Horace Slughorn was sitting behind his desk in his office and was nibbling on a piece of crystalized pineapple. He had just returned from the very frosty Christmas feast that had felt as though a blizzard could not have diminished the heat of Minerva McGonagall's glare.
This year had been very different than the others ones he had spent at Hogwarts. It had become impossible to maintain a state of neutrality when selecting which students possessed the air and abilities of potential. Horace decided that instead of angering either the established professors or the Death Eaters in charge of the school, he would rather give up some of his influence than his life. Due to the official disbanding of the Slug Club, there had been no Christmas party filled with influential people with whom to mingle. It was a challenge, keeping that delicate balance, but he believed he had toed the line impressively. Luckily, he had not yet been asked to choose between the conflicting factions.
Picking up another slice of pineapple, his other hand fiddled with his quill. There was a piece of parchment lying on the dark wood of his desk, waiting patiently to be written on. The words, however, did not come easily to Horace. This letter that he had been contemplating composing and submitting to the headmaster had remained unwritten for months. Horace could not force out the words, and he knew that those statements would remain trapped in his mind until he could tolerate no more. There was not an immediate all to resign yet and give up the rest of his very deserved comforts. There was no need for him to resort to going on the run again.
Horace Slughorn dusted the sugar from off his fingertips and took a sip from the glass of wine resting on his desk. Then he stiffened his resolution to remain until the last moment that neutrality would be allowed. He opened a drawer and hid his parchment and quill away.