"Good morning, Professore. Come in, come in."

Horace Slughorn smiled at the black-clad witch who ushered him into a comfortable, if shabby, sitting room. Though his stomach tensed with nervousness about the purpose of his visit, his mouth couldn't help but water when he noticed the pastries set out on the sideboard.

"Something to drink, Professore? May I offer you a cup of tea? Or, maybe you try an espresso?"

"An espresso, if you please," Horace said.

He tapped his fingers, growing more nervous, as his hostess busied herself in the kitchen. His hair – had it got mussed when he Apparated? He pulled out a small mirror and straightened it. His bright yellow hair and mustache looked well in these blue robes, he thought. Never mind that they weren't Slytherin colors.

Horace's eyes roamed the room, eyes glancing over dozens of family photographs. Among the witches and wizards in archaic robes were the same four figures, repeated up and down the walls. A black-haired witch and a wizard with curly, blond hair, holding blanketed bundles. The same couple, tossing infant twins into the air and catching them. The twins, a boy and a girl, passing a toy back and forth, laughing. Toy broomstick rides. Teddy bear fights. Quidditch game outings. Visits to Hogsmeade and Gringotts. Their first chocolate frogs. The twins, framed by cakes with increasing numbers of candles that they blew out together. And, always, the same doting parents. Waving goodbye to the twins on the Hogwarts Express. Welcoming them home to a massive Christmas feast, packed with grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles and – was that old Misapinoa?

Among the photographs, dominating the montage, was a large portrait of the father, framed in black.

His dread at the conversation ahead of him only increased.

To quiet his nerves, he looked over the pastries – hills of pignoli and mostaccioli – he hadn't had those since his trip to the continent in '26. And he hadn't found a bakery in England to match them. He needed to revisit Italy. It had been far too long – nearly ten years. There were reports, true, of dangers. Talk that the Muggles would get to fighting once again, mucking up the countryside. Rumors, too, that Grindelwald was working rather more closely with some of the Muggles than you might expect. Horace didn't believe it for a second. What were those big, clamshell-shaped pastries, he wondered? He imagined biting into the crackle-thin layers. Crumbs would be inevitable, but… surely, the Signora wouldn't mind?

His hostess returned and poured out the espresso into a tiny cup. "Sugar?" she asked.

"No, grazie," he replied. He'd get all the sweetness he could from the pastry. Balance was what Horace appreciated most. The brightness, acidity, and sweetness of candied pineapple. The spice and honey in his warm mead.

"Oh! You speak Italian very well," she said.

He chuckled and told her, "Very poorly indeed, I'm afraid. Took a tour of Rome, Florence, and Tuscany a few years ago. With my dear friend, Roderick Bagnold. He worked with your late husband, I believe?"

She murmured a polite acknowledgement, but her smile didn't reach her red-rimmed eyes. The pupils opened wide as they scanned his face, flickering like a candle. She was afraid.

Horace wanted to put her at ease. This would be a difficult conversation as it was, without her breaking down. He dreaded the thought of offending such a well-connected witch at this delicate stage of his career. Only a few years into his work in the Potions department and Head of Slytherin, with time, he could take over as head of the department. Horace had many ideas for the possible perks of his work training young minds. He dithered over the pastry selection, loading her with compliments, asking her about the origin of each. The sfogliatelle turned out to be filled with ricotta, a delightful surprise. And – was that anise he tasted?

"Did you bake these yourself?" he asked.

She shook her head. "The baker is a professional, a witch. A friend from Campania. She sells to Muggles primarily. More money in it, she says. Wizards are … shall we say, slow to adapt?" Her gaze held a challenge, as if he would dream of casting aside such delicious wares simply a Muggle might have breathed on them.

"These are so delicious that as many people should eat them as possible," he said. "Good food unites all peoples." He concealed his joy when she named the bakery, tucked away on a side street in London. He didn't want to appear too greedy. Horace didn't mind rubbing elbows with Muggles. A Slytherin ought to not mind a little unpleasantness in pursuit of a goal. Indeed, he kept several nice suits for such occasions and might have time for a little visit directly after this one.

He hated this. He wanted nothing more than to, once again, offer his condolences on the loss of her husband three years ago, and to leave. Inwardly, he cursed Albus and his paranoid fancies.

Patting his lips, Horace plastered a benevolent smile on his face. His hostess returned it, the picture of stoic grief.

"There have been concerns raised, again, about –"

"It's Wendy. I know, I know, ma – I thought her writing had improved. She told me her marks are higher this year, and that she's nearly best in her class."

Horace had heard enough students throw out distractions to recognize this for what it was. "Wendy? No, I should say not - Wendy is fine. Her spelling on her homework much improved – although it's still fairly bad on exams – and I think she has a bright future ahead of her."

Wendy was impressive. If one overlooked the shocking spelling and grammar mistakes, her clarity of thought sparkled on the page, and she never failed to make her point or to entertain. With a good editor, she'd lead the next generation of authors. Horace intended to tap Wendy for a new club he had in mind – one that could connect bright, young witches and wizards with each other – and to himself - regardless of House or parentage.

"It's Wilbert," Horace continued. "There have been concerns raised about his abilities."

"With the new wand, you said he was doing better. If he could … only practice here some more, on the holidays." Her lips were tight. "I thought we took care of this, three years ago. My husband told me of your concerns then, and had thought the matter settled."

"Ye-es. He did show considerable improvement in his Second Year." That hadn't been hard to do, considering young Wilbert had failed every practical portion of his exams his First Year. He had only been allowed to continue due to his command of the theory on the written exams, and due to the advocacy from the Herbology and Astronomy professors.

Horace had recommended a new wand, at his first meeting with Wilbert's parents. Wainwright Slinkhard, a jovial diplomat from the Department of International Magical Co-operation, had led the conversation and had agreed with Slughorn on every point. Wilbert had arrived at school with a new wand. Horace had been relieved to hear that Wilbert's first Charms and Transfiguration classes had earned him points for Slytherin. Yet, Albus continued to pester the Headmaster with his unreasonable concerns.

He forged ahead. "The new wand seems to be adequate, but only just. In classes, the lad can perform the spells, it seems, but not on any consistent basis. The faculty are … concerned about his chances of passing any OWL requiring a wand." There, he'd said it. Message delivered.

Signora Slinkhard shook her head and gestured. "Impossible, that he should fail. He passed his last year examinations, he passed this year examinations, and he shall pass the OWL's."

Horace grimaced. "The OWL's … they have a high standard. It won't be enough for him to get by on the written portions. Even if he performs one or two spells correctly, he'll need to demonstrate high competency to earn an "Acceptable." It's a matter of safety, Signora. The Ministry cannot permit possession of wands to those who don't have full control of their magical abilities."

"He can do it, he has control – just, his nerves, sometimes..."

"But that's just the problem, you see. It's absolutely forbidden to give him Calming Draught, or any other potion, prior to the examinations." Horace closed his eyes. "The students are tested for these substances, and they are monitored closely prior to and during the testing period to ensure there is no cheating." He swallowed. "Furthermore, each student is tested alone." There had been concern that some of Wilbert's wandwork might have been done by Wendy, secretly helping at his side. If Mafalda thinks they're trading wands, then tell her to separate them, he'd told Albus, Deputy Headmaster and Head of the Transfiguration Department. He did not tell Albus his true thought, Mafalda Hopkirk is a ninny who bores the students to tears and hasn't the foggiest notion regarding classroom management.

"I am given to understand," Horace said, trying to shift the conversation slightly, "that many students and their families believe that passing a single OWL permits them to continue at Hogwarts after their Fifth Year."

Her face was a polite blank.

"This," he continued, "is not the case. While Wilbert's mark in History of Magic and Ancient Runes are a testament to his intelligence – I expect he'll earn Outstandings in both - he must achieve at least an Acceptable in one of the wand-based subjects to continue at Hogwarts to NEWT-level work. An Acceptable is needed in one of the following subjects to have full rights as a wizard as an adult. Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Transfiguration. At least one."

"I thank you for your concern, Professore, but Wilbert will be fine."

Horace pinched a crumb off his robes and returned it to his plate. "There have been, at times, exceptions made. These exceptions have, invariably, been for those achieving an Outstanding in Potions." Wilbert's potions routinely failed. And failed in rather disturbing ways. "With that in mind, Signora, I attempted to tutor Wilbert this year. As you know."

"Potions – a difficult subject, Professore," she said. "Easy to make a mistake."

"Yes." He sighed. "And he does make mistakes. But." The results of those mistakes are not what they should be. For a wizard. "The results of those mistakes are … unexpected." His potions look like a pot of water loaded with magical detritus. "All the students make mistakes – no one's a Potions Master at age fourteen." However highly Jenny Stebbins might think of herself. "But Wilbert's potions …." He couldn't say it. They don't look like potions at all.

Another tack. "I am ashamed to admit it, but Wilbert has been being bullied at school. Even in his own dormitory. In my House." He sighed. "I have tried, again and again, to put a stop to it. But even with his improved performance after First Year, there have been … persistent rumors … that he is a Squib." He'd said it. He'd said the word. Thankfully, she wasn't going for her wand. "He seems incapable of defending himself from the mildest attacks, and at his age, he should have more defensive abilities. I'm not just concerned for his examinations, you know – it's for his safety." His First Year, there had been concerns he might have entered Hogwarts as a secret Obscurial. But after four years with no injurious outbursts of magic, there could only be two possibilities: he was a wizard, or he was a Squib. If, after years of being rumored to be a Squib, Wilbert failed his OWL's – it would be confirmed, and in public. And Horace, the young fool who'd failed to notice a Squib infiltrating his own House? The thought was even more unbearable than offending his family. Better for Slinkhard to exit quietly, as soon as he could.

"Impossibile. No." She shook her head. "No è magonò."

"Signora, is there anything you haven't told me? It will be alright, you know. If Wilbert is … you know … there are options. There are jobs available in the wizarding world for him," cleaning and serving, "and if he doesn't like those, he could still learn enough about the Muggle world to thrive there."

"To thrive?" The Signora laughed. "To thrive."

A silence fell.

"My Wilbert will pass his examinations," she said. "Because. He is. A wizard." She sniffed. "His stammer – so hard to pronounce those charms. And Transfiguration is difficult for most children. But, Professore, these bullies. If Wilbert were to … attack them. He would be sent away?"

Horace blinked and flushed. "As his Head of House, I have discretion over the punishments for infractions of that kind. Were they to take place within Slytherin House. However, I would advise Wilbert against retaliation. If he were to attack, he must always prepare to withstand future assaults."

The Signora was right. Wilbert was a lackluster wizard, better on paper than in practice. There were many such. He performed enough magic in class to show he was no Obscurial. That was Albus' whole problem – he'd always taken a narrow view of what talent entailed. Wilbert was bad at wandwork, so Wilbert must be a Squib, or worse. Preposterous.

Horace shoved aside the bubbling memories of Wilbert's cauldrons, full of wasted ingredients.

After a little more polite conversation, he took his leave.

How could it have been possible, anyway? Duplicating Wendy's letter wouldn't put her brother on the list in the Deputy Headmaster's office. And he had improved in class. He wasn't the first student to flub his exams.

It wasn't possible.

There was a book. Deep in the heart of Hogwarts Castle. It kept a careful list of students with magical abilities, as soon as a child demonstrated accidental magic. Could it be tampered with? Even Horace didn't know where it was kept. The letters were sent out automatically, based on the recorded names and the age of the students.

He strolled along the base of the castle. High up, there was a tawny owl perched on an open archway. Small.

He couldn't investigate.

Didn't even have a broom. And if he did, he'd never fit through that arch.

Accio scroll. Accio book. Nothing. Of course – can't tamper with ancient magic so easily. Horace walked away, pleased. Another thought. Accio quill.

A massive ostrich feather floated down through the sky. He twirled it, thinking. He had to see the book, see Wilbert's name for himself. He sent the feather back through the archway.

Not now, though. Too many students strolling about the grounds today.

Horace's mouth watered as he approached the bakery. Even several doors down, the scent of butter and sugar lifted his spirits, lending a touch of magic to the dreary day. Ducking into the shop, he found himself in line behind several other customers. At first, he thought them all to be Muggles, when he recognized the profile and bronze paisley cravat of Joram Tuttleby, Head of the Department of Mysteries. Trust old Joram to know a good bakery. He took the opportunity to greet this esteemed colleague.

"Your usual, Signore?" The baker, a slight, faded woman, readied a box. Unlike Signora Slinkhard, who had lived the life of a diplomat's wife, the baker spoke with a strong accent.

"The usual, yes, please. That and a half pound of the leaf biscuits. I've got my grandchildren visiting today." Joram replied.

Horace caught his breath. Joram's grandchildren … his son had married a famous Quidditch player, hadn't he? Could he take the chance of approaching Joram here? Several other customers, likely Muggles by their clothes and hairstyles, separated Horace from the man he'd like to impress. He could hardly strike up a conversation. Horace straightened his waistcoat and gave his watch chain a quick shine with his handkerchief. He'd give Joram a genteel nod on his way out of the store.

The baker tied up Joram's box with red and white string.

Horace had planned to bring these to his club meeting later that day, but perhaps they'd be wasted on the children. He needed to find out what all these delicious treats tasted like, first. Then, he'd host a special party, invite a few of his old school fellows, the Hogwarts faculty, one or two celebrities. Hold it in the bleak time of the year. Call it A taste of Italy. Get everyone's spirits cheered by the flavors of a sun-drenched clime. Today, he'd get two of everything. The Headmaster appreciated the finer things in life. He'd surely be happy to help Horace with his little tasting.

The other customers made their purchases and departed, ringing the cluster of brass bells with each swing of the door.

He and the baker were alone in the store. He wanted her to know he was a wizard, not an ordinary customer. "Buon giorno," he said. "I heard of your most excellent shop from a parent of my students. I believe you know Signora Slinkhard? Her children attend my school…Hogwarts."

The baker smiled. "Si, I know Genovefa well." She reached into the register and pulled out a Galleon. "You pay with these, if you prefer."

"That would be most convenient, I thank you." He placed his order, and as she began to fill a box, he explained his idea for a party. "What kind of wine would you recommend with these?"

"Dessert wine, like Asti Spumanti, is okay. But I think the cakes, they taste better with a coffee. Maybe with a little grappa?"

Dippet would expect sherry, he knew. Or port. Coffee… he thought his mother might have that nice old silver coffee and tea service in the attic somewhere. He'd pay her a little visit this morning, look around for the old thing. His mother wouldn't fancy these Muggle-tainted, foreign cakes, though. He'd buy his mother's favorite pumpkin pasties, and surprise her over tea. Tea. He'd have to provide tea at the club meeting as well.

The baker had finished packing his order. Horace flicked through his coins, pulling out Galleons and sickles. His eyes fell on the little cluster of photos behind the register. A young man, little more than a boy, posed in uniform, a high cap perched on his head. The frame and the mat around it were black.

His mind drifted to Carolus. He'd begged him not to go, not to join the madness of the Muggle war sweeping over the world. But Carolus, a Half-Blood, had non-magical brothers who were shipping out to Belgium, and it was unthinkable for him to hang back. "The War will be over in a matter of months, Horace," he'd said. "I'll keep my brothers safe, and then I'll be back at Hogwarts by Christmas. What are NEWTs when I've a family to protect?" His Protego had kept them all safe from the bullets and shells for a while, but he hadn't been able to cast the Bubble-head Charm in time to save himself from the mustard gas. None of them had come back.

The boy in the baker's frame had a different uniform. They'd been on different sides, back then.

"Your brother?" he asked.

She shook her head. Her eyes misted over, distant. "My friend. We were all children together, Genovefa, Rinaldo, me. But he was … not like us. A magonò. His family send him away. My parents say to stay away, but Genovefa and I, we stay friends with him, in secret. Then one day, all the Muggle boys of the village are gone." She paused. "I find out where they have gone on their trucks. Genovefa and I follow. And we learn, on the first day of this … war … our friend is dead. His body, blown apart. We search the battlefield, looking, looking. But, nothing left from the bombs and the rats to bring home to bury." Her eyes were dry, but her face twisted at the bitterness of the memory.

Horace swallowed. He reached out and squeezed the back of her hand. "My friend, as well, went to war to protect his brothers, but never returned."

"You know what they call this war?" she asked.

"The Great War? The War to End All Wars?"

"They call it that." She tied a tight knot around Horace's pastry box. "Il Duce has other ideas, I think."

The bells jangled behind Horace as he walked back out into the rain. His fellow wizards had pretended to themselves the War wasn't happening, that it was just the usual Muggle insanity. Even as supplies had run short, and more black frames appeared on their walls, they had tried to make it seem like life was carrying on as usual. Horace would wager most of his students didn't even know about the War. The smell of sugar and butter wafted up from the box he held, but other odors invaded his mind.

Well-cloaked against the cool night, Horace flew up to the niche, miserable to be perched on the broom. He'd waited until the lights had gone out in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers. He couldn't take the chance of being seen by anyone.

Only an owl could fit through the glassless window, but he could see inside quite well. The low, round stone room held a single, heavy desk with an inkwell, the quill, and the tome over which it hovered.

The tome was fixed to the desk, so he ended up having to Summon the entire desk over. It required shifting the material of the floor, but he got it done.

Flicking back, through page after page, he tried to remember his conversation with Wilbert's father. Wilbert and Wendy got their letters on the same day – in early May before they turned eleven. If their names were both in the book, that would be no surprise. Could the Signora have Duplicated the letters? Perhaps. Wilbert did his magic first, age three. Knocked over his sister's chair. The father hadn't witnessed it, though. He'd heard about it from the mother.

What if it was a lie?

Genovefa had more cause than most to fear her son being cast out into the Muggle world.

Misapinoa Black. Horace wasn't sure her connection to the family – but a Black in the family tree generally meant only one response was acceptable for a Squib. A Black couldn't be permitted to mop the floors of the Wizarding World. Misapinoa would have been suspicious of Genovefa's origins. She'd have made comments, perhaps demanded proof that Wilbert and Wendy were up to her family standards. And… there had been that sizable inheritance she had left. He shook his head. What was he thinking? That Genovefa had faked Wilbert's early magic to ensure an inheritance? With Slinkhard's Ministry job, there would have been no need.

Horace's mind spun with possible motives. His broom bobbled and his hair brushed against the stone arch of the window as he scanned the book.

There. He let out a relieved breath, looking down at the page. THERE. Wilbert Slinkhard. And. Yes, there it was, farther down the page. Wendy Slinkhard. Everything appeared to be in order.

So. Albus had been wrong. Wilbert was simply a lackluster spellcaster.

But what if? Horace flipped the pages back to where the names went only a quarter of the way down the page. He attempted to write in the book. The ink failed to absorb. Good. He hadn't gone mad. He hadn't let a Squib get a Hogwarts education, right under his nose. And anyway, wouldn't the Sorting Hat have said something?

He'd kept his finger on the page where Wilbert's name was written. He flipped back to it, just to reassure himself. Albus had got in his head, was what it was. So clever, Albus. And so reluctant to think anything good of Slytherins.

Wilbert Slinkhard. The year and month were written at the top of each page. The handwriting was the same. The lines of names were evenly spaced. There was no sign of tampering. The boy was a wizard, full stop.

Except.

Horace's mouth went dry. Were his eyes fooling him in the moonlight, or did the ink of Wilbert Slinkhard look ever so slightly paler than the rest? Faded, somehow?

He looked again, squinting and craning his neck this way and that, uncomfortable on his seat outside the window. No. It must be a trick of the light. Or the inkwell occasionally ran low.

The names were there. That was enough, surely.

A warm June sun lit the dust motes in the Headmaster's office.

"You see, Headmaster," Horace said. "All appears to be in order. You can fly up to the tower to read his name in the book, if you like."

Headmaster Dippet snorted. "No need, Horace. I trust you well enough, and I'm not interested in pursuing this further. I commend your diligence in pursuing this matter."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I will endeavor to ensure Slinkhard passes his OWL's next year. Unfair as it may be, students always assume that those … slower to learn … are Squibs."

Dippet turned to Albus. "Satisfied? Let that be an end to it." Dippet hadn't waited to hear Albus' reply. "If the boy's mother, and his Head of House, insist on his continuing, I see no reason to bar him. It's up to him to study enough to pass the OWLs. And if he does fail – he won't be the first, or the last student, to shame himself." Dippet leaned back in his chair with a far-off look in his rheumy eyes. "You're both so talented, you know. As students, you wouldn't have noticed how so many struggle to do the simplest feats. It's our job, gentlemen, to teach the students in our care, not to go hunting for reasons to cast out those we outshine."

Albus stroked his long, red beard. Horace thought the beard a silly affectation – it was wispy, and he didn't condition it properly. Was he hiding a weak chin? Horace couldn't remember ever seeing Albus, who was several years his senior, without facial hair. The Transfiguration Professor looked unhappy and uncertain.

"I am not, in fact, satisfied, Headmaster. If Slinkhard is a Squib," Albus said, "it follows that there has been a concerted effort to cheat the school. Someone is performing the magic for him, in class, and on our exams. What message do we send our students, if we turn a blind eye to possible fraud?"

"What message do we send joining a persecuting throng?" Horace snapped. "He's caused no problems, other than serving as a Hexing Dummy for half the school. He's broken no rules. Anyway, how could it even work? His name's in the book, he received his letter, the Hat Sorted him. If he weren't in Slytherin, would you be so suspicious? Half of Hufflepuff struggles along, same as he."

"No – they struggle to control their magic. Their transfigurations are off the mark, but they do something. When Wilbert holds a wand – nothing happens at all. Except for the days that Wendy is ill, or seemingly loses her abilities."

Dippet glared at him. "Enough, Albus. I will work with the Ministry, as always, to ensure that all exams are secure. If you're so concerned that Wendy is helping her brother, I will request two examination rooms for next year's OWL's, so they can be taken simultaneously. Given the considerable size of their class, it shouldn't be difficult to justify."

It was mid-July, and Horace had ventured into the heat of London for the early discounts on Potions ingredients.

"What do you mean, the price is up to three Sickles the ounce?" he blustered.

"I'm terribly sorry, Professor," the shopkeeper said, feigning a regret he surely didn't feel. "But I can hardly keep the stuff on the shelf. Demand goes up, supply stays the same, price goes up, sure as the sun."

Horace grimaced and ran a hand over his mustache. "Three pounds, then," he sighed. He'd have to find another supplier. Maybe one on the continent, if it came to that. He'd be glad of an excuse to make another tour.

For some reason, Signora Slinkhard floated into Horace's mind. Wilbert was a family name. What if it was possible, if not to write in the book, to move an old name to the head of the list? Horace shook his head, irritated with himself. He was far too imaginative. He'd be better served to focus on the here and now.

The shopkeeper measured out the boomslang skins neatly, making sure that none of the strips lost any scales.

The air smelled surprisingly pleasant in the apothecary's shop. Generally reeking of pickled innards and cockroaches, today it smelled of sugar and butter, with a hint of anise.

One year later, Wilbert Slinkhard sat his OWL's. His essays on the days he took Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts showed rather unusual turns of phrase and several grammatical errors, but showed good command of the subject matter. As the essays were only a minor component of these subjects, he managed passing grades, and the examiners raised no concerns with the Hogwarts faculty. His "A's" on the wand-based subjects were unremarkable – dozens of other students performed similarly. He earned O's in Astronomy, History of Magic, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures, and enrolled in these subjects at NEWT-level.

Wilbert Slinkhard learned a great deal during his seven years at Hogwarts. His Runes and History textbooks were dry, but his extracurricular readings taught him of hedge-witches and swamp wizards, those of weak (or no) magic who had once been welcomed at Hogwarts. Partnering with cats. Seeing magical Beings and Beasts, however dimly. The Sorting Hat had assessed his character, not his power. Wilbert also learned how it felt to be hit with Hexes and Jinxes. If someone threw the anti-Jellylegs Jinx, claiming to help him, his legs stiffened with painful spasms. The anti-Bee Sting Jinx puckered his skin and left it so numb he dribbled pumpkin juice down his front. The anti-Slippery Jinx stuck his fork and knife to his hand, and he was docked Points and assigned detention when he tried to take Hogwarts cutlery from the Great Hall. He became an author, at one point working on commission from the Ministry of Magic to write textbooks for the modern age. Wilbert had learned to bide his time, which is to say, patience.

Wendy Slinkhard became very, very good at brewing upper-level potions. She learned that people were eager to believe whatever made their lives easier. If she resented sharing so much with her twin, she never showed it. When War broke out again, as her mother had predicted, Grindelwald had ensured this was not a War her people could ignore. Wendy used her quill and her wand to fight, and she remained a proud member of the earliest iteration of the Slug Club. Wendy had learned how to fight, and how to hide. If Voldemort ever wished to recruit the Slinkhards, he found them too much trouble to locate.

Horace resented the time he'd spent hunting down a possible Squib, rather than cultivating the best minds and talents Hogwarts had to offer. In the future, he chose to not look too closely, and to avoid unpleasant conversations. A few years later, when Albus raised concerns about another, far more impressive Slytherin, he discounted Albus' warnings. He learned to ignore his own mind's whispers of skepticism.

Albus learned that Squibs – for he never changed his opinion regarding Wilbert - were more capable than he'd ever thought possible. He would go on to hire at least two Squibs, Arabella Figg and Argus Filch. They served as his spies, although they didn't always notice the most critical details. They served as guardians, although those they were guarding might not have felt so protected. Albus regretted having trusted Armando Dippet and Horace Slughorn quite so much. He learned to keep his suspicions - and his investigations – to himself.