Chapter 12


30th of August, 1991
Some fucking random village, Geography is not my forte

Horace Slughorn ambled down the quaint village lane, his portly frame wobbling comically with each step. His cheerful whistling filled the air, a jaunty tune that seemed to bounce off the cobblestone path. His round face was a picture of contentment, cheeks rosy from the brisk autumn air, and his walrus-like mustache twitched in time with his melody. His bald head gleamed under the late afternoon sun, and his eyes twinkled with a mischievous light. Clutched in his chubby hand was a jar of Nutella, from which he scooped generous dollops with his finger, savoring the creamy, chocolatey delight. "Ah, Muggles truly are ingenious!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips in delight as he licked the remnants from his finger.

Horace's attire was a sight to behold—an oversized tweed coat that struggled to contain his ample girth, with buttons threatening to pop at any moment. His trousers were held up by a pair of strained suspenders that looked like they were doing a monumental job. His gait was more of a waddle than a walk, each step causing his frame to jiggle absurdly. The image of a jovial walrus on two legs wasn't far from the truth, especially with his mustache quivering like whiskers and his bright, bulbous nose completing the picture.

As he approached his small, cozy cottage nestled amidst blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges, a prickle of unease ran down his spine. The contrast between the homely exterior and the knot of anxiety forming in his stomach was stark. He stopped whistling, his jovial expression replaced by one of cautious suspicion. His fingers twitched, ready to unsheath his wand. He scanned his surroundings, noting that all his protective spells and alarms were intact. Yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding. One had to be paranoid when one was Horace Slughorn.

Opening the door slowly, he stepped inside with a wary eye. The hallway was empty; everything seemed in place. With a flick of his wand, the lights flickered on. He jumped back, nearly dropping his precious Nutella.

In his salon, lounging comfortably on a plush armchair and smoking a cigar, was none other than Albus Fucking Dumbledore. Not just any Dumbledore, but the newly transformed, physically imposing version of the legendary wizard. Gone was the frail, grandfatherly figure. In his place sat a man who exuded raw power and confidence. His crisp white shirt was stretched taut over his muscular torso, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The suspenders that held up his dark trousers emphasized his broad shoulders and chest, giving him the air of a formidable 1920s gangster - not that Horace had met many, but he was a fan of muggles movies. And he liked a lot Emily in Paris. His neat beard framed a face that was both chiseled and rugged, his eyes sharp and piercing beneath neatly styled short hair.

"Hello, Horace," Dumbledore greeted, his voice smooth and calm, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He took a drag from his cigar, the ember glowing brightly before he exhaled a plume of smoke that curled lazily in the air, morphing into the shape of feet before dissipating.

Horace's mind raced. He had heard through his extensive network about Dumbledore's startling transformation. The wizarding world buzzed with tales of how Dumbledore had humiliated Malfoy, the whispers of Voldemort's possible return, and the awe-inspiring new look of the Hogwarts Headmaster. Whispers and rumors had filled the air, each more fantastical than the last. Some said he had found a way to turn back time, others whispered of ancient rituals and forbidden potions. For Horace, who had prided himself on his independence and his ability to thrive without attaching himself to a patron, the transformation of Dumbledore was unsettling. He had always managed to survive comfortably, leveraging his vast network and exchanging favors, avoiding the need to pledge loyalty to any one figure. So…why did Albus come here ?

"Albus! You... you gave me quite a fright!" Horace stammered, trying to steady his racing heart. He hastily put the Nutella jar on a nearby table, nearly knocking over a vase in his fluster.

Dumbledore chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Apologies, my dear Horace. It seems my presence is a bit more... startling these days." His eyes wandered around the room, noticing the decor for the first time. His eyebrows arched in mild surprise as he took in the various framed pictures adorning the walls—feet, feet, and more feet, each more detailed than the last.

Horace reddened, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "It's a private place! I can put whatever I want inside!" he muttered defensively, avoiding Dumbledore's amused gaze.

Dumbledore's smirk widened, but he said nothing, merely taking another drag from his cigar, the ember casting a warm glow on his chiseled features. The smoke again twisted into the shape of feet before dissipating. "Indeed, Horace. Your home is your sanctuary," he said diplomatically, the smoke curling from his lips in lazy spirals.

"May I sit?" Horace asked, gesturing to a chair opposite Dumbledore, eager to change the subject.

"Of course," Dumbledore replied, waving a hand. "It's your home, after all."

Horace plopped down into the plush chair opposite Dumbledore, his bulk settling in with a soft thud. His mind raced as he tried to regain his composure and control of the conversation. He prided himself on his social intelligence, his ability to navigate even the most complex social landscapes with ease. This was, after all, his domain, and he intended to steer the dialogue with the deftness of a seasoned politician.

"Would you care for some tea, Albus?" Horace offered, his voice steadying as he reached for the teapot on the table. He poured two cups with practiced elegance, the fragrant steam curling up into the air. "I recently acquired this blend from a delightful little shop in Diagon Alley. Quite the exquisite flavor."

Dumbledore accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Thank you, Horace. I'm sure it will be delightful."

Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Horace leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. "So, Albus, what brings you to my humble abode this evening? Surely not just a social call."

Dumbledore's expression grew serious, the playful light in his eyes dimming. He set down his cup and leaned back in his chair, his gaze piercing. "Tom Riddle," he said simply.

Horace's reaction was immediate and uncharacteristically clumsy. He sputtered, sending a spray of tea across the table and onto his favorite framed picture of feet. Panic surged through him as he grabbed a napkin, frantically trying to blot the liquid from the cherished image.

"Use your wand, Horace. You're a wizard," Dumbledore reminded him gently, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Flustered, Horace fumbled for his wand and with a quick flick, dried the picture and cleaned up the mess. He took a deep breath, composing himself once more, though his heart still raced at the mention of the name that haunted so many of his thoughts.

"Tom Riddle," Horace repeated, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of fear and curiosity. "What about him, Albus? And why me?" He gulped, his mind racing through all the possible reasons Dumbledore would seek him out. Did Dumbledore know something? He forced a laugh, trying to mask his anxiety. "I was only one of his teachers, after all. Just one in a long line of professors..."

Dumbledore made a subtle gesture, his golden ring catching the light. Horace's eyes widened as he recognized the rare artifact—could it be a spatial ring? The gem within the ring shimmered with an ethereal glow, and from it appeared a magnificent diadem. It was breathtaking—a delicate creation of silver, intricately adorned with dazzling blue sapphires and inscribed with ancient runes that seemed to glow with their own inner light. The centerpiece was a radiant sapphire, surrounded by smaller gemstones that reflected the light in a dazzling array of colors. Upon closer inspection, Horace noticed the diadem bore the stylized crest of Ravenclaw: an eagle in mid-flight, wings outstretched and clutching a scroll, the house's symbol for wisdom and knowledge.

"Is that..." Horace began, his voice filled with awe and reverence. "Is that what I think it is?"

Dumbledore smiled, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Indeed, Horace. It's Ravenclaw's Diadem."

Horace's hands trembled with excitement and trepidation, totally forgetting about the mention of Riddle. "May I touch it?" he asked, his gaze locked on the diadem, unable to tear his eyes away from the artifact's beauty.

"You may," Dumbledore replied, "as long as you do not wear it. And you must make a magical vow not to speak of it before I leave."

Horace's excitement was momentarily dampened by a flicker of annoyance. He had wanted to tell all his allies about this discovery—such a game-changing revelation! But Dumbledore knew him too well. The headmaster's eyes held a knowing look, aware of Horace's tendencies. Dumbledore knew it was not yet time to make it known by Voldemort that Dumbledore had found one of his horcruxes. He had to collect them all before Voldemort could order Quirrell to change their locations.

"I'll make the vow," Horace said, a touch of reluctance in his voice. "But really, Albus, you know you can trust me."

Dumbledore nodded approvingly. "It's not a matter of trust, Horace. It's a matter of necessity."

Horace reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the cool, smooth surface of the diadem. He could feel the ancient magic thrumming beneath his fingertips, a powerful testament to the brilliance of Rowena Ravenclaw. He spoke reverently, his voice filled with admiration. "This... this is extraordinary, Albus. The craftsmanship, the magic... How did you find it? Have you made this public yet? This is truly a magnificent discovery. Your brilliance never ceases to amaze me."

Dumbledore's smile widened as he listened to Horace's stream of compliments, a touch of amusement in his eyes. "I'm glad you appreciate it, Horace. It is indeed a remarkable artifact. But no, it is not public knowledge yet, and for good reason."

Horace continued to marvel at the diadem, his awe palpable. He bombarded Dumbledore with questions, eager to know every detail of the artifact's history and significance. "The inscriptions... they speak of wisdom and enlightenment. Do they enhance the wearer's intelligence, as the legends suggest? And these gemstones... they seem to have their own magical aura. How do they interact with the diadem's enchantments?" Horace's awe deepened with every word. "This is truly magnificent, Albus. To think that something so ancient and powerful could still exist in our time. And to hold it... it's an honor."

Dumbledore's smile widened. "I'm glad you appreciate it, Horace. It is indeed a remarkable artifact. But there's more to it than just its beauty and power."

Horace's curiosity was piqued. "What do you mean, Albus?"

Dumbledore's expression turned strange. "This diadem is not merely a relic of the past, Horace. It is a piece of a much darker puzzle. One that involves Tom Riddle."

Horace's breath caught in his throat. "Tom Riddle... what do you mean?"

Dumbledore smiled "You may ask yourself what the link with Tom Riddle is."

Horace stopped. It was true—he had been so amazed by the diadem that he had forgotten. He scolded himself and reinforced his Occlumency shields and concentration, feeling as if he was going to need them.

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, the intensity of his stare cutting through the air like a blade. "When I found the diadem, Horace, it was one of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

Horace recoiled, his face draining of color. Beads of sweat began to form on his temple, trickling down like a slow, ominous countdown. "Horcruxes? You said... with an 'S'?" His voice wavered, an attempt at surprise falling flat.

Dumbledore's smile morphed into something predatory, and the room seemed to grow colder, the warmth of the fire replaced by an eerie chill. "Yes, Horcruxes," he confirmed, his voice a dark whisper. "And with them, he became the unstoppable, murderous force we knew."

Horace's forehead glistened, sweat now dripping like a leaky faucet, pooling at his collar. "Yes, what a tragedy, so many dead..." he muttered, wiping his face with a trembling hand, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.

The air turned icy, each breath a painful, freezing bite. Horace shuddered, his fear palpable as Dumbledore's eyes bore into him, glinting with a dangerous light. "The one who gave Voldemort the idea and the knowledge to create seven Horcruxes must have unimaginable blood on their hands."

Horace's heart pounded against his ribs. He summoned all his Occlumency skills, but the terror was overpowering, a relentless force. He felt a warm trickle down his leg as control slipped away. "So... so much blood," he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Dumbledore leaned in closer, his gaze piercing and unforgiving. "In wartime, had I met the person responsible for this atrocity, I would have executed them in cold blood."

Horace's mouth went dry, his terror now a physical presence, his body drenched in sweat. The floor beneath him became slick as though the very ground conspired to betray his fear. Dumbledore's eyes seemed to freeze his soul, turning the room into a frozen tomb.

"But alas," Dumbledore continued, standing with an almost predatory grace, "we cannot know who it is, can we?"

"No," Horace stammered, his voice shaking. "No, we can't."

Dumbledore turned as if to leave, then paused, casting a shadow that seemed to grow and consume the room. "Ah, I almost forgot about the vow. Let's make it."

"Yes," Horace whispered, barely able to speak, his fear turning into a tangible, choking force.

"We'll do the Ashto version of the Unbreakable Vow, the one necessitating only two people—I am powerful enough to bear it."

Horace whimpered, his voice a broken echo in the freezing room as he repeated Dumbledore's words. Sweat poured from Horace now, forming puddles around his feet, the room a shallow pool of his own terror.

"I will not talk to anybody about the diadem," Dumbledore intoned, each word a hammer blow.

"I will not talk to anybody about the diadem," Horace repeated, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

"I will serve Albus Dumbledore loyally," Dumbledore continued, his voice cold and final.

Horace recoiled, fear overtaking him completely. Dumbledore was fully aware of his complicity. "Albus, please... There's no need..."

"Repeat, Horace," Dumbledore commanded, his voice an icy knife.

"I will serve Albus Dumbledore loyally," Horace repeated, the unbreakable vow wrapping around his soul like chains.

"I will…"

And they continued into the night.