⚡︎
┄┄ .•* 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒 *•. ┄┄
𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒍𝒖𝒈𝒔
────── *•. ⚡︎ .•*──────
Her time in Brazil had been blissful—mainly due to the house in the resort that the Grangers got. So much so, that Hermione nearly forgot there was a war brewing back home. Not nearly, she really did forget and spent the two weeks she was there, sunbathing and just. . . . relaxing. Yes, she missed everyone so very much, but. . . . the beach!
Hermione loved everything about it—well except for that time where she got her foot stung by these little blue glowing things on the water. All in all, she had the best time she could; she spent the day in the water and the part of the day when she wasn't in there, or with her parents, she was laying on a towel, soaking in the sun rays to see if she could gain some color and not be so pale. Let's just say it worked, and Hermione was really happy about it—she had a killer tan, what else did she need?
On a more Sirius note, after Hermione had left the paradise she was in, she returned to England, hence why, she found herself in front of the door of Grimmauld Place. She took a deep breath and knocked three times. After a good twenty seconds, the door opened to reveal a worn-out Remus Lupin.
"MOONY!" Hermione yelled as she jumped to hug him causing the older man to laugh—unfortunately, that also woke up grandma dearest and Lupin, and Hermione spent five minutes trying to close her curtains again. When they were finally done, Hermione frowned looking around, "Where's my welcome wagon?"
"Sorry, Mia," Remus said as Hermione pulled away from her, "Your dad and Harry have been deep in a serious game of Clue for the past three hours."
"They still don't know who it is after that much time? And with only two players?" Hermione asked confused and Remus rolled his eyes.
"They would, but they decided to change up the game a bit," he said and Hermione was even more confused. "They mixed it with Wizard's chess, and now there's a murder almost every second. They can't keep up with it."
"I—I don't even know how that would work," Hermione frowned, and then a grin grew on her face, "But I am so in!"
"Yeah, I also said that," Moony said tentatively as he grabbed Vader's and Crook's cage while Hermione got in with her trunk, "But I got kicked out of the room because Colonel Mustard apparently didn't like the fact that my pawn killed his favorite vase."
"I—What?"
"They also magicked the playing cards and figures," Remus sighed and Hermione's grin was getting even broader. "Well, I was about to leave, can I leave Vader and Crookshanks here?" the werewolf asked as they stopped by the drawing-room.
"Yeah, it's fine," Hermione waved him off, "Where are you going?"
"Uh—to a place," Remus shrugged, the tips of his ears going slightly red, which made Hermione smirk. "Anyway, I'll be back for dinner. It's good to have you back, Mia."
"Thanks," Hermione said with a beaming smile before heading down to the kitchen. As she walked down the dingy stairs of the old house, Hermione started to smile as she began to hear the voices coming from the kitchen.
"Okay, it was Mrs. Peackock, she killed the rook, with a knight's sword in the cupboard," Harry's voice came followed by the sound of glass breaking, which was then followed by a bark-like laugh.
"You wish! Mrs. Peackock was having scotch with the white King when the rook was killed! She definitely killed a black knight," said Sirius matter of factly. This time no sound followed and only moments later did Hermione hear Sirius whoop and a chair falling to the ground.
"Noooo," came Harry's defeated voice.
"Yes! I won!" Sirius cheered, "Thank you, my dearest Queen!"
"Oi! You cheated! The Queen told you," Harry complained, with a huff and Hermione heard Sirius tut.
"Nu-uh, Prongslet. It is not cheating," he said, and Hermione could swear she could hear his smirk, "There isn't a rule stating that I can't flirt with the Queen and she eventually tells me the answer."
"There aren't any rules in this game!"
"Don't be such a sour loser, Prongslet," Sirius said teasingly.
"Can I be next?" Hermione asked as she finally walked into the kitchen with a big smile, only to start laughing at the state things were.
Sirius had a rip on his sleeve and his hair was put in a bun, looking as if he had made it in a rush so he could work better. Harry's hair was even more of a mess than before and Hermione could swear there was a pawn inside it—also his pant pockets were inside out.
Then the kitchen. . . .
That was another thing entirely. There were pans everywhere, half of the glass on the cupboard was broken and there was scotch poured all over a really wrecked-looking Clue board, along with stray pieces of chess pieces everywhere.
"Mia!" Sirius exclaimed with a grin as he ran to hug his daughter. Hermione hugged him just as tightly and when he let go she proceeded to hug Harry, who looked the happiest Hermione had ever seen him—moving into Grimmauld and having Sirius not dead, seriously worked wonders.
"How was Brazil?" Harry asked as they pulled away.
"Awe-fucking-some," Hermione grinned and Sirius cleared his throat, looking pointedly at her, "Sorry, just awesome."
"That's better," Sirius laughed then his face turned—for the lack of a better word—serious, "Speaking of Weasley—"
"—no one said anything about a Weasley," Harry frowned and Sirius gave him a look making him shut up. Hermione looked between amused and like someone who just got caugth.
"Now, why didn't you tell me earlier, young lady?" his dad asked sternly and Hermione just wanted to burst out laughing. Thankfully she didn't though.
"In her defense, no one knew," Harry said, "I only found out on Valentine's."
"Wait a second! How long has it been going on?" Sirius asked baffled and Hermione facepalmed glaring at Harry.
"Since last summer," she mumbled and Sirius gasped.
"I'm killing that good-for-nothing, amateur prankster, wannabe marauder, borderline brain-dead ginger moron," Sirius growled looking murderous and Hermione and Harry exchanged looks looking wildly amused at the string of insults that just left Sirius's mouth.
"If it helps we haven't had sex," Hermione said sheepishly and Sirius looked even angrier.
"I don't think that helps, Mimi," Harry muttered to her and Hermione gave him a look.
"Ya think?"
"Now, what's better? A good ol'Avada? Or a butcher's knife?"
"Well the Avada would be painless—" Harry started, making Hermione give him an incredulous look.
"Well, it's decided then," Sirius said clapping, "Butcher's knife it is."
"Woah, Woah, Woah." Hermione stopped her dad before he went and actually got the knife, "You're not killing Fred!"
"Why not?" Sirius whined and Hermione put on her best cheesy puppy-eye face.
"Because I love him," she said and, in the space of a second, they were all scrunching up their noses. "Okay, that was corny, but I do! So don't go killing him!"
"Fine," Sirius sighed running a hand through his head and getting it awkwardly stuck on the bun. He yanked it away and looked over at his daughter. "I already talked to him anyway."
"You did?!" Hermione screeched.
"Yeah, the good ol'father threatening daughter's—um—boyfriend situation," Sirius said with a smirk, "Olivia gave me the same talk. Scary." Sirius shuddered.
"I hope Fred doesn't hate me. . . ." Hermione said looking horrified and Harry rolled his eyes. Like father like daughter.
"He doesn't," Harry said looking at her like it was obvious, "Ron told me that George told him that Fred has been talking about you non stop," at that Hermione gave him a deadpan look which made Harry huff, "Fine he didn't say anything about that. But he did ask about when we'll be going to the Burrow."
"When is that?" Hermione frowned.
"Sometime soon," Sirius answered, "Dumbledore is coming to pick you up."
"Why?" Hermione asked looking genuinely confused. Sirius shrugged.
"He said he needed your help with something," he said and Hermione groaned. She would probably have to meet Slughorn. "Anyway, what are we doing for dinner?"
The three looked around the kitchen and grimaced.
"Out?"
"Where?"
"London?"
"Sure."
The rest of her time spent in Grimmauld Place was many things, but boring wasn't one of them. They had invented games and played indoors Quidditch—which led to a lot of screeching from Walburga because they had knocked down a few amounts of antiques with great value. But Hermione also decided to start an early task and went to talk with Kreacher. This talk took some time, but eventually, she got the elf crying and hugging her knees as he sobbed about his Master Regulus. By the end of their talk, Kreacher was much more lenient to follow their orders and Hermioen ordered him two things:
One, to not listen to the calls or orders of members outside of their close family, which included Sirius, Hermione, and Harry. And that the only exception were people who were inside Grimmauld and belonged to the order, though the close family's word overruled anything.
Two, to keep the necklace safe at all costs, so she could go back next year and destroy the motherfucker.
She also told him to go get her a tub of ice cream but that was another thing entirely.
During her time in Grimmauld she had also taken to talking with Fred through the ring he had given her. Mostly at night, when she couldn't sleep. The problem was, it was very difficult to sent long sentences through it, as it could only hold a couple of words. They needed a better way of communication. And yes, they could use owls, but Vader got pissy at her when she didn't take him to Brazil with her and was now refusing to send out her letters (talk about mood).
At last, it finally came the day, dear old Professor Dumbles would take them to see old Slughorn. Something Hermione was not looking forward to. She didn't like the old man. He was a couch, for god's sake. He collected souls like a dementor and though yes he was. . . . pleasant (?), he always got into her nerves when she read the books, and any politeness he had was thrown down the drain.
Hermione and Harry had said goodbye to Sirius and walked out of Grimmauld Place where they met with Dumbledore on the street.
"Keep your wands at hand, Harry, Hermione," Dumbledore said brightly, seemingly completely relaxed.
"But I thought we weren't allowed to use magic outside the school, sir?" Harry said looking confused.
"If there is an attack," said Dumbledore, "I give you both permission to use any counter jinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need to worry about being attacked tonight."
"Why not, sir?"
"You are with me," said Dumbledore simply and Hermione couldn't help but agree. "You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said.
"No," Harry and Hermione said at the same time.
"I thought you had to be seventeen," Harry added dumbly.
"You do," said Dumbledore. "So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don't mind—as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment."
Hermione did not notice this and when she looked at the headmaster's arm to see that it was darkening, she glared at it and then at the older man.
"Did you even listened to what I said?" she asked him with an incredulous look. Harry looked confused between the two of them.
"I did, indeed, Ms. Granger," Dumbledore nodded solemnly.
"Than what are you?" Hermione asked baffled, "Stupid?"
"Mione!" Harry said with a strained voice, stepping on her foot. Hermione didn't care. And apparently, neither did Dumbledore.
"I can't say I am stupid, Ms. Black," Dumbledore began, "but I can say that I am but a man, and I fell into temptation."
"Fucking hell!" Hermione huffed in exasperation. "I warned you! It's like you don't want me to save you!"
"Let go of the matter, Hermione," Dumbledore said now a bit more stern. "We can discuss this another time."
"Fine," Hermione huffed after eyeing the headmaster for a few moments. She and Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm.
"Very good," said Dumbledore, "Well, here we go."
Hermione felt Dumbledore's arms twist away from her and redoubled her grip; the next thing she knew, everything went black; she was being pressed very hard from all directions and couldn't breathe. Once more the latex feeling around her was tightening against her body; her eyeballs were being forced back into her head; her eardrums were being pushed deeper into her skull and then—
She gasped for the cold night air around her, shaking her head to put everything back into place, and opened her streaming eyes. Fortunately, Hermione seemed to be getting used to the apparition and though she hated the feeling of it, she was indeed getting used to it, and by the time her feet slammed into the ground she wasn't so nauseous.
She, Harry, and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.
"Are you all right?" asked Dumbledore, looking at both of them solicitously. "The sensation does take some getting used to."
Hermione gave him a thumbs up, still feeling somewhat resentful towards the old headmaster, ad Harry answered, "I'm fine. But I think I might prefer brooms. . . ."
Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and said, "This way."
He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.
"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your scar...has it been hurting at all?"
Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.
"No," he said, "and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again."
Hermione decided to keep quiet, not wanting to let her temper get the best of her, and call Dumbledore stupid again.
"I, on the other hand, thought otherwise," said Dumbledore. "Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you."
"Well, I'm not complaining," said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind.
They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again.
"Professor?"
"Harry?"
"Er — where exactly are we?"
"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."
"And what are we doing here?"
"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."
"How can I and Hermione help with that, sir?"
"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, Hermione, Harry."
They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too.
"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?" Harry asked and Hermione was wondering the same. Even if it was impolite to apparate directly there they could have apparated closer, could they not?
"Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door," said Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance—"
"— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," said Harry quickly."Hermione told me."
This caused Hermione to snort. She had told him that when Harry had put into his head that he wanted to visit Sirius in their fourth year and was going to apparate, with no license or knowledge on how to do it.
"And she is quite right. We turn left again."
The church clock chimed midnight behind them.
"Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked. . . ." Harry said and Hermione was starting to think what a great conversation-holder Harry was. I mean he could create conversation and hold conversations and. . . . Well, that was it because apart from that the specky kid was pretty awkward.
"Correct," said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. "He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office."
"Is he...Do you think he's good?" asked Harry.
"An interesting question," said Dumbledore.
"He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius."
"Yes, but I meant—"
"I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort."
"And. . . .sir. . . .I saw about Madam Bones."
"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think—ouch."
He had pointed with his injured hand. Hermione glared at it.
"Professor, what happened to your. . . .?"
"I have no time to explain now," said Dumbledore. "It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice. Besides, I don't think Ms. Black would be really happy to learn about it and I feel like safer surroundings are in order."
Hermione smiled sarcastically at this while Dumbledore smiled.
"Sir—I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters. . . ." Harry continued.
"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?"
"Not really."
"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor."
"I didn't. . . ." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not, looking sideways at Hermione who was kicking her feet on the ground as she walked.
"For future reference, Harry, Hermione, 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."
"Er. . . .right," said Harry. "Well, on that leaflet, it said something about Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn't very clear."
Hermione groaned with a shudder.
"Right you are Ms. Black. 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, children, just here. . . ."
They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. When they reached the front gate, Hermione stopped along with Dumbledore and Harry walked into the latter.
"Oh, dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."
The front door was hanging off its hinges. Hermione rolled her eyes at the Slug's dramatics, yet she couldn't deny the cleverness of it.
Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.
"Wands out and follow me," he said quietly.
He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Hermione and Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door 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 the two teens right behind him.
A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys were strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered 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."
Hermione nodded. Whoever lived there surely needed an interior designer with taste.
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet.
"Maybe there was a fight and—and they dragged him off, Professor?" Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.
"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
"You mean he's—?"
"Still here somewhere? Yes."
And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Ouch!"
"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again.
Hermione watched in amusement as Harry's jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, an old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt."
The wand light sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing 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."
He 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 places; 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 few glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; 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 flock.
"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.
There was a final plunk from the piano and 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.
"Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. "Oho!"
"This," said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, "is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn."
Hermione cleared her throat. She might've not liked the old man, but she wasn't about to be ignored.
"Oh, right, and this is Ms. Hermione Black," Dumbledore said and Hermioen watched as Slughorn's jaw dropped slightly more.
Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's 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 time's sake?"
Slughorn hesitated.
"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Hermione and Harry and directed them toward a chair, not unlike the one that Slughornhad so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Both of them took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him 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 Hermione.
"Hmpf," 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, thrust the tray at Harry and Hermione, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
"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."
"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore. "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, 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."
"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 ringers; the sight of them made Hermione scowl."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 Hermione noticed a ring—the ring—on his uninjured hand: 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 Hermione 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 buffer 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, 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 fromMuggle house to Muggle house—the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands—it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know-how, one simple FreezingCharm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneako-scopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano."
"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer 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 halfbreeds.'"
"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never liked her."
"Same," Hermione said as Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked around at them.
"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "It's just — I didn't like her either."
"Old hag," Hermione muttered subconsciously tracing the faint scars on the back of her hand.
Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.
"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.
"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom," said Dumbledore.
"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the hall."
Dumbledore strode from 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 Hermione, then crossed 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," he said abruptly.
Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Hermione rolled her eyes.
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. Hermione elbowed him.
"Hmpf. 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."
"Which was your House?"
"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. "Oh, now," he went on quickly, seeing the expression 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? Oh of course,— you look a lot like him, Ms. Black," Slughorn said directing his sentence to Hermione. "Though you have your mother's expressions."
"Well, anyway, Sirius was a big pal of your father's at school," Slughorn said to Harry and both he and Hermione grinned at each other. "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."
"Unluckily they aren't teapots you can buy," Hermione said sarcastically and Harry snorted though he hid it with a cough. Slughorn seemed to not have noticed, or if he did he didn't care. Regulus, though, was laughing in the corner of the room.
"Yeah. . . . Your mother, Harry, was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."
"A lot of our friends are muggle-borns," said Harry, "and they're somewhere in the top of our year."
"Funny how that sometimes happened, isn't it?" said Slughorn.
"Not really," said Harry coldly as Hermione said, "Hilarious," sarcastically.
Slughorn looked down at them in surprise. "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—anotherMuggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"
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, 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 Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back—you'll see her if you just crane your neck—that's GwenogJones, 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.
The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.
"Of course not," he said, looking down at them. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."
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 Voldemort."
Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.
"Ooh, and Umbridge, of course," Hermione added, "Though she wasn't killed as much maimed by hooves into a state of shock."
"I reckon the staff is safer than most people while Dumbledore's headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?" Harry went on.
Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry's words.
"Well, yes, indeed, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight withDumbledore," 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. . . .I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones' death did not shake me. . . .If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection. . . ."
Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.
"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long lime. Upset stomach?"
"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," said Dumbledore. "I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, Hermione, 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 and Hermione jumped to their feet. Slughorn sinned 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 fasten his traveling cloak, Hermione hugging her leather jacket around her body, and Harry zip up his jacket.
"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."
"Bye," said Harry and Hermione.
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 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 rise, Dumbledore!"
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, Harry, Hermione," said Dumbledore.
"I didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.
"Well, you're most welcomed," Hermioen replied sarcastically.
"Oh yes, you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"
"Er. . . ." Harry said unsurely.
"Nope," Hermione answered bluntly.
"Horace," said Dumbledore, "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 backseat—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."
"I tell 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, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived'...or, as they call you these days, 'the Chosen One.' And you, Hermione, are a long-lost Black, and I dare say last, daughter of an honorable and undoubtedly curious man."
Hermione grimaced as she shared a look with Harry.
Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier. "This will do. If you will grasp my arm."
This time Hermione was ready for the Apparition but still found it revoltingly unpleasant. When the pressure of being wrapped in a condom disappeared and she could breathe again, she was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and Harry. Looking ahead, she smiled at the sight of the crooked silhouette of her second favorite building—if not the first—in the world: the Burrow.
"If you don't mind, Harry," said Dumbledore, as they passed through the gate, "I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?"
Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks.
"Could you wait here, Ms. Black?"
"Sure," Hermione shrugged with a roll of her eyes. She knew what they would be talking about anyway and even if she didn't Harry would tell her.
A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into space a little smaller than the average cupboard.
Hermione waited for a while and eventually, both of them emerged from the cupboard again. "I see a light in the kitchen," said Dumbledore as he pushed the door opened, "Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are."
Hermione, Harry, and Dumbledore approached the back door of the Burrow, which was surrounded by the familiar litter of old Wellington boots and rusty cauldrons; Hermione could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked three times and Hermione saw sudden movement behind the kitchen window.
"Who's there?" said a nervous voice she recognized as Mrs. Weasley's. "Declare yourself!"
"It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry and Hermione."
The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing gown.
"Harry, Hermione, dears! Gracious, Albus, you frightened me, you said not to expect you before morning!"
"We were lucky," said Dumbledore, ushering both Hermione and Harry over the threshold. "Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Hermione's and Harry's doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!"
Hermione looked around and beamed as she saw her cousin sitting at the table clutching a large mug in her hands. After quickly hugging Mrs. Weasley she ran over to her.
"Dora!" Hermione said as she hugged her tightly.
"Mia! You do know I saw you two days ago," Tonks said amusedly with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I know," Hermione sighed, "I thought I would die without you."
Tonks rolled her eyes and turned to Dumbledore and Harry.
"Hello, Professor," she said. "Wotcher, Harry."
"Hi, Tonks."
Hermione took in her full appearance and scowled. She would kill that good-for-nothing brain-dead moron, Remus Jacob Jared Lupin.
Dora looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced in her smile. Certainly, her appearance was less colorful than usual without her customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.
"I'd better be off," she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak around her shoulders."Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly"
"Please don't leave on my account," said Dumbledore courteously, "I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour."
"No, no, I need to get going," said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "'Night. . . ."
"Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Sirius, Remus, and Mad-Eye are coming. . . .?"
"No, really, Molly. . . .thanks anyway. . . .Good night, everyone."
"Wait, Dora!" Hermione called out before her cousin could vanish and stepped outside, leading her further away from the house. "What's wrong? Is Moony being a dumbarse? I can talk to dad and he can kick his arse."
"You don't have to worry about it, Mia," Tonks said waving it off but Hermione didn't waver.
"I clearly do, seeing as you looked like you're dying," she deadpanned, "Don't do this to yourself. Go up to Lupin and whack him around the head for being too stubborn not to see he deserves you!"
"Mia, it's more complicated than that. . . ." Tonks said sighing as she ran a hand through her hair.
"No, it isn't," Hermione rolled her eyes, "It's rather simple really. The man just has to get over the fact he's a monster. 'Cause you and I both know he isn't, and that being a werewolf is actually pretty awesome if you ignore the hard parts."
"Yeah. . . ." Tonks sighed, "Look, I'll think about coming to dinner this weekend, deal?"
"Are you gonna have some color on your hair?" Hermione asked.
"Sure," Tonks shrugged.
"Then, deal."
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