The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of a secluded yet picturesque country house in the English countryside.
Horace Slughorn opened his eyes and let out a sigh of deep satisfaction. Unlike the somewhat balding and excessively corpulent old man many would remember from other timelines, Horace retained a notably more… vigorous appearance. His brown hair was flecked with silver, and though he maintained a robust figure that betrayed his love for life's finer pleasures, he moved with agility whenever the occasion called for it.
He rose from the bed with a radiant smile on his face, slipped on an emerald-green silk robe, and walked calmly toward the corner of his room. He approached a beautiful polished wooden record player, carefully placed the needle on a vinyl record, and instantly, a cheerful, vibrant jazz melody filled the air.
Horace clapped his hands a couple of times to the beat of the music, feeling brimming with energy.
He began his usual routine. He took his wand out of his robe's pocket and, waving it as if it were an orchestra conductor's baton, began cleaning his entire house to the rhythm of the trumpet and double bass in the song that was playing. The dusters danced on the shelves, the brooms swept the dust in perfect choreography, and the curtains flew wide open, letting in the daylight in all its splendor.
Humming the tune, he headed to the kitchen to prepare what he considered the highlight of every morning: a hearty, perfect, traditional English breakfast.
With a wave of his wand, the pans began to heat up. Thick, smoked bacon started sizzling, releasing a delicious aroma that filled the entire house. A couple of thick Cumberland sausages sizzled over low heat until they reached that perfect, crispy brown hue he loved so much. In another pan, Horace fried two eggs with large, beautifully orange yolks, making sure the edges were lightly browned but the center remained runny. He accompanied all this with roasted tomatoes sprinkled with herbs, mushrooms sautéed in butter, a generous portion of baked beans in a rich tomato sauce, a couple of slices of fried bread, and last but not least, a large portion of black pudding.
He carried the colossal plate, along with a steaming porcelain teapot and a pitcher of chilled pumpkin juice, into the living room.
As he entered the room, Horace let his gaze wander over his most prized possession: the massive bookshelf above the fireplace. There, nestled among the shelves, were dozens of silver-framed photographs, gleaming trophies, and greeting cards from his beloved students. There were the smiling faces of the Minister of Magic, many Quidditch captains, famous apothecaries, and several members of the Wizengamot. It was his "The Slug Club," irrefutable proof of his excellent eye for talent.
With a sigh of pride, Horace sank into his favorite sofa, adjusted the napkin on his lap, and set about devouring his well-deserved and delicious breakfast.
He raised his fork, about to pierce the perfect yolk of an egg when...
Clack!
The music from the record player stopped abruptly, the needle scraping the vinyl with a shrill sound. Seconds later, three sharp knocks echoed from the front door.
Horace froze. The fork hung suspended in the air. His expression of joy instantly turned to one of annoyance, but above all, of caution. In such volatile times, an unexpected visitor rarely brought good news.
He slowly set the plate down on the coffee table, stood up, and gripped his wand tightly. Aiming it directly at the entrance, he moved forward with silent steps.
"Who's there?!" Horace shouted, his deep voice echoing through the entryway. "The house is protected against any attack! You'd better identify yourself!"
Instead of an answer, the lock clicked softly and the door swung open.
Albus Dumbledore, wearing an elegant dark brown Muggle suit, entered the house with a friendly, relaxed smile, as if he were walking into his own office.
Horace let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping his shoulders as he lowered his wand.
"By Merlin's beard, Albus!" Horace exclaimed, his relief mingled with genuine irritation at his arrival. "Why couldn't you have sent an owl to let me know you were coming? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Dumbledore didn't bat an eye. He walked calmly into the living room and sat down on one of the single sofas in front of Horace's delicious breakfast.
"Ah, my dear Horace... you know very well why I didn't," Dumbledore replied in a soft voice. "If I had warned you I was coming, right this very moment I'd be talking to an empty house, and you'd already have gone off to the Bahamas or some hideaway in the Alps to avoid seeing me."
Horace pressed his lips together, knowing the headmaster was absolutely right. He nodded reluctantly, returned to his sofa, and sat down, scratching his head in frustration as he watched his bacon begin to cool, something that annoyed him greatly.
"All right, you caught me," Horace conceded. "Why do you need to see me so urgently, Albus?"
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, gave him a playful wink, and asked in a teasing tone.
"Is it wrong to want to visit an old, dear friend, just to see how he's doing?"
Horace rolled his eyes and snorted in response.
"Save the act, Albus. It doesn't work on me. With you, there's always something behind it—a plan, a move on your chessboard. I don't think you came all this way just to sample my cooking. Speak."
Albus nodded; his smile didn't fade, but his blue eyes took on a much more serious and calculating gleam.
"You're absolutely right, Horace. I'll get straight to the point," said Dumbledore, leaning forward. "I need you as Potions professor at Hogwarts again."
Horace's eyes widened. Quickly, he began shaking his head so rapidly that his cheeks trembled from the sudden movement.
"No! No! No! Absolutely not! Don't even think about it, Albus!" he began, raising his hands as if trying to ward off the proposal. "Don't you read The Prophet? With Tom's return, everything in this country is far more dangerous! Not to mention abroad! Families are moving away, darkness lurks… and I know too much. For me, the best thing is to stay right here, where no one bothers me, hidden and safe."
"Horace, that's exactly why I need you back at the school," Albus insisted calmly, his voice trying to convey confidence. "Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain. And your talents, your connections, and your insight are vital right now to protect the students."
"I said no, Albus! My answer is no, and it will remain no no matter how much you insist!" Horace shouted, crossing his arms and sinking into the sofa, completely closed off to the idea.
Dumbledore watched him for a second. He knew that loyalty and a sense of duty wouldn't sway Slughorn. He needed to appeal to his true weakness—his insatiable thirst for collecting exceptional talents and adding them to his "Club."
"Okay… I understand," Dumbledore murmured softly, rising slowly as if he were about to leave. "It's a real shame. I figured you'd say no, but… I thought you might be a little curious."
Horace frowned, glancing at him sideways.
"Curious? About what?"
Dumbledore paused in the doorway and turned halfway around.
"Aren't you curious to meet young Gaunt?"
Horace stopped complaining abruptly. His arms slowly uncrossed. The name struck his brain like a stunning spell.
Dumbledore smiled, knowing the bait had worked.
"He's a brilliant student, Horace. Exceptional. I'm absolutely certain you'll be surprised when you meet him in person," added the headmaster, his voice tinged with mystery, before pausing. "But if you'd rather stay here eating cold beans, I'll understand."
Silence filled the room. Horace Slughorn narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. Gauntcorp. There was hardly anyone left in the entire wizarding world who didn't know him; everyone was talking about it. The young Lord who had raised the noble but ruined Gaunt family from the ashes to lead them to greatness and dominate the business world. In short, the crown jewel his collection had been missing.
Horace sighed, knowing he had lost the battle against his own desires. He sat up straight on the sofa and pointed an accusing finger at Dumbledore.
"You'll have to triple my salary, Albus. And I also want an office much larger than the one I had before."
Albus nodded with an elegant bow and a triumphant smile.
"Consider it done, Professor Slughorn."
Dumbledore waved goodbye and left the house, leaving him alone with his breakfast once again.
Horace looked at his plate, picked up his fork, and finally pierced the egg yolk, which spilled onto the toast. As he chewed his (now cold) bacon, his mind was no longer on his fear of the Dark Lord, but was wandering freely, thinking about how incredibly interesting it would be to meet and recruit the prodigious Gaunt boy for his Slug Club.
After all, Horace wondered innocently as he took a sip of his tea, "What's the worst that could happen if I met him?"
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