Slughorn's office was tiny, full of clutter, and overheated. She competed with piles of trinkets and newspaper clippings for a seat, burrowing like a mouse through a pile of such clippings in order to find the cushion on the large red armchair that faced his desk.
Slughorn himself was asleep, his feet up on the desk, resting atop a pile of Quidditch jerseys that all had the name MacCormack on them. A cup of tea was cooling on a plant stand that was perched on top of a pile of books, all written by someone called Alexander Sneachie. She conquered the urge to dump it over his toupee.
"HORACE SLUGHORN," she said in a loud voice. Nothing. "HORACE! FUCKING! SLUGHORN!" She wadded up a newspaper clipping and threw it at his face.
He snorted back to consciousness. "Hullo! What? Oh. Miss Bertrand. Yes, I was—er—expecting you. Goodness! You'd think I'd partaken of the Draught of Living Death, what what?"
"Yeah. So what does this detention consist of, anyway?"
"Oh. Er. Hadn't gotten that far, I'm afraid!" He chuckled. "Well, er, you know I didn't strictly want to give you detention. Rules and regulations, and all that, eh?" He winked. There was an audible plink sound. "What's your brother been up to lately, eh?"
"Still dead, I'm afraid."
Slughorn froze. "Er—Ah. I was, er, asking after, erm, Carlisle. Of course no one can forget poor Osbert…"
"Oh, Carlisle's fine. Swimming in his pool of Galleons in America. Though they're not Galleons, are they? Just funny-looking American money with wizards on it."
"Still playing Quidditch?"
"Not for a few years now. He writes about it now, like Dad. Only he doesn't travel as much."
"Ah." Slughorn was looking bored. "What about your sister? Cameroon? What's she up to?"
"Camilla. Working at the Ministry. Still not famous."
Slughorn shook his head. "Fame is never to be sought, Miss Bertrand, never to be sought. Of course, when it does find a person, it's a cracking great time, isn't it? I always thought, what a gas it would be to be famous." His eyes shone fondly. "Never was, though. At least not to my knowledge!"
"Mm."
"What about you? What do you want to do when you've left Hogwarts, eh? Follow in your mother's footsteps and work for the Prophet? Become an Auror like Bertie? Play Quidditch? Although…"
"There are kneazles better at Quidditch than I am."
"True, true… Ministry work, like Camilla and Melusina?"
"No." She was certain he was trying to tell if she'd become famous. Unlikely as it was, why would she use her fame to give kickbacks to the likes of Horace Slughorn? "I—er—I've been thinking of learning Legilimency," she added awkwardly.
"Ah! Fine study. Complicated thing, Legilimency…not many people are too keen on it. Takes a certain kind of person; Albus can do it. Not me. I've tried a few times, only come across random memories. Bit boring, really."
"I tried it earlier on Peter Pettigrew. I probably should've picked somebody more interesting."
"Oh, no, I quite disagree. For the beginning Legilimency student, you really can't do better than choosing somebody boring. Not, of course, that I would ever begin to call a student boring…but rather, perhaps, tame. Somebody tame."
Beige Remus, she thought. It was almost like having one of Lily's thoughts in her head—surely she herself didn't think Remus was boring. He was…calming.
"What about you, Professor? I mean, it'd be good to learn something in detention, right?"
Slughorn's eyebrows did a brief shot up and down. "Er—well, Miss Bertrand, I hardly think—er, that is, the, er, lines between professor and student—you see, as a beginner you won't know this, but, er, the memory is…tricky…I would hate for you to, er, see anything—" He cleared his throat. "Er—I mean—"
"You don't want me to accidentally stumble upon anything embarrassing."
"Not that there would be anything embarrassing, no, of course not. But if there were."
Eglantine's mind jumped to nudity. He was afraid she would accidentally see him remembering being naked. And, of course, if he tried not to think of being naked, there he would be, full-frontal in the mirror on some tedious Monday, just standing there putting on his socks or something because he thought of it. Or, worse, she could see him having sex. She wondered if there were Legilimency horror stories of people accidentally seeing their elderly neighbors having sex, or attending a nudist beach. Perhaps that was why it was rather regulated.
"You're right, Professor. Best leave it alone."
She noticed that his eyes had drifted to his bookshelf when he mentioned "anything embarrassing." Oh, no. Did he have a…a photo album? He wouldn't keep it there at the school. That would be strange. Unless he was carrying on with McGonagall or someone, but she was fairly certain that McGonagall had never looked twice at a man. If not a photo album, what? A self-help book? Coping with Timely, Yet Still Discomfiting, Hair Loss?
"What would you like me to do for my detention, then, Professor?"
His eyes darted around his desk. "Er—thank you notes, I suppose. Students, former students, often send me things, you know. Simply haven't got the time to thank them all! It'd be a tremendous help."
She shrugged. "Sure. Who am I writing to?"
An hour and a half later, she had written letters to Quidditch players and Ministry officials, curse-breakers and foreign dignitaries. Her hand hurt, her eyes burned from the smell of Slughorn's strong bergamot cologne (or hair glue), and it was, quite frankly, a colossal waste of her time.
"Dear Sam, Thank you for the chocolates…" She yawned. Was Slughorn's life really this boring? She'd heard he was a capable wizard, and yet he seemed to pass his days like an abnormally lifeless retired granny. He was a bit like Crevan, although she assumed Slughorn had significantly more brains and backbone than her uncle.
"Which one are you on?" said Slughorn. It was the first thing he'd said (he was doing some scribbling of his own) since they'd begun.
"Sam's chocolates."
"Ah." He yawned. "After that, why don't you scurry off to bed? You've helped immensely."
As she finished the letter to Sam, Slughorn started nodding off in his chair. He had been reclined, writing on a notepad with his feet up on the desk; now his head fell forward, resting on his cushiony double chin, and he began to snore gently.
There was only one thing in Slughorn's office to do when he was asleep. She was looking at the bookcase.
Not making a sound, she laid her quill down and rose from the chair, cautiously making her way over Slughorn's piles of freebies. The bookcase itself was laden with trinkets, with some even positioned somewhat precariously in the space between the books and the edge.
The Polyjuice Compendium. Ethical Dilemmas of Polyjuice, a three-part series. Whatever Souls Are Made Of: Horcrux Theory. Prank Potions for Fun and Profit. Oceans of Love Potions. Love Potion Me Don't: A Collection of Cautionary Tales for Potions Students. I Saw a Bucket and a Foot: 1001 Death Omens to Inspire Paranoia.
The last book on the first shelf was small and pink and brought a wide smile to Eglantine's face. It was entitled, Magic Me Beautiful. There was a large bookmark sticking up, and she gingerly took the book out and flipped to it. Just as she thought. Hair potion.
A person can be sure they're tedious if Peter Pettigrew has more interesting secrets than they do, thought Eglantine.
As she walked out of Slughorn's office, Eglantine had the uncomfortable feeling that she'd forgotten to do something important, or missed something crucial. The feeling plagued her all the way back to the Ravenclaw common room, right until she rolled over to go to sleep.
I didn't check the other shelves, she thought. That must've been it. But the feeling didn't quite go away; in fact, the feeling lingered for quite some time.
