons and daughters of his students. And there, in the middle, lay Lord Voldemort, the monster who had once been handsome Tom Riddle .
Sweat mixed with blood, as Horace approached the thin body with the snake-like face.
Had anyone examined him and made sure he was dead?
Why would anyone? All had witnessed his fall, as he was hit by his own Avada Kedavra.
It was Horace's responsibility.
Thankful that, for once, he hadn't overindulged at the feast, Horace brought his trembling pudgy hand to the corpse.
First the face, vacant, the eyes, blank and empty, the unbreathing mouth and nose.
Then the heart. Had the man had a heart? Horace had had a glimpse of doubt at Bellatrix's death...
Horace had a heart, and it was thumping madly. He had a weak heart, he never tired of reminding everyone.
But this had to be done. His heart would just have to thump.
Horace focused on his breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Imagine this is no more than a dead rat, a dead snake, the Potions master told himself.
It was certainly not handsome young Tom's chest that he felt beneath his fingers, silent and frozen.
No heartbeat.
As if he had been burnt, Horace jerked away.
Then reached back.
No pulse.
Horace pulled out his wand and scanned the body, from head to feet, and back again.
"Enervate."
Nothing happened.
"Reveal your secret."
The words sounded ludicrous in the mortuary chamber. But they were necessary.
"Imperio."
No response.
Until now, all was in order. But one never knew for sure.
Horace had to steady his breath again before pronouncing the next curse, as directed by 'Secrets of the Darkest Arts'.
Inhale. Exhale.
"Crucio."
Horace's voice had been professional, devoid of weakness, and his wand hadn't trembled. But sweat mingled with blood ran down his face and neck, reaching his chest, staining his emerald pyjamas. He had had to summon all his nightmares and the faces of his dead to pronounce the curse.
Nothing happened.
Still, one never knew for sure.
His legs could scarcely carry him out of the room. Willpower got him up the broken down and bloodstained marble staircase. He didn't even notice Peeves whizzing around singing about Voldy having gone mouldy.
The gargoyle let him in without a word and the spiral staircase lifted him upward.
He would face Albus and tell him all he knew.
But the office wasn't empty. Harry Potter was there, with his friends Granger and Weasley. He was talking to Albus' portrait.
"I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."
The young people turned as Horace stumbled in. Inexplicably, Albus beamed at him.
"Harry, my dear boy..." stammered Horace.
He took a deep breath. This had to be done.
"I hate to rain on your parade, but have you thought of the eventuality that He Who- ... V-Voldemort... might have made Horcruxes?"
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AN: I am going away for two weeks in a few days, so replies to reviews might be delayed, but you'll get them in the end. In the meantime, Happy Christmas, Happy Hanukah and Happy New Year, everybody.