Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine - Horace Slughorn
It felt strange, walking by Dumbledore's side. Harry hadn't spoken to the headmaster since Sirius's funeral, though their conversation was not one Harry could easily forget. He wondered about the errand Dumbledore had asked him to perform, and whether this was really where they were headed.
"How long?" he asked abruptly.
Dumbledore directed a curious glance at him, surprised by the direct question.
"Your hand," Harry clarified, gesturing toward the sleeve Dumbledore was using to conceal his injured appendage. "Sirius's injury looked like that. Before he died."
Dumbledore did him the honor of not toying with him. Rather than feign ignorance at Harry's meaning a second time, he softly replied, "A year, I think. Perhaps more."
Harry felt a hard lump in his throat. Not trusting himself to speak, he could only nod. The surge of grief he felt was not for Dumbledore, but for Sirius. His loss was still raw and palpable, and Harry could not think of the headmaster facing the same fate without considering how Sirius must have suffered.
When he trusted himself to speak again, he asked, "What caused it? Another horcrux?"
"In time, Harry. I shall tell you all I know. But for now, keep your wand at the ready."
Now it was Harry's turn to look surprised. Since the murder of Emmeline Vance, he had carried his wand with him at all times, despite being underaged. He could not use magic outside of school, legally, but he could defend himself if necessary. Still, he hadn't expected to need his wand while traveling with the headmaster.
Dumbledore sensed his hesitation, and presently added, "I do not expect we will be attacked tonight. Just a precaution, you understand."
They had reached the low wooden fence that marked the edge of the property line when Dumbledore paused.
"I believe you have not yet passed your Apparition test, Harry?"
"No, sir," Harry replied.
"Very well, I can manage for us both. You won't mind taking my left arm, Harry? As you so astutely observed, my right is a bit fragile."
Still wondering what cursed object must have caused the injury, Harry took the offered arm, and in another moment the world went black. He felt as though he was being pressed from all directions. A tight grip wrapped around his chest. Every part of his body was being compressed, as if he was being forced through a thin tube. He couldn't breathe. Then, just as quickly as it all began, it stopped.
He gasped for air. Gone were the fields and fence of the ramshackle house they'd left behind. They were now standing in a deserted village square. It was still too early for anyone to be out, though their sudden appearance had disturbed a stray cat, who hissed and fled down a side street.
"Are you alright?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry was rubbing his chest. It felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him, but he was in one piece. Shaking his head ruefully, he replied, "You said I inherited everything from Sirius?"
Dumbledore seemed perplexed by the question, but he assented.
"In that case, I think I'd prefer to take his bike next time."
Dumbledore was silent, but when Harry looked into his face, he saw the older man was smiling.
"I think Remus may have some opinions on that. As I recall, he never quite approved of Sirius's flying."
Dumbledore led him through the town square, past a seemingly vacant inn and a few still, silent houses. Harry briefly wondered where they were, but he let the question pass unasked. He didn't really care. His thoughts had once again drifted to his godfather, but he had barely enough time to picture Sirius on the back of his motorcycle, performing complicated aerial tricks, before Dumbledore spoke.
"Harry, if it isn't too rude of me, I would ask if your scar has been hurting?"
Harry's hand reflexively moved to his forehead, though the faint, lightning shaped mark hadn't stung him in weeks. He admitted as much to Dumbledore, who gave a sigh.
"I thought so. Voldemort's stunning failure that the Department of Mysteries must have taught him that the open connection between your minds does more harm than good. He has shut you out."
"His failure?" Harry repeated in a tone of disbelief.
"Certainly," replied Dumbledore, "He failed to obtain the prophecy he had been searching for for months. He was exposed to the greater magical community before it suited his plans. He has had to change those plans as a result. Yes, Harry. You both lost much on that dreadful night. But Voldemort, I am pleased to say, is by far the worst off."
Harry remained silent. He wasn't ready to hear this.
Harry didn't think Voldemort was capable of love. Harry was. He had loved his godfather. He still loved Sirius. While Voldemort had been merely inconvenienced by their misadventure in the Department of Mysteries, Harry had been overwhelmed with grief. How Dumbledore, a wizard said to possess such great wisdom, could miss this point, Harry was at a loss to explain.
They turned up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. The sun was about half-way above the horizon. The windows of each of the homes was still dark, the curtains drawn over most of them. The same chill that had plagued Harry all summer lingered in this little hamlet, too. All was quiet.
While Harry scanned the faces of each house, wondering who they had come to see, he remarked, "You said you wanted my help interviewing a new teacher, but I don't see how I can help."
"I assure you, your presence will be enough," Dumbledore replied vaguely.
At last, they approached a small stone house set in a private garden. Dumbledore stopped at the gate, causing Harry to run into him. The headmaster didn't seem to notice the collision, however.
"Oh dear…" he whispered, his quiet voice perfectly matched with the still and silent morning, "Wand at the ready, Harry."
Harry did not need this reminder. He had kept his wand in his hand the entire time. But at Dumbledore's warning, he glanced at the front of the house and raised his wand higher. The front door was off its hinges.
Dumbledore moved quickly, but silently forward, Harry at his heels. He fleetingly wondered if this was why Dumbledore had requested an escort, but if the headmaster suspected this visit would be dangerous, he could has asked for Remus or Kingsley or any of the other Order members. He didn't need Harry. What use could he have for a teenage boy who could not even apparate by himself?
Across the open threshold, they found a scene of complete destruction. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked and the pendulum thrown across the hall. A grand piano had been overturned, strewing its ebony and ivory keys across the floor. The glittering skeleton of a crystal chandelier was smashed on the ground. Pieces of glass glittered in the light of Dumbledore's wand, which he had lit to get a better look at something red and thick splattered across the wallpaper.
To Harry's shock, Dumbledore tapped his fingertips into this suspicious-looking liquid. He stared in horror as Dumbledore raised his stained fingers to his lips, thinking for a moment that he was about to taste what could only be someone's blood. To his relief, Dumbledore merely sniffed at the substance, shook his head, and advised Harry in a very quiet voice, "Only dragon's blood."
"How can you be sure?" Harry whispered, concerned that whoever had ransacked the house may still be there, listening to their every movement.
"Sulphur," Dumbledore stated simply.
He continued to inspect the room while Harry looked again at the bloodstains. Despite Dumbledore's assurance, he couldn't stare at it for long without a shudder. Turning away, he found that the headmaster had begun inspecting an overstuffed armchair. Harry was about to suggest that whoever they were looking for might have been dragged away by force, when he realized something odd. The chair was the only piece of furniture not slashed or smashed to pieces. In fact, it seemed rather tidy.
Suddenly, Dumbledore plunged the tip of his wand into the plush cushion, and the chair shouted, "Ouch!"
Before Harry's astonished eyes, the armchair reformed itself into a very short, very stout man. The top of his head was completely bald, but he seemed to be compensating for this by a broad silver mustache, which dominated the lower half of his face. Harry gawked as the man adjusted his red velvet smoking jacket fastidiously, noting that the quilted pattern vaguely resembled the armchair's upholstery.
He seemed strangely at ease for someone who had been caught in the act of impersonating a chair, and merely demanded of Dumbledore, "What gave it away?"
Dumbledore smiled. "The Death Eaters would have left the Dark Mark above the house if they had been here, Horace. Now then, would you like any assistance setting things aright?"
"Please."
The two wizards stood back to back, raising their wands in front of their faces as if they were about to begin a duel. Harry stepped back against a wall, unsure what would happen next. He watched as the men swept their arms in a great sweeping motion, neither of them uttering a single incantation.
The effect was almost instantaneous. Toppled furniture flew back to its original places. Shattered knick-knacks reformed in midair before zooming onto their shelves. Feathers fluttered back into cushions, which stitched up their ripped seams before settling back into place. Finally, the chandelier gathered all of its glittering pieces together, and with a loud, twinkling crash, fixed itself into the ceiling once more.
"Shame to waste the dragon's blood," Dumbledore remarked conversationally, as if the whole scenario were quite mundane.
"Noticed that too, did you?" grumbled Horace. "Though you're quite right, and my last bottle, too! Prices are sky-high, at the moment. But perhaps I could salvage it…"
He turned toward a set of glass vials, newly reformed on a silver tray, but before it could take a step forward, he spotted Harry against the wall. His gaze immediately traveled to the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead, and he involuntarily gasped, "Oho!"
"Ah, yes…" Dumbledore remarked carelessly, as if he had entirely forgotten Harry's presence, "Harry, allow me to introduce you to my old friend and colleague, Horace Slughorn. Harry Potter, I think, needs no introduction."
Slughorn's eyes narrowed, his expression shrewd. "So that's how you were planning to convince me, was it? Well, the answer is still no."
"I'm not sure I understand you, Horace," Dumbledore replied, "If you're referring to why I've brought Harry with me at a time like this, the answer is quite simple. His safety is our top priority. Until he returns to Hogwarts, with its added security measures, we regularly change his location. I have been given the honor of escorting Harry to his next destination."
Every word out of Dumbledore's mouth was a lie. Harry hadn't moved all summer, and Dumbledore had expressly asked him to come on this mission. But he said it all so reasonably, Harry could almost forget that they were really trying to recruit Slughorn's services.
Slughorn did not appear easily convinced. Turning away with a scoff, he said, "And I suppose you thought you'd just drop in on your way?"
Dumbledore silently motioned to Harry, guiding him toward a chair facing Slughorn. Harry had the distinct impression that Dumbledore was putting him on display. He felt immensely uncomfortable. Slughorn was trying to avoid looking directly at him, but he had the air of someone avoiding temptation, as if he were on a diet, and Harry was a particularly attractive slice of cake.
"These are dangerous times," Dumbledore continued in the same measured tones, "You cannot blame me for wanting to check on the wellbeing of my old friends. How are you keeping, Horace?"
"Not well," Slughorn replied, "Weak chest, wheezy. Fatigue. Rheumatism. Can't get around like I used to. The fact is, I'm an old man. A tired old man who has earned the right to a few creature comforts."
"You're not yet as old as I am," Dumbledore observed.
"You may want to consider retirement yourself," said Slughorn. Dumbledore's injured hand had not escaped his notice. He nodded toward it now, adding as he did, "Reflexes not what they used to be, I see."
Rather than conceal the injury, Dumbledore shook away his sleeve to reveal his blackened and burned fingers. The sight of them made Harry shudder, and he turned away, overcome with memories of the last person who bore such marks. He stared fixedly at a spot on the floor, listening to Dumbledore's voice as he continued.
"You're quite right, I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand…"
Something in his voice caused Harry to glance up again. Dumbledore had opened his arms wide. What he intended to imply with his words, Harry could only guess. But at his suggestion, Harry looked to his uninjured hand. There was a ring on his finger that seemed out of place with the rest of his appearance. Harry had never seen the headmaster wear a ring before, but there it was. A thick band of gold, clumsily made, with a heavy black stone that was cracked down the middle.
Slughorn appeared to notice the ring as well, for he frowned. Before he could speak, however, Dumbledore continued.
"All these precautions… Are they for the Death Eater's benefit, or for mine?"
"Both," Slughorn replied brusquely, "Not that I've given them a chance to come calling. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place for more than a week. Much like…"
His gaze drifted back to Harry, but upon catching himself, he quickly looked away again, and resumed in a more hurried voice, "Anyway, I've been hopping between Muggle homes. The owners of this house are on holiday in the Canary Islands. It's been very pleasant. Shame to leave it in a few days…"
"Ingenious, though rather tiring for a man in search of rest and relaxation," Dumbledore suggested, "Perhaps there is a better way… Hogwarts, for example…"
"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath!" Horace interrupted, "I've been hearing some funny rumors about how you treat your professors these days, Albus. Take Dolores Umbridge, for instance. A senior secretary to the Minister of Magic himself, yet even she..."
"Ran afoul of the centaurs," Dumbledore concluded, interrupting Slughorn in turn, "I think you, Horace, would have the sense not to walk onto their land and call them a bunch of filthy half-breeds?"
Slughorn's tone changed immediately as he said, "Foul woman, never liked her."
Harry couldn't help himself. The memory of Umbridge, by far his least favorite Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, being dragged away by a herd of angry centaur, caused him to chuckle. It drew Slughorn's attention back to him.
"Sorry," Harry said hastily, though his apology was more for Dumbledore's benefit. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to interrupt their conversation. Sheepishly, he added, "It's just… I didn't like her either."
Dumbledore abruptly stood up. For one moment, Harry was afraid he had made some mistake after all, and that they would be leaving the house unsuccessful in their mission. Instead, Dumbledore asked, "Horace, I wonder whether I might use your bathroom?"
"O-oh…" Slughorn stammered, taken aback by the sudden question, "Of course… Second on the left, down the hall."
Dumbledore strode from the room. The door closed behind him, and there was silence. Slughorn was still on his feet, unsure of what to do with himself. Harry remained seated, though he was equally at a loss. He knew that Dumbledore brought him here to recruit Slughorn. He had said that his presence alone would be helpful. But there was a reason Dumbledore had left them alone like this, and Harry hadn't the slightest idea what he was expected to do now.
Slughorn shot another furtive look at Harry before announcing, "I know why he's brought you here."
"That makes one of us," replied Harry before he could stop himself.
Slughorn's eyes bulged, then he laughed, "That's it! You may look like your father, boy, but you've your mother's wit! And, I must say, her…"
"I have my mother's eyes. I know." Harry said, prickling slightly at the man's familiar tone.
Thankfully, Slughorn did not appear to notice Harry's irritability. He was nodding his head in a thoughtful way, speaking more to himself than to Harry as he continued, "You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course. But she was one of mine. Lily Evans. One of the brightest students I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Absolutely charming. I often told her she should have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back, too…"
"You were head of Slytherin House," Harry intuited. He was beginning to understand Slughorn's character now, and had an inkling as to why Dumbledore had brought him along for this visit.
"Yes, indeed!" Slughorn said proudly, "Though, I suppose with both of your parents being in Gryffindor…"
"I'm in Slytherin," Harry advised.
Slughorn looked very interested now. He was no longer trying to avoid the sight of Harry.
"Are you indeed? I hadn't heard… I had assumed… Well, that should be no surprise! Slytherin House has turned out many a successful witch and wizard, more than any of the other houses, I would say."
"And as many Dark Wizards, or so I hear," Harry replied smoothly.
"Is that any way to talk about the members of your own House?" Slughorn said with a stern waggle of his finger. He was scolding Harry, but it was an just for show. There was still an approving smile on his face as he added, "Are you a Dark Wizard then, as some of the papers claim? Of course not! And for every Dark Wizard that came out of Slytherin, I can find you two more who went on to do great things. Come, I want to show you something…"
Harry obediently rose from his seat, joining Slughorn before the large fireplace. Along the mantle sat an impressive collection of moving photographs, each set in an elaborate silver picture frame. Not a spect of tarnish could be seen, as though Slughorn made sure each frame were regularly polished to perfection.
"All ex-students of mine. All signed," Slughorn declared, puffing up his already considerable chest proudly, "You see Barnabas Cuffe, there? Editor and Chief of the Daily Prophet, and always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And Ciceron Harkiss, a Slytherin as well… I introduced him to Ambrosius Flume, the owner of Honeydukes, you know. Got him his first job, and now he never fails to send a hamper of confections every birthday! Then if you look here, you'll recognize Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies. People are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with each of the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"
"You can't have gone to too many games recently, moving around as you do." Harry suggested. He didn't bother trying to be polite, as Slughorn actually seemed to enjoy his terse comments. But this observation seemed to catch Slughorn off-guard, reminding him of his rather awkward situation just as he had been enjoying his own inflated ego.
"No… No, you're quite right," he said, the smile sliding from his face, "I have been out of touch with everyone for the past year…"
The words seemed to come as a shock to Slughorn himself. He continued to look unsettled for a moment, but then he gathered himself up to his full height, which was not considerable, and declared, "Still, the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times! Let Dumbledore talk, but taking a post at Hogwarts now would be tantamount to declaring my allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix!"
"Would that be so bad?" Harry asked, surprised to hear that Slughorn had heard of the Order, "Everyone says that Dumbledore is the only wizard Voldemort ever feared. Seems like Hogwarts might be the safest place to lay low…"
Slughorn predictably flinched upon hearing Voldemort's name, but he was forced to admit, "Well, yes… It's true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore…"
As if on cue, Dumbledore reentered the room, accompanied by the sound of the newly restored grandfather clock chiming in the hall.
"I'm afraid I lost track of time," he said apologetically, "I was reading a few of those delightful Muggle magazines. I am quite fond of knitting patterns, you see. But Harry and I must push on, now. Very sorry to have disturbed you, Horace…"
Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten Dumbledore was in the house.
"You're leaving?" he asked.
"Oh yes, we've already lingered far too long. I have promised to return Harry before breakfast, and if I do not present him to Edana Zabini soon, I will have to face her wrath."
"Hang on, what's Zabini got to do with this?" Slughorn sputtered.
"She's my guardian," Harry advised, already joining Dumbledore in the hall.
"So sorry you don't want the job, Horace," Dumbledore continued, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute, "Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again, but I can tell you won't be swayed. I know a lost cause when I see one."
"Lost…?" muttered Slughorn.
"Bye, then," Harry said, gazing at Slughorn's bemused face once more before turning with Dumbledore to leave.
"Now, just hang on a moment!" Slughorn shouted, "All right, I'll do it! I must be mad, but you've twisted my arm, Albus!"
Dumbledore partially turned toward him, a look of polite surprise on his face, "You mean you'll come out of retirement?"
"Yes, yes… But I'll want a raise, Albus!"
"Wonderful," Dumbledore replied, beaming, "Then we shall see you on the first of September?"
"I daresay you will," Slughorn growled.
A moment later, and Harry and Dumbledore were back on the street, walking quickly through the little village once more. Here and there, window sashes were being thrown open as the inhabitants of the neat houses along the road began to wake. Harry's stomach was growling, and he hoped that they would soon be enjoying some of Mrs. Weasley's cooking.
"Well done, Harry," Dumbledore said as they threaded their way back from whence they came.
Harry didn't reply. Privately, he didn't think he had done much at all. He knew what he said to Slughorn had mattered very little. It was clear what his role had been. He was the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. An interesting anecdote for Slughorn to share with his famous friends. Dumbledore had used him as bait, and nothing more.
As though reading his thoughts, Dumbledore continued, "You showed Horace exactly how much he has to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"
"Do you want me to like him?" Harry replied.
"Ah…" Dumbledore sighed, appearing to understand Harry's meaning, "You are perhaps wondering what hidden motive I had in inviting you to accompany me today? I don't blame you for your suspicion, Harry. While I insist that your presence was very helpful in convincing Horace to return to Hogwarts, there is more I would ask of you…
"You've no doubt noticed that Horace enjoys the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He has a knack for selecting those who are talented or well-connected, and will excel in their chosen field. He likes feeling as though he has influence over these people, and enjoys the benefits of their friendships."
"Like a collector," Harry remarked, thinking of the arrangement of silver picture frames on the mantelpiece.
"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded, "Your task then is very simple. Get close to Horace. Become his friend. Allow yourself, in a word, to be collected ."
There it was. He was bait again. Harry felt his skin crawl at the idea, but he appreciated Dumbledore's honestly. Only one question remained.
"Why?"
"All in good time," Dumbledore said. They had reached the town square once more, and the headmaster offered his arm to Harry, "For now, we mustn't dawdle. I wouldn't want to keep Edana waiting."