On the day that he first became a grandfather, Harry Potter learned that Horace Slughorn had died.
"Look at this," his wife Ginny said, handing him the copy of The Daily Prophet that she had bought from the tea room of St. Mungo's as they sat waiting for news from Albus, their youngest son, and his wife Violet.
Harry glanced down without much interest until he noticed the name on the obituary: Horace Slughorn, former potions master of Hogwarts, dies at 125.
Harry took the newspaper from Ginny. It had been several years since he had been in touch with Slughorn—between work, children, and now (he could hardly believe it) grandchildren, many old acquaintances had fallen by the wayside, but despite a rather shaky first impression, Harry had harbored a great deal of respect for Slughorn. He began reading the article:
Horace E. F. Slughorn, long time potions master and head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has died peacefully at the age of 125. Born in 1906, Slughorn began teaching potions at Hogwarts in 1929 and was soon after promoted to Head of Slytherin. He retired in 1981, but returned in 1996 to teach for another 15 years before his eventual permanent retirement.
Long regarded to be one of the great potion masters of his time, Slughorn is fondly remembered by the many students he taught and influenced, among them Gwenog Jones (former captain of the Holyhead Harpies and current international Quidditch commissioner), Hermione Weasley (current head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and highly regarded as a prime candidate to be the next Minister of Magic), and Harry Potter (no explanation needed)..
Harry sat the paper down on his lap. Even after so many years, it was far from unusual to see his name dropped into an article that had nothing to do with him. It hardly seemed like a fitting obituary for Slughorn—a brief timeline of his career, followed by shout outs to a selection of his most famous pupils. His impressive magical skills were glossed over, and there was no mention whatsoever of his love for crystallized pineapple and velvet smoking jackets.
Most upsettingly, there was no mention of what Harry considered to be Slughorn's most impressive achievement, for Slughorn would always be, to Harry, the Man Who Came Back.
The Battle of Hogwarts, now well over thirty years in the past, was a memory that Harry still visited regularly in his Penseive. It had been hard to say why he had ever begun—the tremendous victory had come at an almost unbearable price, and the first time he had entered his own memory of the day, he had broken down weeping at the sight of Fred Weasley. The next time it had been Colin Creevey, and then Remus Lupin and Tonks, even Lavender Brown. Every visit was painful, and it was a while before Harry realized that that had been the point all along. On that chaotic day he had missed the chance to mourn their loss and feel the full pain of their sacrifice.
Many visits in, Harry noticed a detail that he had never missed, and yet never fully appreciated: the dramatic duel between Voldemort, Slughorn, Kingsley, and McGonagall. Hundreds had seen them, the story was part of the legend of the day, and yet it wasn't until Harry was in his late twenties, standing invisible inside the memory, that he realized exactly what it meant.
Horace Slughorn, head of Slytherin house and lover of all things comfortable and easy, had not only returned to the battle with reinforcements, he had returned to duel his former pet student, the most dangerous dark wizard of all time. On that day he used his talents not for his own comfort or personal gain, but to fight on Harry's side. He wasn't a member of the Order of the Phoenix, he wasn't considered to be particularly brave, but when Slytherin house had fled, Slughorn was the Man Who Came Back.
Harry had met with Slughorn, ten years too late, to finally thank him for everything he had done. He brought with him, of course, a box of crystallized pineapple and even consented to pose for a few pictures for Slughorn's mantelpiece. The two of them had been in sporadic contact ever since—he was a useful acquaintance for an Auror; Harry sent him an owl whenever he ran into a potion that gave him trouble, but more importantly, he was Harry's personal reminder that he should never underestimate others.
And now he was gone. Ginny reached out and touched his arm, but Harry wasn't sure if what he was feeling was exactly sadness—no one could say that Slughorn had been denied a full and comfortable life, and he and Harry had never been what Harry could honestly describe as close.
But still, there seemed to be a small empty spot in his chest that he couldn't quite explain.
The door to the waiting room burst open and Al stumbled in, looking exhausted, frazzled, terrified, and yet elated. "A boy!" he exclaimed and Ginny and Harry both jumped to their feet to smother their son in congratulations and hugs.
"Come and see him," Albus said and led them to the room where his wife Violet was sitting up on her bed and holding a blanket-wrapped bundle. Ginny rushed forward at once, but Harry held back, his arm still around Albus. He was afraid to admit his great wish—that his grandchild would, like Albus, have inherited the green eyes Harry had received from his own mother.
Violet, beaming with pride, handed the bundle to Ginny, who expertly pulled back the blanket to reveal a tiny bald head and a scrunched red face, eyes still closed. "He's perfect!" Ginny sighed happily, carrying the baby over to Harry.
Albus moved away from Harry to put his arm around his mother. "We've decided to name him Arthur," he said with a smile.
"Oh, how wonderful! Your grandfather will be thrilled!" Ginny passed the baby to Harry so that she could properly hug her son, who was so tall she only came to his shoulders.
Harry stared down at the baby in his arms, wrapped in a pale blue blanket. The tiny eyes began to flutter open and Harry drew in a breath that he released a moment later when he saw the baby's beautiful dark blue eyes—a perfect match of Violet's.
Any disappointment was instantly forgotten as Harry looked into the eyes of his grandson, so small and perfect. Harry brushed a finger over little Arthur's soft and fragile cheek. His own children had been grown for so long that Harry had almost forgotten how nice it was to hold a baby.
Albus walked over to Harry and put his hand on his shoulder. "We thought, Dad, that maybe you would like to pick out his middle name."
"Horace," Harry said immediately, touched by the honor and grateful for the opportunity to show his respect for Slughorn. He noticed a brief look of horror pass over Violet's face, but she recovered quickly.
"How wonderful," she said with a warm smile (though Harry strongly suspected that he wouldn't be asked for input into the names of any future grandchildren). "Is it after a relative?"
"No, he was an old friend," Harry said as Ginny took the baby back from him and began covering the tiny bald head in kisses. "He was a man who helped me out in a way that I never expected. A man who was much braver than I would have ever guessed. I want Arthur to have his name so he can remember that he's always capable of more than anyone might believe."
Ginny nodded approvingly, Violet sighed in acquiescence, and Albus pulled a small bottle of firewhisky from his robes and poured drinks for himself, his father and mother.
"To Arthur Horace Potter!" he said, raising his glass to touch with Harry's and Ginny's. Harry lifted his cup and drank to his grandson and to the Man Who Came Back.