Dumbledore raised his wand, casting light across a narrow hallway where a door stood open on the left.
Harry followed closely behind him into the living room.
The place was a wreck—an old grandfather clock lay shattered, its face cracked, the pendulum thrown clear across the floor.
A piano had been overturned, its black-and-white keys scattered everywhere.
The broken fragments of a chandelier glittered faintly among the debris.
Cushions had been torn apart, feathers spilling from ripped seams.
Dumbledore lifted his wand higher, illuminating the wall.
Dark red streaks of something thick and sticky were splattered across it.
Harry drew in a sharp breath at the sight.
Dumbledore looked around slowly. "Not a pleasant scene, is it?"
His voice grew heavy. "Something terrible happened here."
They stepped carefully toward the center of the room, examining the shattered remains underfoot.
A grim unease hung over both of them.
The only small mercy was that there were no bodies anywhere in sight.
"There was a fight here… and then they either dragged someone away or he managed to escape. Right, Professor?" Harry tried to sound hopeful.
But with that much blood splattered across the room, it was hard to think of any hopeful explanation.
From the ceiling, a thick drop of dark red blood fell and landed on Harry's forehead. Dumbledore seemed to notice something—he touched the spot with his fingers, then brought them to his tongue.
His expression shifted as realization dawned.
The initial look of shock and concern faded from his face, replaced by calm understanding. "I don't believe that's the case," Dumbledore said quietly.
As he spoke, he subtly tightened his grip on his old wand.
Harry frowned. "You mean… he's—"
"Still here," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Yes, that's right."
Before Harry could react, Dumbledore's wand shot forward, stabbing into the bulging cushion of an armchair.
To Harry's astonishment, the chair let out a yelp. "Ow!"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement as he greeted politely, "Good evening, Horace."
In the blink of an eye, the armchair transformed into a bald, round old man who got to his feet, rubbing his belly.
"There was no need to jab so hard," the man complained, glaring at Dumbledore.
He was wearing a richly patterned robe that matched the upholstery of the armchair perfectly.
The once-puffed-up armchair deflated quickly, shrinking back into the shape of the short, stout old man.
"Now how did you figure that out?" the man grumbled, clearly puzzled.
"My dear Horace," Dumbledore replied with mild amusement, "if you had truly met a grim fate, we wouldn't be seeing dragon's blood splattered all over the walls."
"Ah, yes, yes—I should've thought of that," Slughorn said gloomily. "And who was it, again, that discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood—oh…"
His voice trailed off mid-sentence as his eyes fell on Harry standing behind Dumbledore. His expression shifted instantly—like a pirate who had just unearthed a chest of treasure.
Dumbledore took in the reaction but pretended not to notice, speaking casually. "Allow me to introduce my old colleague, Horace Slughorn."
"Horace, I imagine you already know who this is."
"Harry Potter," Slughorn breathed, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Harry.
Harry felt awkward under the intense stare, unsure what to do with himself.
"If you don't mind," Dumbledore said politely, "shall I help you tidy up a bit?"
Slughorn blinked, snapping out of his daze. "Please do."
Harry watched as Dumbledore waved his wand. One by one, the furniture pieces leapt back into place, and decorations reassembled themselves midair.
Damaged books mended and returned neatly to their shelves.
The oil lamps floated back to their stands and flickered to life once more.
Under Dumbledore's spell, everything was restored so perfectly that no trace of the earlier chaos remained.
Even the bloodstains on the walls vanished, scrubbed away by invisible hands.
Harry heard a faint creaking sound and looked down—his foot was resting on a fallen crystal pendant from the chandelier.
He quickly stepped back, and the pendant floated up, reattaching itself to the chandelier as if it had never been broken.
"Dragon's blood has become rather scarce on the market lately," Dumbledore said lightly, waving his wand to right an overturned bottle. "Where did you manage to get some?"
"Yes, that was my last bottle," Slughorn replied, his eyes still half-fixed on Harry. "Its price has skyrocketed. Wild dragons have been disappearing lately—there've even been several escape incidents reported in Romania."
"That's made dragon's blood far more valuable."
Hearing that, Harry recalled reading something similar in the papers.
Ron's second brother, Charlie, had mentioned that dragons in Romania had been breaking free of their reserves—something completely out of character for them.
Charlie Weasley had guessed it might be mating season, but that explanation never sat quite right.
Dumbledore noticed that Slughorn was still staring at Harry and suddenly asked, "Are you hiding from someone, Horace?"
"Oh, come now, Albus—do you really need me to say it out loud?" Slughorn replied, looking embarrassed.
Who else could he be hiding from, after all, if not his old friend Dumbledore—the man who had taken his place?
Dumbledore, as if ignoring the awkwardness, said kindly, "At the very least, we can share a drink—for old times' sake?"
The suggestion made Slughorn hesitate for a moment, but he eventually nodded. "All right, one drink."
Harry didn't quite understand what they were talking about.
Though full of questions, he followed Dumbledore's lead and sat down.
Something about his seat made him feel like he'd been deliberately placed in the most noticeable spot.
Sure enough, when Slughorn turned back with a bottle and two glasses, the first thing he saw was Harry.
He quickly averted his eyes and stiffly handed a glass to Dumbledore before lowering himself into the freshly restored armchair.
"How have you been, Horace? Keeping well, I hope?" Dumbledore asked pleasantly.
"More or less," Slughorn replied with some reluctance. "This past year's been nerve-wracking, though things have settled down a bit lately."
Slughorn wasn't a particularly brave man, though his influence in the wizarding world was considerable.
The moment he'd heard that Death Eaters had reappeared, his nerves had nearly shattered.
And with everything that had happened at Hogwarts—Dumbledore resigning from his post—it had only made things worse.
Fortunately, good news had come from the Ministry afterward.
The Death Eaters had been wiped out in one sweep, which was what finally convinced Slughorn to accept the position of Headmaster at Hogwarts.
"I swear I never intended to take your place, Albus," Slughorn said earnestly. "You know I'm not that sort."
"Yes, I'm well aware," Dumbledore replied calmly. "But I'm glad it was you who succeeded me."
"Truly?" Slughorn looked doubtful.
"Of course," Dumbledore said with a genial smile. "You know me, Horace. Perhaps there's something else troubling you now?"
"If you mean the matter of the Defense Against the Dark Arts post—then yes, I admit it," Slughorn sighed. "No one seems willing to take that position."
"The Death Eaters may be captured, but their master is still at large."
The uncertainty in Slughorn's tone made Harry take an instant dislike to the man's lack of backbone.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Dumbledore said as if just remembering, "Harry has quite the talent for Defense Against the Dark Arts. You must have heard about his results."
Harry, suddenly mentioned by name, froze in surprise.
Dumbledore gave him a playful wink, then stood and asked Slughorn, "Might I use your bathroom?"
"Oh, of course—down the hall, second door on the left," Slughorn replied.
As Dumbledore left, Harry noticed him wink once more—
—but "cross-channel communication" was never Harry's strong suit, and he had no idea what the old man was trying to say.
Harry was left alone with Slughorn.
The atmosphere grew heavy and awkward.
"You look very much like your father," Slughorn said, studying him.
The same old line—Harry had heard it from nearly every adult he'd ever met.
"Except for the eyes. Your eyes…"
Before he could finish, Harry cut in, "Are like my mother's. Yes."
"Lily—dear, clever Lily," Slughorn said softly, gazing into Harry's eyes. "She was an extraordinarily gifted witch, especially considering she came from a Muggle family."
"I have a good friend who's Muggle-born too. She's one of the best in our year," Harry replied, a touch defensive.
"No, no, no—please don't think I'm prejudiced," Slughorn said quickly. "Your mother was one of my favorite students. I always told her she should have been in my House."
At the memory, Slughorn chuckled rather than taking offense. "She never failed to give me a sharp retort for that."
"Which House were you in?" Harry asked.
"I was Head of Slytherin back then," Slughorn replied.
The mention of that House made Harry's expression stiffen slightly.
"Oh, come now," Slughorn said, clearly reading his thoughts. "Don't hold that against me. I suppose you're like her—a Gryffindor, aren't you?"
He wore a self-satisfied smile and pointed at the many gleaming frames on the cabinet, each holding a moving figure.
"Look—your mother's right there, the one in front."
Harry leaned closer, with Slughorn standing beside him. He saw a photo of his mother standing next to a younger Slughorn, surrounded by a group of students.
Puffing up like a curator showing off a collection, Slughorn said, "You should recognize Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet. I often have owls carry him my thoughts on current affairs."
"But in recent years he's been outdone by another editor. Honestly, I never imagined Rita would end up in the editor's chair—back at school she was forever spreading gossip," Slughorn went on.
Harry listened as his gaze drifted from his mother's photo. There was Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies. The proprietor of Honeydukes. And Sirius's younger brother, Regulus Black.
Slughorn added with a sigh that he'd taught every member of the Black family—except Sirius.
On the photo cabinet sat a basket specially for letters. Curious, Harry asked, "What's that?"
Words still flowing about his former students, Slughorn answered without thinking, "That's where I keep John Wick's letters. He often sends the trickiest questions—ones I have to really ponder before replying. A brilliantly clever young man."
"He was the same at school," Harry said, his feelings a complicated mix. "Always top of the class—no one ever managed to surpass him."
At that, Slughorn suddenly seemed to realize something. "Good heavens, I'd forgotten—you were in the same year as him!" he exclaimed.
Though he had never personally taught John Wick, even their exchanged letters were a source of pride for Slughorn—so much so that he'd placed them in his cabinet of honors.
Harry forced a faint smile, his gaze fixed on the handful of letters resting there.
He wondered what kind of topics John and Slughorn had discussed—topics so complex that even someone Dumbledore called a very clever man needed a long time to answer.
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