Disclaimer: If you know it, I do not own it. Parts taken from Halfblood Prince by JKR.

The Power of Harry

Harry kind of wished Tom wasn't solid. While a horrible desire, as the poor guy deserved to be solid like a normal human being, it meant Tom was unable to accompany Harry on his two week sojourn to the Dursley's. Not knowing what to do with himself, Harry spent his days lying spread eagle on his bed staring at the ceiling. No one in the house came to check on him and the only way Harry knew they realized he was even in the house was the fact his aunt pushed food under the cat flap twice a day.

Harry didn't honestly care. He only ate because he knew he had to.

Kind of like how he only answered the letters that arrived because if he didn't more would burry him and he was tired of reading letters about what he ought to be doing. Everyone was worried Harry was grieving properly. They never outright said it, but he read the concern behind their words. Harry hadn't shown any signs of grief before leaving Hogwarts. Tom, oddly enough, displayed his grief for all to witness. Ginny had allowed tears to furiously fall a few times before they'd left for summer holiday. Luna was more quiet in her grief, but Harry saw it in her grey eyes. Draco and Hermione clung to one another more than usual.

Harry, well, Harry stared at his ceiling and blamed himself.

He'd let Atlanta take the fake prophecy.

If he'd not done that, Bellatrix wouldn't have stabbed Atlanta in retaliation for Atlanta smashing the glass globe, thus Atlanta wouldn't have been so weak when she took on Voldemort, so he wouldn't have killed her.

Marv killed her because she was already dead. He'd said so himself.

It was Harry's fault she was almost dead when she faced her tormentor.

Harry sat up and furiously wiped his face, which was wet.

He did cry. In the privacy of his bedroom at number 10 Privet Drive. Alone, where no one could hear or see him.

Swinging, his legs over the bed, Harry took in the disaster of the room. He'd smashed quite a few things upon arriving, letting loose where no one could see. The TV and VCR Tom had had him fix the previous summer were once more broken, only this time beyond repair. Everything in the room had been subject to Harry's wrecking ball (aka his fists and feet, and one time his knee). Looking at his hands, he wondered what he'd tell Dumbledore when the man came to retrieve him. His knee was hurt (pretty sure he'd twisted it), his hands were a mess, and he'd broken a toe.

Knowing Dumbledore, he'd not bother to ask why Harry was limping and his hands looked as if he'd gone a few rounds with a brick wall.

Harry wiped his face once more with his hands before standing and looking around for his trunk. He'd never bothered to unpack it, simply wore Dudley's old clothing he'd left behind as an eleven-year-old (they were still too big and he had no idea how he'd worn them at eleven). However, if he was leaving tonight for Grimmauld Place, he ought to dress properly or Aunt Narcissa (if she was still awake at the ungodly late hour Dumbledore was getting him) would dither. All he wanted was to go to bed.

Throwing the trunk open, Harry quickly found a set of Muggle clothes. It felt strange to be wearing clothes that fit him properly. He stared down, feeling as if he wasn't himself. Checking the time, he slammed the trunk as the doorbell sounded downstairs.

Right on time.

Though, he ought to have known Dumbledore was about, as the streetlights were all out, yet none of the other lights were out on the street. Dumbledore had done something to the streetlights so no one would notice the oddly dressed figure strolling down the street at eleven at night.

"Who the blazes is calling at his time of night?" shouted Uncle Vernon.

Harry snorted as he hoisted his trunk up and headed out of the room.

"Good evening, you must be Mr Dursley," Dumbledore greeted politely. "I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?"

Oops. Harry knew he'd forgotten something.

"Judging by your stunned look of disbelief, Harry did not warn you," Dumbledore sighed as Harry began to head down the stairs carefully as not to be smashed by his trunk or further injure himself. Dumbledore looked up at the noise and shook his head, a small smile on his face. He turned his attention back to Uncle Vernon and pleasantly said, "Let us assume you've invited me inside, as it is best not to dawdle overlong on doorsteps in these dangerous times."

Dumbledore, in his rather muted dark traveling cloak and black pointed hat, stepped over the threshold and into the entry. He closed the door behind him and eagerly looked around.

"It's been quite awhile since my last visit," Dumbledore offered. "Your agapanthus is flourishing."

Vernon Dursley said nothing. Harry doubted this would last, as the man didn't remain speechless for long when Harry wished for him to be silent. It was like Uncle Veron had a seventh sense.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore greeted, looking pleased to see Harry. "Excellent, excellent."

That did it. Anyone who would see Harry and say "excellent" was a man who Vernon Dursley would never see eye to eye.

"I don't mean to be rude—" he began, in a tone that told the world he meant to be just that.

"Ah, yet, sadly accidentally rudeness happens more often than not," Dumbledore interrupted, heading into the lounge. "We're going to assume you politely invited me to sit in this lovely sitting room. Oh, I take this is Dudley. Lovely to meet you."

Dudley peered at Dumbledore from behind the door to the kitchen, his large head looking disembodied rising up out of his stripy collar of his pajamas. He stared at Dumbldore with wide eyes filled with terror. Dumbledore met the boy's stare with a look of concern before turning to Harry.

"Aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked, reaching the bottom of the stairs and dropping the handle on his trunk. It fell to the floor with a solid thunk as Harry ignored the pain in his twisted knee. He was pretty sure he'd lost feeling in his foot and that was why his toe wasn't burning in pain.

"In a moment. I must go over a few things with your aunt and uncle," Dumbledore said, sweeping fully into the living room. "We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle hospitality a while longer."

"You will, will you?"

Uncle Vernon entered the room, pushing Harry out of the way. Harry stumbled into Aunt Petunia, who'd emerged from her nightly scrub down of the kitchen still wearing her rubber gloves and smelling strongly of disinfectant. She grabbed hold of Harry, righted him, then peered into the sitting room.

"Yes, I shall," Dumbledore decided, pulling out his wand.

Several things happened at once. Dudley squeaked, Petunia shrieked, and Vernon fell over. Mostly to avoid getting a sofa to the head as for some unknown reason Dumbledore felt the need to rearrange the furniture.

"Please sit," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Only Petunia sat down.

Dumbledore looked at Dudley, who darted a look at his mother before he scampered over and plastered himself to her side. Vernon pulled himself to his feet and looked as if he was going to bellow, but nothing came out when he opened his mouth. He furiously glared at Dumbledore.

"Might as well be comfortable," Dumbledore said mildly.

Vernon marched over and sat down, glaring at Dumbledore.

"I think a drink would be wasted on this group, correct?" Dumbledore asked Harry.

"Yeah. We ought to just go, sir," Harry urged.

"One moment, Harry. I must go over something with your family," Dumbledore said, turning his attention back to the three Dursleys on the sofa. "As you are no doubt aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time—"

"No," Aunt Petunia said, looking at Dumbledore as if he were more batty than she already thought he was.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until a year after next."

"Ah," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "but in the wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen."

"Preposterous," Uncle Vernon muttered.

"Now," Dumbledore went on, ignoring Uncle Vernon, "as you already know a wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort has returned. The British Wizarding Community is currently in a state of open warfare."

Harry glanced at his relatives, assuming none of them would have a clue what Dumbledore was talking about, but Aunt Petunia looked horrified.

"Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on numerous occasions, is in greater danger now than the day I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care of him as if he were your own."

Petunia pressed her lips together and sent a sidelong look at Vernon.

"You did not do as I asked," Dumbledore continued in the same pleasant tone, yet a chill filled the room and the Dursleys all drew back on the couch. "You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting on the sofa."

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around for this mistreated boy, but the only person other than them on the couch was Dudley.

"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday for the allotted two weeks. Once he turns seventeen, I doubt you shall see him again."

"Where will he go?" Dudley asked, looking surprised he'd asked.

"Home," Harry replied, turning to exit the lounge.

"But this is your home. He's just said so," Dudley insisted.

Harry turned back to his cousin. "I'll live with Aunt Narcissa and my godfather Sirius Black in London."

"Harry, it is time to go," Dumbledore said, rising. He turned to the Dursleys. "Until we meet again."

Dumbledore swept out of the room, leaving Harry alone with his family.

"Bye," Harry hastily mumbled, hurrying after Dumbledore, who paused by Harry's trunk.

"Where is your owl?"

"With Tom," Harry answered. "She's not welcome here, so Tom took her for the summer."

Dumbledore nodded. "We do not need to be encumbered by the trunk, so I shall send it to Grimmauld Place to await us. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak."

Harry extracted the Cloak from the trunk, then slammed it shut. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Dumbledore smiled, pulled his wand out, and waved it over the trunk. The trunk vanished at the same moment the front door swung open, allowing some cool, misty air to drift into the house.

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, but followed Dumbledore out into the night. It was distinctly awkward following after the headmaster, and not because Harry kept struggling to keep up. Harry had never seen the man outside of Hogwarts, so not having a desk between them made Harry feel strange and off-kilter.

"Keep your wand ready, Harry," Dumbledore advised brightly as he marched down the darkened street.

"But, I'm not allowed to do magic outside of school, sir," Harry reminded him.

"If there is an attack, I give you permission to use any counter jinx or hex that might occur to you. However, I doubt we will be attacked as you are with me."

Dumbledore came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive. He pulled out some sort of device, clicked it. All the streetlights popped back on, except the one they were standing under.

"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test."

"No," Harry sighed.

"You've travelled this way before?"

"Yes. I don't like it," Harry offered, then added, "sir."

"Ah, no doubt. It is highly unpleasant. Well, please grab on my left arm, if you don't mind— as you might have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment."

Harry had not noticed, actually. He tried to look, but Dumbledore was offering his left arm, so Harry took it and decided later to see what was going on with the right.

"Very good. Grip hard and do not let go," Dumbledore said. "And off we go."

Harry felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and held on tight. The pressure of being pressed through a straw occurred and everything went black. Harry could not breathe for the iron bands around his chest and everything was pressing inwards.

It was a horrible way to travel.

And yet, as soon as the discomfort began, it ended and Harry sucked in lungfuls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes.

"It's been awhile, yes?" Dumbledore chuckled, taking in Harry's reaction.

"It's…worse when it's not a House Elf," Harry admitted.

Dumbledore frowned amusedly and shrugged. "Good to know. Now, this way."

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few darkened houses. Harry had no clue where they were, but according to the clock on a nearby church tower it was a little passed midnight. Grinding his teeth, he set off after the headmaster.

"Has your scar been hurting you since you've left school?"

"No, sir," Harry said, unconsciously rubbing his scar. "Before we left school, Tom was positive it was no longer leaking Voldemort's magic and Draco didn't feel any magic coming out of my head. However, neither is as good as At—" Harry stopped, feeling as if he was going through Apparition suddenly and unexpectedly.

"No, they would not be. She was rather gifted. But, Tom can see magic, can he not?"

"Faintly," Harry said, gulping and trying to clam his heart. "H-h-he shares some…stuff."

"Hmmm."

"I'm glad I'm no longer an Emotional Marv Detector," Harry proclaimed, trying to inject strength into his voice.

Dumbledore stopped walking and turned to face Harry. "Would you mind if I took a look?"

"Meaning?"

"I will feel for Lord Voldemort's magical signature."

Harry nodded his consent.

Dumbledore raised his right hand, which was black and withered. It looked like a Halloween prop Harry had seen as a child that had freaked him out so much he'd accidentally done magic to get rid of it. (Not that he'd known that at the time was what happened, he was simply pleased it'd vanished.)

"Hmmm," Dumbledore hummed. "Tom is correct. You will be happy to know, you are no longer a…magical Emotional Marv Detector."

Hearing Dumbledore say it was like having an invisible weight lifted. However, as soon as it was gone, another one fell on his head.

"Does that make Tom one? I mean, if that's where…the magic went?"

"No, Harry, I do not believe so. Another life was given to bring Tom onto this plane of existence. A sacrifice such as that wouldn't render him…an Emotional Marv Detector."

Harry nodded. "Er— good. Sir, where are we?"

"Oh, this charming village is Budleigh Babberton."

Harry had no idea where that was. He assumed somewhere in England, as he was pretty sure you couldn't use Apparition to travel out of the country.

"And we are here because?"

"Ah, yes. I've failed to tell you. Well, tragically, I've lost track over the years the times I've said this, but Harry, I find myself one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."

Harry extended his head in agreement.

"You're not going to ask why I've brought you?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes. Yes, you are."

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with dark houses. There was an odd chill, the same one that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks. It persisted here as well. Though, here, it reminded Harry of dementors. He shuddered.

"What are your thoughts on our new Minister of Magic?" Dumbledore conversationally inquired.

"You've had a row with him," Harry said without thinking, then slapped his hand over his mouth.

Dumbledore, of course, chuckled. "That I have."

"Well, sir, I don't know what I think about him. I like that he's gotten rid of many of those who Fudge kept close to him that are…less than…well, uh, I like that he appointed Aunt Narcissa his Under Secretary. She'll do a good job."

"Delores was ever so sour about that appointment," Dumbledore said mildly.

"Uh, where did Umbridge end up? The paper didn't exactly report on where she'd gone," Harry said.

"I believe Delores has been shuffled into Arthur Weasley's department," Dumbledore chuckled. "With the expansion of that department, she was most needed there. However unhappy she is there."

Harry snorted. He doubted Umbridge could wheel much power in the Department of Muggle Artifacts. Though, Harry had read they had expanded the power of that department and they did more than simply go after magical objects that had gotten into Muggle hands. They now did a load of stuff, though Harry couldn't remember what else had been added.

"I believe her only job at the moment is to file the paperwork," Dumbledore offered. "Ah, here we are."

They stood at the gate of what appeared to be a ransacked house. The door was hanging off the hinges and the front garden was uprooted. Dumbledore glanced up and down the street, but there was no one in sight. All the other houses appeared dark and sleepy. Dumbledore heaved a great sigh and raised his wand in front of him.

"Wand out and follow me, Harry," he said quietly, opening the gate.

Harry followed as Dumbledore lit his wand and held it up high. They entered the house and carefully stepped over various smashed items. The worst of the devastation was in the sitting room, where nothing was intact and there was blood splattered all over the wall. Harry's stomach turned over at the sight of it and he stared at the only thing in the room free of the blood: a funny looking, squashy armchair.

Harry heard Dumbledore move around the room, muttering about how horrible the devastation and ransacking was. He knew Dumbledore looked at him a few times to make sure he was still there, but Harry was using all his brain power not to throw up.

"Well, I'm sorry Harry, but I must take away your focal point," Dumbledore said, coming into Harry's view point near the overstuffed chair.

"What?"

"I must poke this chair," Dumbledore said, and did just that.

The chair said, "Ouch!"

"Good evening, Horace," Dumbledore greeted.

The chair was quickly replaced with an enormously fat, bald, old man who massaged his lower belly while squinting angrily at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he muttered, clambering to his feet.

Dumbledore smiled, holding his lit wand higher, bathing the room in wand light. The light sparkled over the man's clothing, showing off the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The man was short, he barely reached Dumbledore's chin.

So he was about Harry's height.

"What gave it away?" he grunted, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for having just moments before been an armchair.

"My dear Horace," Dumbledore began, looking amused, "if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house."

A pudgy hand clapped over a vast forehead.

"I knew I forgot something. Wouldn't have had the time, though. I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.

"Would you like my assistance cleaning up?"

"Please."

Harry watched as the tall, thin man and the round, short one waved their wands, sending the furniture into the correct place, feathers back into pillows, and torn books whole and back to the shelves. It was magical watching magic fix all the devastation in the room. Especially when the blood wiped itself off the walls and put itself back into tiny vials.

"Hmm. Bit dusty," the pudgy man complained, studying the thick liquid within.

"Dragon blood?"

"Mmm, yes. My last bottle. Prices sky-high at the moment. Hopefully, might be reusable even with the bit of dust."

He pocketed the tiny bottle and turned, gaze finally falling upon Harry.

"Oho," he breathed, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead. "Oho!"

"This is Harry Potter," Dumbledore introduce needlessly. "Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn."

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "So, that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, answer's still no, Albus."

Dumbledore sighed dramatically as the other man huffed passed Harry.

"I supposed we can have a drink, at least? For old time's sake?"

Slughorn hesitated on the other end of the room before he grunted his agreement. "One drink."

Dumbledore smiled and directed Harry towards a chair that looked like the one Slughorn had recently impersonated. Harry sunk down into it, taking in the strange looking oil lamp sitting next to it that stuck out in the Muggle home. Harry frowned as he took in the house further. It was definitely a Muggle home, filled with a few choice wizarding items.

"Hmpf," Slughorn pouted, turning away and busying himself with fixing drinks. He turned back, gaze falling once more upon Harry before he turned sharply to Dumbledore and thrust the drink into his hands. "Here."

"Well," Dumbledore began, sinking into sofa, "how have you been keeping, Horace?"

Slughorn thrust a drink at Harry without looking at him before he sat in the other armchair, positioning it so he didn't have to see Harry if he didn't wish.

"Not so well," Slughorn said at once, his demeanor changing. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism, too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue."

"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us on such short notice," Dumbledore praised. "You can't have had more than three minutes' warning?"

"Two," Slughorn proclaimed, irritated but proud. "Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still, 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."

Creature comforts for sure, Harry thought, looking around the stuffy, cluttered room filled with soft chairs, footstools, and expensive drinks and chocolates. Though, it struck Harry as a room of a rich, old Muggle lady. Not a wizard.

"You're not as old as I yet," Dumbledore pointed out.

"Maybe you ought to retire."

"You're quite right. I am undoubtably slower than I once was," Dumbledore said, shaking his sleeve back to reveal his burned, blackened fingers. Harry pressed backwards into his chair while Slughorn gasped. Harry realized, besides being black, there was a large, rather clumsily made golden ring that was set with a heavy black stone which was cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered on the ring, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. "But, all these precautions against intruders, Horace, are they for the Death Eaters' benefit or mine?"

"What would the Death Eaters want with a poor old broken buffer like me?" Slughorn asked, though he didn't sound as if he believed that.

Dumbledore simply smiled. "I image they'd wish to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder."

Slughorn huffed. "Not likely."

"Have they come calling?"

"I haven't given them the chance," Slughorn muttered. "I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place 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."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Ingenious. But, it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life."

"Don't you dare tell me my life would be peaceful if I were to return to Hogwarts!"

"I will not," Dumbledore said.

"I heard what happened to Dolores Umbridge."

"Professor Umbridge ran afoul our centaur heard. I think, Horace, you would have known better than to call a heard of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.'"

"That's what she did, did she? Idiotic woman. Never liked her."

Harry snorted, causing both old men to stare at him.

"Sorry. I didn't like her much either."

Dumbledore stood up suddenly.

"Are you leaving?" Slughorn asked, looking hopeful.

"No. I was wondering if I might use your loo."

"Oh. Down the hall. Second door on the left."

Dumbledore strode from the room. Slughorn got to his feet, shooting furtive looks at Harry before going to the fireplace and turning his back on Harry.

"Don't think I don't know why he brought you with him," he proclaimed.

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry announced, leaning his head on his hand and yawning. He threw his injured foot up onto a squashy footstool. "I'm sure that had something to do with it."

Slughorn turned and gave Harry a strange look before saying. "You look very like your father."

"Yeah, I've been told."

"But, you've got your mother's eyes," Slughorn finished.

Harry was going to sass back, but something in Slughorn's tone got his attention. Harry sat up straight.

"Did you know her?"

"Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn clarified. "Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House."

Harry held in a snort, as Tom had often lamented she belonged in Slytherin not Gryffindor. Clearly, others felt she belonged elsewhere as well.

"Rather cheeky answers I'd get back too," Slughorn added, giving Harry a small smile.

"Which House was yours?"

"I was Head of Slytherin." Slughorn paused, waiting for Harry to react badly, but all Harry did was look interested. "You'll be in Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Your godfather ended up in Gryffindor when his whole family had always been in Slytherin. Shame— he was a talented boy. I got this brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I'd have liked the set."

Harry eyed the man, as he sounded like an avid collected who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, Slughorn failed to notice Harry's expression.

"Your mother was Muggleborn, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must be a pureblood, she was so good."

"One of my best friends is Muggleborn and she's the best in our year," Harry said flatly.

Slughorn bristled. "You mustn't think I'm prejudice! No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was my all time favorite? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too—now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course— another Muggleborn, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"

The old man bounced a little on his heels, smiling a self-satisfied smile. He indicated to an array of frames he had set up over the fire place, one of the wizarding touches in the room as the inhabitants were all moving.

"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, former editor of the Daily Prophet. He was always interested to hear my take on the day's news till he started listening to that Fudge character. Oh, and Ambrosius Flume of Honeydukes— a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back— you'll see her if you just crane your neck— that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies…people are always astonished to hear I'm on a first name basis with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I wish!"

Since he'd started bragging, Slughorn had perked up enormously.

"And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?" Harry asked, rising up out of his seat to look at the photos closer.

The smile slid off Slughorn's face and Harry realized this was his reason for being here.

He was Harry Potter and he had the power to convince Slughorn to come to Hogwarts and go back to collecting students and getting hampers of sweets and free tickets.

"Of course not. I've been out of touch," Slughorn quietly realized, looking as if he'd just registered this fact.

Harry didn't really care, he'd found a photo of his mother. He got up on his tip toes to see it. His mother was seated on the floor, legs folded next to her as she smiled for the camera. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulder on one side. Next to her was a familiar face: Regulus Black. He smiled a very small smile, looking as if he was keeping the biggest secret of his life and only he knew it. However, Harry could guess the secret when he realized who was kneeling behind Regulus and his mother: Atlanta D. Black, also known as Addy and the girl who Regulus had loved. Harry watched as she threw her arms around Regulus and rested her head against his.

"I see you found the photo of your mother," Slughorn said, taking it down for Harry to see closer. "Just a group of students who all had talents I nurtured. I believe that was…Ah, yes, Atlanta Black. That would have been your mother's sixth year when Miss Black was on exchange and not yet a student."

Harry did note that Addy Black wore very strange looking robes.

"She always wore her robes to our events," Slughorn noted, shaking his head.

"Was she, my mum, good at anything other than Charms? I was told she was good at Charms."

"Oh, gosh, yes," Slughorn exclaimed. "She was a drab hand at potions. Brilliantly clever, she was. Such talent."

Harry nodded. He knew that, thanks to Tom.

He extended the photo back to Slughorn, who took it and looked at it sadly.

He seemed to realize that most of the people in the photo were dead thanks to Voldemort.

"If you took the position at Hogwarts, you'd be safe and your friends would be able to find you once again. And, before you say it, you don't have to be in the Order to work at Hogwarts. Most of the teachers aren't in the Order of the Phoenix and none of them have been killed."

"Well, that is true…"

"I reckon the staff is safer than most people while Dumbledore's headmaster as he's the only person Voldemort's afraid of."

Harry was sure Slughorn would be one of those who reacted when Voldemort's name was spoken. Sure enough, Harry wasn't disappointed. Slughorn gave a large shudder and a squawk.

"I suppose you are right," Slughorn sighed. "With all the…deaths they've been reporting in the papers…I'm hardly a friend of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…I would be much safer being a little closer to Albus…"

"When did you first teach at Hogwarts?" Harry asked suddenly, upon finding a photo of students wearing similar uniforms to the one Tom wore.

"Oh, I started some time in the twenties," Slughorn sighed. "That photo is from 1947. Good year, nice group of kids."

Slughorn took the photo and began to tell Harry all about each student and where they'd ended up and how they had been helped along by him. Harry was positive Slughorn was going to be a professor at Hogwarts the coming year. Having done his job to convince the old coot, Harry tuned him out and went back to staring at the photo of his mother, Addy Black, and Regulus.