Chapter 564: The Unknown Horcrux and the Memory
Afternoon. A remote village in the Scottish Highlands.
The spires of Hogwarts were far behind them. Now, Sean could see only an ancient
stone war memorial and a few weathered wooden benches.
"Perhaps you have already moved past the stage of requiring medicinal
assistance?"
Following the jarring sensation of Side-Along Apparition, Dumbledore looked at
the empty crystal phial in Sean's hand with a slight twinkle in his eye.
"If I don't drink it... it goes to waste," Sean replied, tucking the bottle back
into his bag.
These phials weren't cheap; a high-quality crystal one cost six Galleons. For a
while now, Sean's bag had been overflowing with surplus potions. He used to
worry about them expiring, but lately, he realized he was consuming his magical
and mental reserves at such a rate that "waste" was the only certainty.
Dumbledore chuckled, wrapping his robes tighter against the biting wind. "This
way."
He walked with a brisk, youthful pace, passing a deserted pub and a cluster of
small stone cottages. According to a nearby church clock, it was nearly three in
the afternoon.
"We cannot Apparate directly into a wizard's home; it would be as uncivilized as
kicking in their front door," Dumbledore explained, sounding almost
disappointed. "Etiquette dictates that we allow our fellow wizards the
opportunity to refuse us entry. Furthermore, most wizarding residences are
warded against unwelcome Apparitors—"
"And if there were no anti-apparition wards? Would you have popped directly into
Mr. Slughorn's parlor?" Sean asked.
"Oh..." Dumbledore paused, looking tempted. "No... definitely not. Turn left
here."
They climbed a steep, narrow street lined with rows of identical houses. The
unnatural chill that had plagued Hogwarts seemed to linger even here. They
approached a tidy little stone cottage nestled within a small garden.
"You may do the honors," Dumbledore said.
Sean stepped forward and knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" a flowerpot hanging on the door asked in a sharp, enchanted voice.
"Dumbledore," Sean said, following the Headmaster's silent cue.
"Ah—Dumbledore—!" the flowerpot shrieked, and the door swung open.
The afternoon sun spilled into the hallway, illuminating a brilliant bald head,
prominent bulging eyes, and a set of massive, walrus-like silver whiskers. The
light finally came to rest on the gleaming buttons of a plum-colored velvet
smoking jacket.
"A pleasure to see you—and good afternoon to you, child," the old walrus said.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Slughorn," Sean said with a polite nod.
"Step inside, dear boy, and you too, Albus, you old goat." The walrus let out a
booming, hearty laugh.
As the door closed, the warmth of the interior replaced the Highlands chill.
Sean scanned the room. It was cramped and cluttered, but no one could call it
uncomfortable. It was filled with plush armchairs, footstools, books, and boxes
of chocolates. If Sean hadn't known who lived here, he would have guessed it
belonged to a very fastidious, well-to-do widow.
"Antipodean Opaleye dragon blood... three-quarters of a gram... exceptional
purity..." Sean muttered, his eyes drifting to the shelves of potion ingredients
lining the walls. His high level of proficiency allowed him to identify the
stock instantly.
"It seems your Potions training is going quite well... perhaps you inherited
your mother's flair for the craft," Slughorn noted, overhearing the whisper.
"My mother?" Sean froze. He repeated the word, his eyes narrowing.
"Naturally! Your mother was one of the brightest students I ever had the
pleasure of teaching. Vivacious. Charming. A truly magnetic girl..." Slughorn
began to ramble.
"I believe we should steer clear of that particular topic for now, Horace,"
Dumbledore said, his voice turning cold.
Slughorn shivered instinctively at the change in the Headmaster's tone. He
looked at Sean, who had stepped closer, staring at the retired professor with a
piercing intensity. To Slughorn's surprise, the pressure radiating from the boy
was every bit as heavy as Dumbledore's.
"What is it, Professor?" Sean asked.
"Black hair, green eyes... though the face is a bit different... Child, may I
see the scar?" Slughorn's watery eyes flickered toward Sean's forehead.
"This boy is not Harry Potter, Horace," Dumbledore said wearily.
"What?!" Slughorn gasped, nearly stumbling back into a pile of cushions.
"Allow me to introduce," Dumbledore stepped forward, "Mr. Sean Green. Sean, this
is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn."
"I... ah. I see." Slughorn's enthusiasm seemed to deflate slightly. He offered
Sean a polite, but somewhat distracted, handshake. "I assumed you'd at least
bring the Potter boy to try and win me over..."
"A rare oversight for me, Mr. Green," Dumbledore said with a hidden grin,
looking at Sean. "It seems even wizards sometimes focus on the wrong details."
"What was that?" Slughorn turned to Dumbledore, looking suspicious.
"Nothing at all, Horace," Dumbledore said innocently.
"Well, come in, come in. I must ask... as you see, I am an old man now. A tired
old man who has earned the right to a quiet life and a few material comforts."
Slughorn scrutinized Sean, as if trying to place him in his mental archives.
"And now someone comes to shatter my retirement... I really ought to say no..."
Sean had already guessed Dumbledore's motive for bringing him. Horace Slughorn
was a fascinating wizard. Regardless of his past mistakes—which, in truth, were
born of vanity rather than malice—he had eventually stood his ground at the
Battle of Hogwarts, fighting against the Dark Lord's forces. He was a man of
ambition, but he had a bottom line.
He loved material wealth—his favorite food was crystallized pineapple, just like
Professor Sprout—but his real passion was "collecting" successful people. He
loved the feeling of being the secret power behind a great throne. He never
wanted to rule; he preferred the wings, where he could pull the strings and
enjoy the show.
"Is there no one else at Hogwarts...?" Slughorn muttered, looking at the boy.
He had heard the name Sean Green in the papers, but at the time, his focus had
been entirely on the Boy Who Lived.
"Sean Green..." Slughorn's eyes suddenly widened. "Wait! Dear boy... are you the
proprietor of that bookshop? The owner of The Emerald Workshop?"
At this, Dumbledore burst into a fit of laughter, his beard shaking.
"I am, sir," Sean replied.
"I've noticed you've become much more prone to laughter lately, Albus," Slughorn
said, looking at Dumbledore with suspicion.
"I've had much to be happy about," Dumbledore replied, trying to suppress a
smirk.
"Such as?"
"I have a private lesson this afternoon," Dumbledore said with mock gravity.
"With this boy? Albus, you haven't taught a class in decades!"
"Indeed. But Sean has reached a level where there is very little left for him to
learn in the standard curriculum. In one field, even I am powerless to guide
him. But in the other—Transfiguration—I flatter myself that I still have a few
tricks to show him."
Dumbledore leaned in, his eyes twinkling. "Just a few days ago, he used
Transfiguration to neutralize two of our most powerful professors
simultaneously. And... he was the one who orchestrated the capture of our
fugitive 'hero,' Peter Pettigrew."
Slughorn's jaw dropped. He looked at Sean with a look of pure, unadulterated
hunger—the look of a man who had just seen a gold-foil legendary card in a pack
of Chocolate Frogs.
I have to get my hands on this one, he thought, the idea echoing like a spell in
his mind.
Suddenly, Dumbledore stood up. "Are you leaving? I haven't even said no yet—In fact—if—" Slughorn blurted out, looking panicked.
"No, no. I was just wondering if I might use your facilities, Horace,"
Dumbledore said with a smile.
"Oh! Right. Down the hall, second door on the left," Slughorn said, looking
relieved.
Dumbledore headed toward the back of the house. Once the door clicked shut,
Slughorn turned to Sean, placing his heavy hands on the boy's shoulders.
"He actually brought you out into the light... Merlin's beard, I thought he'd
keep you a secret forever. If I were him, I wouldn't want the world to know what
a prize I had..."
"Know what?" Sean asked.
"Well, look at these... look at these!" Slughorn gestured excitedly toward a
nearby dresser covered in dozens of shimmering silver picture frames. Inside,
the inhabitants were waving and smiling.
"These are all my former students. All signed. That's Barnabas Cuffe, editor of
the Daily Prophet—he's always asking for my insights on current events. And
Ambrosius Flume of Honeydukes—he sends me a massive gift basket every birthday
because I was the one who introduced him to Ciceron Harkiss and got him his
first job!
"And back there—stretch your neck—that's Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead
Harpies. People wonder why I always have the best seats at the matches... I
never have to pay for a ticket!"
Slughorn spoke at a frantic pace, but then his voice dropped to a somber
whisper. "I've collected many, yes. They are all wonderful. But for the most
precious of them all..."
Slughorn pulled a small brass handle on the wall, revealing a hidden
compartment. Sean saw a row of photos tiered by "importance." On a high shelf
sat a photo of Lily Evans.
"If things go well... oh, Merlin willing... I must put you here."
Slughorn pointed not to the shelf where Lily sat, but to a blank, ornate frame
hanging above it—at the very top of the hierarchy.
Clack, clack, clack.
Dumbledore re-entered the room. Slughorn jumped, seemingly forgetting the
Headmaster was still in the house.
"Ah, you're back, Albus," Slughorn said. "You were gone a while. Troubles with
the digestion?"
"Not at all. I was just catching up on your Muggle magazines," Dumbledore said.
"I'm quite fond of knitting patterns. Now, Sean, we have troubled Horace long
enough. I believe it's time we left."
Slughorn looked devastated. "But you haven't asked me yet!!"
"Haven't I?" Dumbledore looked confused.
"OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T!" Slughorn shouted.
"Well then... I suppose I shall ask. But I remember you saying you only wanted a
quiet retirement. It would be quite rude of me to force—"
"Enough talk! I accept! I'll come to Hogwarts! I'll start now! This minute!" The
old walrus began frantically gathering his things. "I'll be expecting a raise in
salary, Albus!"
"Well, about that..." Dumbledore looked pained.
"I'm joking! But I'm coming with you! You stingy old man!" Slughorn hoisted his
suitcase, looking fuming but determined. He didn't look at Dumbledore once; his
eyes were fixed solely on Sean.
Dumbledore shared a soft, triumphant laugh with the boy.
They exited the cottage, the garden gate clicking shut behind them. They walked
down the hill through the swirling, heavy mist. Even as Slughorn sulked behind
them, Dumbledore continued his conversation with Sean.
"How is your progress in Transfiguration, Sean?"
"Average for the Master level," Sean replied honestly.
"Ah. A bit slow, then," Dumbledore noted.
"A BIT SLOW?!" Slughorn's voice erupted from behind them.
"Oh, Horace, forgive me. For this child, it is slow. Especially compared to his
other disciplines." Dumbledore twinkled, looking thoroughly pleased with
himself. "We have our first private lesson this afternoon, Sean. Remember to
bring your wand."
By the time they returned to Hogwarts, the sun was still bright, but the wind
had grown even colder. In this freezing November air, Sean was about to attend
his first one-on-one session with Albus Dumbledore.
Before they entered the office, Dumbledore paused.
"Before we begin the lesson, Sean, I need to spend a few minutes assigning you a second mission. I trust you will complete my first task during the summer break,
but for now... listen closely. There is something of vital importance that only
you can do."
Dumbledore's face was partially obscured by the steam rising from a fresh pot of tea. Sean hadn't expected to be drafted so soon.
The mission was simple: Extract a specific memory from Professor Slughorn.
Sean knew the significance of that memory. It was already part of his own
calculations. To track down Voldemort's final, unknown Horcrux, they needed to
understand the Dark Lord's past—specifically, his first encounter with the
concept of the soul-anchors.
"So... are you willing?"
Dumbledore finished his explanation. Sean didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp,
confident nod.
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