Chapter 6 – Draco's detour
Albus Dumbledore appeared out of nowhere with a slight pop. He was now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square in the village of Budleigh Babberton, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. Dumbledore let out a deep sigh, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and with quick, long strides started walking towards a row of houses.
He had tried what seemed to be in vain, since the reading of Sirius black will, to contact Harry Potter. Dumbledore was in shock at how much Harry had changed over the summer; he was not the same boy that had smashed all of his belongings last term. That boy had been emotional, full of feelings like grief and self-doubt. The person met at the will reading, however, had none of those things. He seemed confident, calm, and cold. When he spoke out of anger it had not been the unregulated anger and outburst Dumbledore expected but controlled and full of the author that he had only seen in certain adults. And if he had not been introduced as the actual Harry Potter, he would not think that he had been a sixteen-year-old, but an adult, as he didn't recognize him at first glance either. He was now in great fear that the boy was turning dark. There had been an aura around the boy the last time he had seen him, although it was greatly hidden by some kind of magic he did not recognize. He had to get the boy to talk to him, somehow, and convince him to listen. It was critical for the war effort and there was no other way. He had planned to educate Harry himself this year and give him all the clues on how to conquer Lord Voldemort. Maybe, if he talked to Harry's friends, Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger, that they could convince the boy and make him see reason. For he must get Harry back on his side as soon as possible, no matter the cost.
Dumbledore turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. He proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The church clock chimed midnight behind him. He shocks his head sadly. He was losing the grip on the boy and it worried him greatly. All his plans that he had made so carefully seemed to slowly turn to dust. Right now he had other more urgent matters to tend to, Hogwarts was missing a professor and he had chosen to approach this one himself, instead of trusting the ministry as last year, which had turned out to be a huge mistake.
He was now nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. As he reached the front Dumbledore stopped dead, first frowning a little on the sight meeting him, then looking up towards the sky, chuckling softly. The front door was hanging off its hinges. He glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted. He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready. "Lumos." The wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, he walked into the sitting room. A scene of total devastation met his eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys were strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. He raised his wand even higher so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was splattered all over the wallpaper. He moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet.
He walked over to an overstuffed armchair, lying on its side and examined it. After a few moments, he then proceeded to plunge his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled "Ouch!"
"Good evening, Horace", he said calmly, straightening up again.
Where a split second before there had been an armchair there now crouched an enormously fat, bald old man, who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an ag-grieved and watery eye.
"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt".
The wand light sparkled on his shunt pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac, silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
"My dear Horace", said Dumbledore, looking amused. "If the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house".
The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
"The dark mark", he muttered. "Knew there was something…ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I´d just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room." He heaved a great sigh and made the ends of his mustache flutter.
"Would you like my assistance clearing up?", asked Dumbledore politely
"Please," said the other
They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.
"What kind of blood was that incidentally?" asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly un-smashed grandfather flock.
"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. There was a final plunk from the piano and silence.
"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable." He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within. "Hmm. Bit dusty."
He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. He turned again to Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
"I know why you are here and the answers are still no, Albus."
He pushed past the other taller wizard, his face turned resolutely away.
"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old time's sake?"
Slughorn hesitated. "Oh, all right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled and directed himself toward a chair, not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp and took a seat.
"Hmpf," Slughorn huffed as he gave a drink to Dumbledore and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked.
"Not so well," said Slughorn at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Cant move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigued."
"And yet you must have moved quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore. "You can't have had more than three minutes' warning?"
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, "Two. Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still," he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, "the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts."
"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore.
"Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself," said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see."
"You're quite right," said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers. "I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand..."
He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
"So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the Death Eaters' benefit or mine?" asked Dumbledore.
"What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?" demanded Slughorn.
"I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder," said Dumbledore. "Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?"
Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, "I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place for more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house, the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands. It's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know-how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano."
"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts…"
"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days …"
"Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd," said Dumbledore. "I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.'"
"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never liked her."
Dumbledore chuckled at this. "I thought you would enjoy seeing the young minds of today, Hor-ace. Some of them have great potential". He then gestured to the many photographs on the mantlepiece. "I see you still keep in contact with some of your old favorites?".
The smile that had been on Slughorns face a second before now slid from his face as quickly as the blood from his walls.
"No, not of late," he said, looking sour. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."
"I am sorry to hear that, my old friend", Dumbledore said. "May I give a suggestion which I think will benefit you greatly and you can yet again resurface, so to speak"
"Oh?", said Slughorn and raising his eyebrows high
"Yes", said Dumbledore calmly "You must have heard the rumors of late about Mr. Potter?"
"Oh yes, of course," Slughorn said with a smug smile. "He is the new head of the noble houses of Potter and Black and an emancipated minor. It was all over the Prophet the other day."
"Mr. Potter is indeed", dumbledore said a little big stiffly "He might have the rights of an adult, but he is still just 16 years old and in need of guidance"
"The rumors say that you are not on so good terms with the boy at the moment, Albus", said Slughorn still smirking
"Well, I was hoping that he could find someone he feels like he can trust and as my relationship with Harry, as you say, right are not on the best terms I thought that you could try to talk to the boy. You have always had a great hand with the students. You could invite him to your club."
"Me? Really Dumbledore, I don't know what makes you think he would trust me better than any other teacher?"
"But you would try, wouldn't you? Think of Lily Evans, one of your favorite students. Wouldnt it be wonderful to get to know her son as well, ad him to your collection in the club? And I can guarantee that you will be safe at Hogwarts"
Slughorn turned away from Dumbledore and gazed into space for a moment or two, seeming to think the matter over.
"Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had never sought a fight with Dumbledore" he muttered grudgingly. "And I suppose one could argue as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend…in which case, I might be safer a little closer to Albus…and it would be wonderful to see the castle again…"
" Well, Horace. I am sorry that you won't reconsider the position", said Dumbledore, now rising from the chair. "Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to. I can not force you to reconsider, of course".
Slughorn now turned around to look at the older man. He seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak. Then throwing up his arms in defeat he explored:
"Oh, All right, all right, I'll do it!"
Dumbledore smiled. "You will come out of retirement?"
"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."
"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, I will see you on the first of September."
"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.
As Dumbledore left and left and set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them, "I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!" He chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind him, and he set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.
During the following days, Harry's OWLs-result, Hogwarts letter and booklists arrived. He was pleasantly surprised at his OWL- results. Although he didn't get the required O in potions that he previously thought he needed to become an Auror. He guessed that he wouldn't be in Snape's N.E.W.T.S- class, not that he felt remotely sorry about it. He smiled as he imagined Hermione, freaking out about her results. In all, he had got nine OWLS.
Ordinary Wizarding Level Results:
Pass Grades:
Outstanding (O)
Exceeds Expectations (E)
Acceptable (A)
Fail Grades:
Poor (P)
Dreadful (D)
Troll (T)
Harry James Potter has achieved:
Astronomy: A
Care of Magical Creatures: E
Charms: E
Defense Against the Dark Arts: O
Divination: P
Herbology: E
History of Magic: P
Potions: E
Transfiguration: E
The Hogwarts' letter had included another surprise. He had been made a Prefect and quidditch captain. Harry wondered what Dumbledore was playing at. He was not sure how the headmaster could think that he was a great choice, especially since their last interaction.
The day before the start of term, Harry and Azoth made the trip to Diagon Alley to purchase Harry's schoolbooks and new robes, all his old robes were sizes too small. Harry had put on a strong glamour, even though he thought it would be hard for anyone to recognize him as Harry Potter anymore, at least at first glance. Even though he was looking forward to seeing his classmates and friends again, he didn't feel like being on full display just yet.
Harry and Azoth materialized in one of the smaller side alleys and then stepped out into Diagon Alley. However, the alley seemed to have changed since he had been there a month before. The window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were now lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic Posters that had been pasted over them. Most of the somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of security advice from Ministry pamphlets, but others bore moving black and white photographs of death eaters, known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows of the shops were bordered up, including those of Florian Fortescue´s Ice Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:
AMULETS! Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi!
A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby. Harry scoffed. He swiftly walked past the man, in the direction of Madam Malkin's robe-shop.
Getting his robes fitted did not take long, although he got suspicious looks from Madam Making when he said he needed Hogwarts school robes. She seemed to think that he was not a student, but a teacher. That had greatly amused Azoth.
After robes, Harry went to Flourish and Blotts and bought all his new books and shrinking them down and putting them in his pocket. He didn't bother to buy ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that he was no longer studying Potions. But he did buy a few new quills, ink, and parchment.
Then when he walked down the street, just wondering what he was going to eat for lunch, he stopped outside a new, brightly orange shop. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Fred and George joke shop. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:
WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT
YOU-KNOW-WHO?
YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT
U-NO-POO —
THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION
THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!
Harry gauffered with laughter. The twin had really outdone themself and they were brilliant. He made a mental note to make contact with the twins soon and to visit their shop in the near future. Just as he had stopped laughing, he spotted something in the corner of his eye, a glance of white-blond hair.
Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone and as he passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Intrigued, Harry quickly stepped into the shadows and watched as the young Malfoy turned a corner, into another street. Harry traveled in the shadows, a neat little trick that Azoth had recently taught him, and followed. Malfoy had walked quickly, glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley. Knockturn Alley looked completely deserted. Malfoy went into the first-ever store he visited in Knockturn Alley, Borgin, and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister objects. Harry observed outside from the shadows the blonde standing in the midst of the cases full of skulls and old bottles with his back to him, just visible beyond a very large black cabinet. Judging by the movements of Malfoy's hands, he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear.
Harry looked at Azoth who nodded. Then he snapped his fingers and Harry could hear what the two inside the shop were saying, as clearly as he was standing right beside Malfoy.
"…you know how to fix it?", Malfoy was saying
"Possibly," said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. "I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?"
"I can't," said Malfoy. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."
Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.
"Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything."
"No?" said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. "Perhaps this will make you more confident." He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet.
"Tell anyone," said Malfoy, "and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."
"There will be no need for…"
"I'll decide that," said Malfoy. "Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe, I'll need it."
"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?"
"No, of course, I wouldn't, you stupid, little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it."
"Of course not…sir." Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy.
"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?"
"Naturally, naturally," murmured Borgin, bowing again.
The next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy walked out of the shop. He stopped just a little further down the dingy alley and Harry could now see his face clearly for the first time. The mask that he so carefully wore seemed to have slipped, just for a moment. His face was very pale and full of worry. He looked tired with big black bags underneath the eyes looked thin and ill. He steadied himself, leaning against a wall, and took a couple of deep, staggering breaths. Then he straightens himself and Harry could see him put on the same confident face he usually wore, sneer and all, and walked away.
"Well, well, Draco", thought Harry. "What are you up to?"
