CHAPTER 7

Later that evening at five minutes to six o'clock, Harry stood before the large stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office. He hesitated as he attempted to quell the flutter of nerves that suddenly took flight in his stomach. Unable to pinpoint why he was nervous, Harry forced the feelings aside. "Lemon drop," he announced a moment later.

As the gargoyle bounded aside and allowed Harry to step onto the rotating staircase behind it, he reflected on the hurried conversation he'd had with Snape not ten minutes ago, directly before coming here after dinner.

"I know you find the thought distasteful, Harry," his father had murmured as he'd firmly placed his hand upon Harry's shoulder. "But to the rest of our world you are now considered 'The Chosen One'. That is where your power liestonight, so don't be afraid to use it. You are no man's pawn – remember that."

Harry took a deep breath, grateful once again to have an adult he trusted on his side. As he finally reached the headmaster's door, he steeled himself before knocking confidently.

"Enter," Dumbledore bid from the other side. When Harry stepped through, the headmaster greeted him amiably. "Ah, Harry! Right on time. How are you faring this evening?"

"I'm fine, sir. Thanks."

"Have you and your friends been enjoying yourselves?" He asked with a warm smile and a prominent twinkle in his eyes. "I saw some remarkable acrobatics on the Quidditch pitch earlier."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "We decided to play a few pickup games since we had the pitch all to ourselves." He thought back on how much the day had improved his outlook on the near future, and he knew it was all down to the presence of his friends. "Thank you for letting them stay at Hogwarts, sir. It's been great having them here."

Dumbledore seemed genuinely happy to hear it, and his eyes softened. "Of course, my boy. You could do no better than friends like yours." He grew more serious. "I wish more than anything that I could make up for the childhood you never had, Harry. You deserve that much, and more. But alas, yet again I must ask more of you that I've any right to. Starting this evening you must begin the journey to becoming a man." He pierced Harry with a solemn look, gazing at him over the top rim of his half-moon spectacles. "I assume Professor Snape told you the reason I requested your presence for this task?"

Harry wondered if his father had been expected to hide the truth from him, and felt himself squirm uncomfortably beneath the headmaster's scrutiny. He didn't want to get Snape into trouble, but he also didn't want to lie; Dumbledore had a right to know how close they had become, if it wasn't clear enough already. Forcing his shoulders back, he refused to shy away from the headmaster's penetrating gaze as he answered with honesty.

"Yes, sir. He did."

"I see," Dumbledore murmured, and Harry couldn't tell if the older wizard was relieved or concerned by his answer. The headmaster was quiet for a few moments, staring into the flames dancing in the hearth with a look of deep contemplation across his aged and weary face. As the old wizard turned to him with a sigh, Harry was surprised to see remorse painted across his features. "I am sorry to exploit you in such a way, my boy."

"It's alright, sir," Harry was quick to reply. "Really! I want to help in the fight against Voldemort, and I'll do whatever it takes."

Dumbledore looked at him for long moments with a mixture of pride and sorrow before he seemed to shake himself. "Well then," he said as he cleared his throat. "Shall we?" Harry was a little confused when the headmaster held out his arm as if he expected Harry to take it, and the older wizard explained, "I will be apparating us to a little village called Budleigh Babberton in order to speak with Mr. Slughorn."

"I thought you couldn't apparate inside Hogwarts or the grounds, sir?"

"For anyone else, that would be correct. But there are certain… advantages… to being headmaster," he answered with another small twinkle.

"Oh, erm… Alright," Harry murmured, suddenly very self-conscious at the thought of how, when traveling by apparition, he always seemed to land on his knees or backside.

Somehow the headmaster seemed to understand his hesitation. Lowering his arm, he took a wide stance and explained, "If you place one foot slightly forward and allow your knees to absorb the shock upon impact, you will find that you have quite a bit more stability upon landing."

"Oh," Harry said in surprise. Why didn't my father ever show me that trick? He wondered. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course, my boy," he responded with a warm smile. "Now, let us be going."

Although he still felt a wave of nausea directly after apparating, Harry was pleased to see that thanks to his new stance, his feet were firmly on the ground and he showed no sign of falling. In order to distract himself from his queasiness, he glanced around and saw that they had landed in the town square of what looked to be an old coastal village. The quaint little hamlet was obviously well-maintained, for the gardens were weed-free and the cobblestone streets were impeccable. There were both large manors as well as smaller houses interspersed throughout the shops, but every single one of them was immaculate. Harry could even hear the waves of the ocean drifting in on a salty breeze.

"This way," the headmaster announced, and he took off at a brisk pace down a small, darkening side street. As they walked past many windows, Harry could see families sitting down for dinner. None of them gave the pair a second glance, which was strange considering that Dumbledore was in full wizard regalia, right down to the long lilac robes and matching hat that were embroidered with golden crescent half-moons.

"Sir?" He uttered over the soft noises of their soled footsteps against the cobblestoned street. "Is Budleigh Babberton a wizard or a muggle village?"

"Both," Dumbledore answered patiently. "Wizards have lived here alongside the non-magical since the late seventeenth century."

Harry was surprised, to say the least. "Do the muggles know?"

The headmaster chuckled softly. "No, they don't. To the best of their knowledge, Budleigh Babberton is a charming little village inhabited by an eccentric populace. Although these peculiar people are known to dress and sometimes act in outlandish fashion, they are respected – and even highly valued – for their talents. Many wizards make their living producing magnificent natural remedies that are sold in the local apothecaries."

Harry took a moment to work that out. "So, you're saying that wizards make potions for the muggle community?"

Dumbledore glanced down at him approvingly. "Indeed I am. We make a left here."

Harry found himself wondering if his father knew of this place, and gazed around with new interest. His eyes fell upon a large, gaudy building at the end of the road, and his nose wrinkled distastefully. Thinking it was a garish church, it was only as they continued walking that he realized it was a someone's home. Made of red brick that had faded to a pale pink in the salty sun, the large, three-story Victorian mansion boasted multiple white pillars and ornately painted trim around the windows and roofline. It reminded Harry of somewhere a fussy old lady would live. He could easily imagine Ron's great-aunt Muriel stepping out onto the veranda to glare down at them as they walked past.

But instead of continuing past the large house as expected, Dumbledore slowed and quietly announced, "This is the place."

The metal gate creaked loudly as the headmaster let himself in. Harry was so busy staring at the extravagant house looming above that he bumped into Dumbledore, not realizing that the man had stopped dead in his tracks before him.

Peering around the headmaster's frozen form, Harry suddenly realized why they'd stopped. The heavy, ornately carved wooden door was hanging at an angle by its hinges, having obviously been blasted in by some very powerful magic.

"Wand out Harry," Dumbledore murmured as he removed his own from inside his billowy sleeve pocket. The air around the headmaster changed and electrified, and a cold chill ran down Harry's spine. As Dumbledore crept forward, he ordered softly, "Stay behind me."

Gliding silently up the porch steps, he gently shouldered open the abused door. The wood collapsed from its tenuous hold on the hinges, and the crash was deafening in the ominous silence. Prickles erupted all over Harry's body as the two of them gazed tensely into the bleak entryway, and for long moments he expected the sinister attacker to fly out at them from the darkness.

Dumbledore murmured a series of Latin enchantments that Harry had never heard before, gently waving his wand as if caressing the shadows. When nothing happened, the headmaster seemed satisfied that it was safe to proceed. Harry followed as he moved into the house, still holding his wand cautiously at the ready.

That same air of fussiness that was so prevalent from the outside was just as ubiquitous on the inside. But Harry's eyes widened at the scene that greeted them, for it could only be described as one of complete devastation.

Spell marks were seared into the walls of the foyer, so fresh they were still smoking and eating slowly away at the thick, expensive wallpaper. An entryway table that had once held a vase full of flowers was knocked to the ground, the glass shattered and the stems scattered in a puddle of water creeping across the checkered tile floor. Harry stepped around it, for some reason unwilling to crush the delicate petals beneath his boots.

Harry's stomach lurched as they rounded the corner into the sitting room. 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 strewn across the floor. The remains of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like twinkling powder over everything. Worst of all, there was blood everywhere – trickling down the walls, splattering the long curtains, and even dripping from the ceiling. The room looked as if some poor soul had been torn limb from limb by a pack of rabid werewolves.

Or by a group of murderous Death Eaters, Harry thought uneasily.

Harry shadowed Dumbledore as the old wizard investigated the wreckage around them. Harry didn't look too hard though, afraid that they would stumble upon Slughorn's mutilated, ravaged body, and he couldn't quite damper the feeling that they were exploring a tomb.

"Do–Do you think there was a fight and they dragged him off, maybe?" He murmured, not quite believing it himself.

"I don't think so," Dumbledore admitted softly, bending to peer behind an overstuffed armchair that was lying on its side. "He's still here somewhere."

"Do you think he's…" Harry glanced apprehensively at the rivulets of blood pooling into the plush carpeting, "…alive?"

Dumbledore's eyes were hard and flinty as he looked over his shoulder at Harry. And then without warning, the headmaster swooped and plunged the tip of his wand into the seat of the overturned armchair.

"Ouch!" It cried, and Harry jumped back in surprise. Where only a split second before there had been an overstuffed armchair, there now crouched a fat, elderly, bald man. Rubbing his belly, he squinted up at Dumbledore with an air of affront.

"Good evening, Horace," Dumbledore greeted evenly, as if he encountered people concealing themselves as furniture all the time.

"Good evening, my toe!" The man grumbled as he got heavily to his feet. At his full height, he only came up to Dumbledore's chin, and Harry noticed that he didn't seem the least bit abashed at they all stood amongst the carnage and destruction. Harry wondered if that was the reason for his immediate distaste for the man.

The pudgy old man further narrowed his watery eyes up at Dumbledore and whined, "You didn't have to stick the wand in that hard, Albus! It hurt."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed bluntly. "But judging by the scene we walked into, I couldn't be sure what we would find. Had you been a Death Eater, for instance–"

"Yes, but you knew I wasn't a Death Eater," the fat man wheedled, wagging a pudgy finger at the man. Then after a long moment he seemed to deflate and asked, "What gave me away?"

Dumbledore looked amused. "My dear Horace, if the Death Eaters actually had come calling, the Dark Mark would have been set above the house."

The fat man clapped a meaty hand to his forehead. "The Dark Mark, of course. How could I have forgotten? Ah, well..." He squinted up at the headmaster once again. "Old age... My memory and reactions seem to be failing me – not as quick as I used to be, you know."

"Mmm," Dumbledore acknowledged, nodding politely as he placed his hands behind his back. "And yet, you were able to arrange all of this for us in… what? Five minutes?"

"Four," the other man grumbled with a mixture of pride and annoyance. "I have wards set on the corner. Help me clean up, won't you?" It was more of a demand than a request.

But the headmaster courteously agreed. "Of course," he murmured with a bow of his head.

The two wizards stood back to back and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments reformed 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 flew across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon the mantle; 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 fat wizard 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. "My last bottle incidentally, and prices are sky-high at the moment."

The words seemed to remind him of his annoyance with the two of them. Sourly, he turned away to pour himself a glass of amber liquid from an ornate crystal decanter on the mantle, making a show of not offering them one. Glaring at their reflections over his shoulder in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace, he somewhat rudely with a quick jerk of his many wobbly chins demanded, "Who's this then?"

"Oh yes, of course. How discourteous of me." Dumbledore apologized. As he placed his hand proudly on Harry's shoulder, Harry tried not to feel like a stuffed trophy animal on display in a hunter's prized collection. Luckily the headmaster didn't seem to notice. Plainly uninterested, the fat little wizard turned back around and placed the glass to his lips. At that moment Dumbledore announced, "Horace, please allow me to introduce 'The Boy Who Lived' – or 'The Chosen One', if you prefer – Mr. Harry Potter."

Slughorn sputtered and choked into his drink. Harry stood very still as the man eagerly examined him up and down like a collector at an auction, and had to force himself to school his features to hide his annoyance.

Well… Dad did warn me, he thought with a sigh.

Reminded of his father, Harry immediately felt guilty thinking of all the roles he'd been forced to play in his lifetime as a spy. The least Harry could do was assist in Snape's considerable effort. And so, with an internal shake of the head, Harry made a show of playing the part. Forcing a gracious smile, he casually tossed his head so that his fringe would reveal his scar. And just as Harry knew he would, Slughorn stared, his eyes immediately alighting upon his forehead.

Dumbledore continued the introductions. "Harry, this is my old friend and immensely respected colleague, Horace Slughorn."

Harry held out his hand and bowed his head deferentially. "Hello, sir. I've heard many great things. It's a pleasure to meet someone so distinguished in their field."

Slughorn's gaze flicked down to Harry's outstretched hand. He had the uncertain air of a man trying to resist temptation, but temptation eventually got the best of him. He grasped Harry's hand in a quick, grudging handshake, then turned to Dumbledore with a shrewd expression. "So this is how you thought to persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus."

The headmaster didn't seem phased in the least. Smiling benignly at the pudgy old man he asked, "I suppose we can join you a drink, at least? Make a toast to rest and relaxation?"

Slughorn hesitated. "All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.

Dumbledore winked at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood in a brightly lit spot directly beside the newly burning fire. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. His suspicion was confirmed when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, and his gaze fell immediately upon Harry.

"Hmpf," he said, quickly looking away as though frightened of hurting his eyes. "Here—" He shoved a drink at Dumbledore, who had already seated himself without invitation. Thrusting the tray at Harry, Slughorn sank onto the cushions of the repaired sofa and fell into a disgruntled silence.

Unperturbed, Dumbledore raised his glass and declared, "To an uneventful and soothingly dull retirement after a lifetime of stimulating eager, rambunctious young minds! Cheers, my friend!"

Slughorn's face twisted into a peculiar expression, as if he'd never considered retirement in such a way. "Oh, well… Yes. Cheers." His eyes looked uncertain as they gazed unseeingly over the rim of his glass at the fire beside them.

"So, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked conversationally.

"Hm? Oh. Not so well actually," answered Slughorn distractedly. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected at my age – fatigue."

The headmaster took another sip of his amber liquid. "Your active lifestyle must be a hindrance. Not a very relaxing way to live, if you'll permit me in saying so. From what I hear you don't stay in one place for very long." He lowered the glass into his lap and studied Slughorn for a long moment. "All these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the Death Eaters' benefit, or for mine?"

"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," Dumbledore drawled in a calm, matter-of-fact way. "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, as you seemed to have deduced. I move from house to house and never stay in one place more than a week – usually I stay in muggle residences when they are on vacation. The only reason I came home at all is because it's bloody expensive living on the run. I have appointments to meet with the local apothecary shop owners tomorrow to sell a few potions, and would have been gone by tomorrow evening." The fat man narrowed his eyes at the headmaster. "And you obviously hold more sway these days than the Daily Prophet gives you credit for, Albus. The handful of men who knew I was back in town are well aware of how much I like my privacy. They would not betray me lightly."

The headmaster smiled kindly. "No one has betrayed you, my friend. However, I've known you long enough to appreciate that you are a creature of habit who prefers your well-earned luxuries."

Luxuries… That's true enough, thought Harry as he gazed around the room, thinking of Spinner's End. Although both residences were owned by Hogwarts Potions professors, the two homes could not have been more different. Snape's household had been modest and subdued, his money spent only on things that enriched the mind. Slughorn's home, on the other hand, was opulent, lavish, and gaudy, with every luxurious detail placed in a such a way to draw attention to the man's wealth.

It was rather disgusting, in Harry's opinion.

But he had a role to play, and so instead he asserted, "It's a shame the Death Eaters have chased you out of your own home, sir. It seems like a very comfortable place for someone that has worked as hard as you."

Dumbledore immediately picked up on what he was attempting to do. "Indeed, Horace. You deserve better. 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," Dumbledore interrupted calmly. "I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.'"

"That's what she did, did she?" Slughorn drawled. "Idiotic woman."

Harry chuckled, and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.

"Sorry," Harry hastily apologized. "It's just — I thought she was awful, as well."

"Never liked her," Slughorn effused. "Even as a child, she had as much sense as a flobberworm. About the same amount of brains, too."

Harry couldn't help himself as he laughed outright. Anyone who compared Umbridge to a flobberworm couldn't be all bad. Slughorn seemed to be thinking the same about Harry, and the edge of his mouth quirked into a smirk as they both chuckled at the horrible woman's expense.

Dumbledore suddenly stood. The unexpected comradery between the two of them was broken as Slughorn seemed to remember that he didn't want them there.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, looking hopeful.

"No," Dumbledore intoned apologetically. "I was wondering whether I might use the loo."

"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the hall."

Dumbledore strode from the room, and an awkward silence descended. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, 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 abruptly accused.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn, who made no secret of his inspection. The man's watery eyes slid over Harry's scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

"You look very much like your father," he intoned.

"Yes sir, I've been told," answered 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.

"Hmpf. Yes, well…" he drifted off, his eyes searching the empty space somewhere over Harry's left shoulder. "You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but your mother was one of mine."

Harry's interest was immediately piqued. Even though Snape had told him much about his mother, he knew he'd never get tired of hearing what she was like. "You… You taught my mother, sir?"

Slughorn gave a nostalgic smile at Harry's question, still looking over Harry's shoulder. "One of my brightest students, Lily Evans. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl." At this his eyes flicked to take in Harry's eager face, and his smile remained. "I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I'd get back too."

"Which was your House, sir?"

"I was Head of Slytherin," Slughorn confided. "Oh, now, don't go holding that against me!" he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry's face and wagging a stubby finger at him. "You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose?"

Harry nodded.

"Yes, I expected as much. Usually runs in families, especially in Gryffindor. Your mother was muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

"One of my best friends is muggle-born," interjected Harry, "and she's the best in our year. The best in the entire school, actually."

"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" Slughorn murmured lightly.

Suddenly seeing the man in a new light, Harry coldly replied, "Not really."

But Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. "You mustn't think I'm prejudiced! 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," he rushed to explain. "He's now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. He was another muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts."

Slughorn bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the wide mantle, each peopled with tiny moving occupants. "Here they are, look!" he said, urging Harry forward. "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 Gwenog Jones, 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. The old man's chest seemed to swell like a puffer fish as he placed his hands behind him and rocked proudly back on his heels.

"And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?" asked Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked Slughorn down if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls, and he seemed to deflate like a balloon.

"Of course not," he huffed, looking down at Harry. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."

Harry had the impression that the words shocked even Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. 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," Harry dismissed, who couldn't 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. And his father, constantly placing himself in danger every time he answered Voldemort's summons. "Most of the teachers aren't in the Order, 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."

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort's name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed. Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ruthlessly seized upon. "I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore's headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?"

The old man gazed into space for a moment or two, his brow furrowing. He seemed to be thinking over Harry's words. "Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore," 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…"

The headmaster reentered the room at that very moment, making the suddenly very twitchy old professor jump in surprise.

"Albus! There you are."

"Indeed," Dumbledore answered with a knowing smile. But instead he turned to Harry. "Well Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality long enough. I do believe it's time for us to go."

"You're leaving?" Slughorn asked in dismay.

"Yes," the headmaster replied, not meeting the other man's gaze as he fastened his traveling cloak around him. "It's a pity. But I know a lost cause when I see one, Horace."

"Lost…?" Slughorn intoned, sounding unsure.

"I'm sorry you don't want the job, my friend," conceded Dumbledore, raising his 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…" He seemed agitated and unsure.

"Good-bye, then."

"Bye," called Harry. For some reason he couldn't wait to leave.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.

"All right, all right, I'll do it!"

Dumbledore and Harry turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.

"You will come out of retirement?"

"Yes, yes," answered Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see you in a week"

"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.

As they exited the house and set off down the garden path, Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and swirling mist.

"Well done, Harry," murmured the headmaster, his eyes twinkling. "I see that your father's skill at garnering information is already starting to rub off on you."

"Oh… erm… Thanks," Harry blushed. He didn't say it, but Dumbledore's words secretly pleased him. "I don't really feel like I did anything..."

"Oh, you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

"Err..."

Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his own way. And he thought Umbridge was a toad, so that was a plus. But he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a muggle-born should make a good witch.

"Horace, as you can tell," explained Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, "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 his favorites at Hogwarts, some for their ambition or their brains, others for their charm or 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 crystalized 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 want to befriend you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived' ... 'the Chosen One.'"

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding ocean mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago, after the Ministry – words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him.

Neither can live while the other survives…

Dumbledore had stopped walking at the corner. "This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm."

When the pressure from the apparition disappeared, Harry was happy to see that he was upright beside the headmaster in his large, round office. "Thank you again for teaching me how to stay standing, sir. It was embarrassing always ending up flat on my face."

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore murmured with a grandfatherly smile. Moving to stand behind his large desk, he made a motion with his arm and invited Harry to take a seat across from him. "Speaking of apparition, you will have the opportunity to get your Apparition License this year."

"Yeah, Hermione reminded us at the party."

The old wizard nodded approvingly and mentioned, "Ms. Granger is a very intelligent young lady. She and Mr. Weasley have been loyal friends to you throughout these many years."

"I agree, sir," Harry profusely acknowledged. "Before Dad and Lily… They were the only family I really had. I count myself very lucky to call them friends."

"A sentiment that I am glad to hear," the headmaster murmured softly. "As much as you've needed them in the past, they will be imperative to your success in the future. With this in mind, I want you to know that you have my full permission to reveal to them everything we discuss during our private lessons this year. If my suspicions prove correct, which they often do, your friends will have as much need of this information as you will." He grew serious, his eyes beseeching. "However, I must request that you keep the contents our meetings only amongst yourselves. The information I will be revealing to you throughout the year could be a danger to anyone who hears it."

"I can do that, Professor," Harry said after taking a moment to digest the headmaster's words. But he was still confused about one thing, and he met the headmaster's steady gaze with his own questioning look. "Sir… are you asking me not to say anything to my father?"

Dumbledore searched his face for a long, silent moment. Sighing, he seemed to deflate ever so slightly as he answered, "As I told you earlier this evening Harry, I will be forced to ask things of you this year that I have no right to. It's not fair – but it is necessary. The rest of the wizarding world may not realize it, but I know that you are all too aware that we are actively at war. And as much as you and I hate to think on it, your father is an integral player who puts his very life at stake every time he leaves this castle." He paused, and after a moment his lips hardened into a determined line. "Yes Harry, I am asking you to keep the information we discuss during our lessons only amongst you and your friends. I know it may be hard to understand, but my reason for doing so is only out of fear for Severus' safety."

Harry leaned back in his chair, gazing silently across at Dumbledore. For the first time in his magical life, he found himself wondering if the headmaster was doing the right thing.

Keep things hidden from my own father? A man who is just a much a part of the fight against Voldemort as I am? As much a part of it as Dumbledore himself?

"But… why, Professor?" was all he could think of to say.

Dumbledore gazed at him with a deep sadness in his eyes. "Because love conquers all, my boy. And because unfortunately, we are running out of time."