Chap. 13: Budleigh Babberton and Horace.
"Where are we, Headmaster?" Harry asked as he and Daphne were looking around at the small village they were now walking through.
"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.
"We're not far from the Burrow."
"You never did say," Daphne questioned Dumbledore, "how I can help with Slughorn, sir?'
"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, Harry and Daphne."
They proceeded up a steep and narrow street that was lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for weeks persisted here, too. Thinking of Dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his right hand.
Harry, however, pointed out an old brick manse, which was surrounded by laurels to his right, to Daphne, as they walked.
"That reminds me a lot of Black Manor."
"Really?" Daphne asked. "Late 1700s, I'd say."
Here, Dumbledore looked at the home and raised his eyebrow. "Why, yes, Harry and Daphne, it does resemble Black Manor, though this one has a slate roof instead of lead."
"I'll have my hands' full cleaning out the dust and cobwebs," Harry groused, "but at least it's more livable than No. 12."
Dumbledore caught that, but he didn't say anything.
Here, Harry looked around, again, including into the sky to make sure that there were no Dementors present. He could still feel the chill from where they were breeding.
Daphne, finally, wrapped her left arm around Harry's right, since she could feel the cold, too. Now, she also knew what was causing the chill.
"We'll be all right, dear," Harry said, causing Daphne to give him a weak smile.
The church clock chimed at seven-thirty behind them, making Harry and Daphne flinch. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late.
"Sir," Harry said, "I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters…'
"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?"
"Not really, no," Harry remarked.
"Neither did I," Daphne stated.
"No, I thought not. Neither of you has ever asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore, and not an imposter."
"I didn't…" Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or goaded.
"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry… although, of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself."
Daphne looked at Dumbledore as if he had lost the plot, and then raised her eyebrow at Harry. Harry had almost chortled at her expression. Merlin, he thought, he was actually falling in love with the witch!
"Er… right," said Harry. "Well, on that leaflet, it said something about Inferi. What exactly are they?" Here, Harry was playing ignorant, which made Daphne smirk. "The leaflet wasn't very clear, was it?"
It would not do for the headmaster to learn of what he had been studying, after all, nor learn of what Rufus had already informed him of.
"They are corpses," said Dumbledore calmly. "Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful…; he killed enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry, just here…"
They were nearing a small and neat stone house set in its own garden. Harry was too busy digesting Dumbledore's weak description of Inferi to have much attention left for anything else, except Daphne, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry almost walked into him.
"Oh, dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."
Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges.
Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.
"Wands out and follow me, you two," he said quietly.
He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path with Harry and Daphne at his heels, and then pushed the front door open very slowly; his wand raised and at the ready.
"Lumos."
Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry and Daphne right behind him; their wands were now lit as well.
A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little further away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys were strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even higher so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.
"Not pretty is it," he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened here all right."
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, and half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.
"Maybe there was a fight, and – and they dragged him off, Professor?" Harry suggested while trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.
Daphne, though, had walked over to the wall, and touched the red splatter with her finger. Next, she brought her wand tip up to her finger so she could see what it was by her Lumos.
"Hmm," Daphne muttered, gaining Dumbledore's attention, and a smirk.
"What did you find," Dumbledore inquired in a low voice, "young Daphne?"
"I would say it's Dragon's blood, Headmaster," she whispered.
Dumbledore gave her a nod and a proud smile before turning to Harry.
"I don't think so, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
"You mean he's – ?"
"Still here, somewhere? Yes. What looks off to you, Harry and Daphne?"
Harry looked around, again, and that was when it hit him that the overstuffed armchair didn't look damaged at all, only laying on its side. Nothing else was left unscathed.
"Uh huh," Daphne muttered as she observed the chair as well, and lightly elbowed Harry in the ribs.
Finally, Harry smirked and aimed his wand at the chair.
"Well," Harry remarked, "since that chair seems untouched, I might as well make it match everything else, you think? A good cutting or gouging curse should do the trick!"
Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald old man, who was guarding his lower belly, and squinting up at Dumbledore and his companions with an aggrieved and watery eye.
"Merlin's beard! Put that wand down, boy," he said gruffly while clambering to his feet. "You could have hurt someone!"
Their wand-light sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous and silver walrus-like mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet smoking jacket that he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
Both Harry and Daphne snorted at Slughorn.
"What gave it away?" He grunted as he staggered, still guarding 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 only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."
Harry and Daphne scowled, now knowing that he could cast the Dark Mark. Harry had heard the spell, of course, but he would never cast it, unless he was setting up a Death Eater!
Horace heaved a great sigh that 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 place; 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, which Harry and Daphne had to dodge; 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 unsmashed grandfather clock. He hoped that Horace had not overheard he and Miss Greengrass.
"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.
Daphne looked quite proud of herself at his declaration.
There was a final plunk from the piano, and then 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. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry and a young blond witch.
"Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore, and to the girl's hand, he held. "Oho!"
"This," said Dumbledore, moving forwards to make the introduction, "is Harry Potter and his betrothed, Daphne Greengrass. Harry and Daphne, 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, the answer's still no, Albus."
He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old times' sake?"
Slughorn hesitated.
"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and Daphne and directed them towards a sofa, not unlike the chair that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep he and Daphne as visible as possible. Certainly, when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry and Daphne sitting very close together.
"Humph," he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. "Here –." He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, and thrust the tray at Harry where he then sank into the cushions of the repaired chair in a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short that they did not touch the floor.
Worse, the young witch and wizard were scrutinizing him like a pair of up-to-no-good Slytherins.
"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked.
"Not so well," said Slughorn at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism, too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue."
Harry almost snorted, and Daphne did.
"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore, while smiling at Daphne. "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 as 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."
Harry nodded at Slughorn as if agreeing, and took a drink.
He certainly had those, thought Harry, while looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates, and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich and fussy old lady.
"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; the sight of them made the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. "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 duffer 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, and 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, and 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 then make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano."
"Ingenious," said Dumbledore casually, as if not discussing breaking and entering, "but it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old duffer 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, the lying bint."
Harry and Daphne chortled, and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked around at them.
"Sorry," Harry said hastily while trying to stop his grin. "It's just – I didn't like her, either."
"None of us did," Daphne haughtily said with an upturned nose and scowl.
Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.
"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once while looking hopeful.
"No, I was wondering whether I might use your loo," said Dumbledore. "Some foods bother me in my old age."
"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the hall."
Dumbledore crossed the room. Once the door had closed behind him there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry and Daphne, and then strode to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.
"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you two," he said abruptly.
Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.
"You look very like your father."
"Yeah, I've been told," said Harry.
"Except for your eyes. You've got –"
"My mother's eyes, yeah." Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing. Here, Daphne took Harry's hand and squeezed it.
"Humph. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn added, in answer to Harry's questioning look. "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. Very cheeky answers I used to get back, too.
"Of course, I had both Helen and Cyrus," Slughorn said and smiled at Daphne. "Smart as a whip, those two!"
"Which was your house?" Harry inquired.
"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. "Oh, now,' he went on quickly, seeing the hint of a frown on Harry's face and wagging a stubby finger at him, "don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done – been in the papers for the last couple of years – died several weeks ago –"
It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held them tight.
"Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole Black family had been in my house, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame – he was a talented boy. I got his brother Regulus when he came along, but I'd have liked the set."
He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.
"Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood she was so good."
"One of my best friends is Muggle-born," said Harry, "and she's one of the best in our year."
"Little high strung, though," Daphne muttered.
"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" said Slughorn.
"Not really," said Harry coldly. "The Sorting Hat thought about placing me in Slytherin."
Slughorn looked down at him in surprise, and Daphne looked surprised as well.
"You mustn't think I'm prejudiced!" He said. "No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her, too – now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course – another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!
"Plus, look at you two! I am happy to see a Gryffindor and Slytherin from two fine families end up together! You two will make history, oh, yes indeed!"
He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants.
"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, and he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. 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 first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"
This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.
"And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?" asked Harry, who could not help from wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.
The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.
"Of course not," he said with a sigh while looking down at Harry. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."
Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.
"Still… the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I'm sure they're very admirable and brave, and all the rest of it, I don't personally fancy the mortality rate –"
"You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts," said Harry, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: it was hard to sympathize with Slughorn's cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats. "Most of the teachers aren't in it, and none of them has ever been killed – well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved, seeing as he was working with You-Know-Who.
"I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore's headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one You-Know-Who's ever feared, isn't he?" Harry went on goading the fat man.
"Don't sell yourself short, Harry," Daphne spoke up. "He carries a good amount of fear over you, too, my dear soon-to-be, husband!"
"Oho!" Slughorn said, clapped his hands together, and winked at Daphne.
Next, Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: he seemed to be thinking over Harry and Daphne's words.
Next came a rather rude farting noise from down the hall, as loud as a fog horn, and they heard two plunks and splashes, which were followed by a drawn-out groan, and what sounded like someone lighting a match.
The two wizards and one witch quickly looked at each other, blushed, and then chortled out loud at what they just overheard.
"Well," Horace said after collecting himself, "yes, it is true that He Who Must Not Be Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore, and you wounded him, greatly, they say," he muttered grudgingly, "and I suppose one could argue that 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 well be safer a little closer to Albus since I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones' death did not shake me… if she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection…"
Finally, Horace built up his nerve, walked over, and leaned down toward Harry and Daphne.
"No matter what happens, you two," Horace whispered, "remember this number. It was seven. That is what he wants besides me teaching, and I am truly sorry for ever discussing that number with Tom. Why, if I had only known..."
Here, Harry and Daphne looked shocked, but then schooled their features, and nodded at the old professor. Harry thought he knew what Horace was alluding to.
Dumbledore re-entered the room and Slughorn jumped up as though he had forgotten he was in the house. He would not let on that he overheard the headmaster dropping two floaters just a few minutes before, or that he had been quietly discussing something with the soon-to-be Potters.
"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said; a nervous look still partly on his face. "You've been a very long time. Upset stomach, have you?"
Daphne couldn't help herself, and let out an unladylike snort.
"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," lied Dumbledore. "I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, Daphne, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."
Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet as he had to get Daphne home. Slughorn seemed taken aback.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one."
"Lost…?"
Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fastening his traveling cloak and Harry and Daphne zipping up their jackets.
"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. "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."
"Yes… well… very gracious… as I say…"
"Goodbye, then."
"Goodbye, Professor," said Harry and Daphne as one.
They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.
"All right, all right, I'll do it!"
Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.
"You will come out of retirement?"
"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be barking mad, but yes."
"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September."
"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.
As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them.
"I'll want a pay raise, Dumbledore, and a better and bigger office!"
Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.
"Well done, you two, well done," said Dumbledore.
"We didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.
"Oh yes, you did. You both showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"
"Er…," Harry muttered.
"Mother and father said he was okay when speaking of him once," Daphne said.
Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not, but if Daphne liked him, well... He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed a little vain, and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch unless he was reading the man wrong.
"Horace," said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, "likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne, himself; he prefers the back seat – more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple, or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office."
Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around him, and twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.
"I tell both of you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against Horace – or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn – but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you both, and both of you would be the jewel of his collection: The Boy Who Lived… or, as they call you these days, the Chosen One, and his extraordinarily talented and cunning wife."
At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard several weeks ago, words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him:
Neither can live while the other survives…
Dumbledore had stopped walking, and they were now level with the church they had passed earlier.
"This will do, you two. If both of you will grasp my arms." (Partly from Chap. 4, HBP)
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! This was pieced together by me from Chap 4 HBP and my work.