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After roughly, exhaustingly finishing the final, grueling double Potions Class of the day, the Head of Slytherin House practically fled the damp classroom, retreating hastily into the heavily warded sanctuary of his private, incredibly comfortable office.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing out the cold drafts of the dungeon.
With a heavy, breathless grunt, Horace Slughorn waddled over to his massive mahogany desk. He immediately tore open a beautifully packaged, velvet-lined box of incredibly expensive, imported sweet and sour Hawaiian candied pineapple preserves. He aggressively devoured three thick, sugary chunks in rapid succession, the tart sweetness exploding on his tongue. Following the sugar rush, he poured himself a massive, overflowing crystal goblet of thick, golden, fiercely sweet Hungarian honey wine and downed it in two massive, gulping swallows.
As the fiery, sugary warmth of the heavy alcohol finally hit his stomach, Slughorn's tightly wound, terrified nerves slowly, marginally began to relax.
He walked over to the fireplace and slumped heavily into a massive, incredibly soft, emerald-green high-backed armchair. He groaned, adjusting his considerable physical bulk several times against the plush velvet cushions until he found the absolute perfect angle. He let out a long, heavy, rattling sigh, allowing the sheer exhaustion of the day to bleed out of his bones, and then lazily waved his short walrus-wood wand—
A pristine, incredibly soft blue satin handkerchief, delicately embroidered with large, bright yellow lemons, flew gracefully up from the low coffee table and landed steadily in his waiting, pudgy hand. He aggressively mopped the thick sheen of nervous, cold sweat from his shiny forehead and the rolls of his neck. He took a deep, centering breath, and calmly, imperiously ordered the empty air of the room:
"Creevey! Get me some proper savory snacks to go with my red wine. Oh, and immediately fetch the crystal wine set for the limoncello, a fresh bottle of carbonated quinine water... and also bring me freshly sliced lemon wedges and curled orange peels. Quickly now."
He leaned his heavy head back against the velvet and closed his bulging eyes. He focused on vividly imagining the sharp, clear, highly refreshing citrus scent of the lemons and oranges, actively allowing the heavy, luxurious feeling of absolute physical comfort to slowly, warmly fill his chest once again.
With a sharp, echoing crack!, the house-elf Creevey popped directly into the center of the office. The tiny elf was miraculously, flawlessly balancing a massive, incredibly heavy polished silver tray—carrying so many precarious crystal bottles and plates that it was a physical marvel she could still execute a skillful, incredibly deep bow without dropping a single grape.
"Professor Slughorn, sir! Is there absolutely anything else you require?" Creevey squeaked, her tennis-ball eyes wide and eager to serve.
The massive silver tray was placed gently and perfectly into the exact center of the mahogany coffee table. It was a feast fit for a king. A beautifully carved red agate bowl held a massive, overflowing string of glistening, pale green grapes, still dotted with cold dew. Beside it sat a small porcelain dish of pungent, aged goat cheese, a sprawling plate of heavily marbled, thinly sliced Italian dry-cured sausage that smelled sharply of garlic and pepper, a crystal dish of bright, glistening yellow lemon slices, and perfectly spiraled, aromatic orange peels...
Nearby, a tall, heavy glass bottle of freezing, carbonated quinine water sat on a coaster, the clear, freezing droplets of condensed water slowly, beautifully sliding down the outer curved wall of the glass.
Sniffing the heavy, incredibly rich, salty aroma of the cured meat and the sharp citrus, Slughorn happily rubbed his massive, waistcoat-covered belly. He slowly, genuinely revealed a deeply contented, incredibly comfortable smile—
"Nothing else, Creevey," he said carelessly, waving a pudgy hand to dismiss her.
"Then Creevey shall withdraw, sir! Creevey is ready to serve the Professor at any time!"
Watching the little elf snap her fingers and disappear with another sharp crack!, Slughorn sighed lazily, a deep sense of pureblood entitlement washing over him. Honestly, he thought smugly, besides the sprawling, ancient kitchens of Hogwarts, where else in the entire world could I possibly find a free, highly trained army of over a hundred loyal house-elves to flawlessly serve my every single culinary whim at a moment's notice?
He grunted, pushing himself up out of the deep armchair. He waddled over to his massive, glass-fronted wine cabinet, lovingly took out several bottles of his absolute most treasured, highly expensive fine wines, and walked towards the polished brass bar table he had specially equipped in the corner of the room. He eagerly began to mix his absolute favorite, highly complex evening cocktail—
As a legendary, undisputed Master of Potions, Slughorn firmly, arrogantly believed that his personal cocktail-mixing skills were absolutely second to none in the entire United Kingdom's magical world.
He poured with practiced, scientific precision: a heavy splash of sweet, citrusy limoncello; actively mixed with a measure of incredibly rare, throat-burning dragon egg wine; a highly specific, bitter dash of white absinthe; a sweet, herbal pour of yellow Chartreuse... and finally, he delicately sprinkled a microscopic hint of a highly secret, effervescent Potion powder directly over the rim of the glass. The liquid hissed, glowing with a soft, inviting golden light.
He picked up the heavy crystal tumbler and took a deep, highly satisfied sip. He then casually picked up a translucent, oily slice of the Italian sausage, tossed it into his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed agonizingly slowly.
The sharp, spicy scent of the garlic, the biting heat of the pepper, the salty tang of the cure, and the incredibly rich, mouth-watering aroma of the smoked fat... perfectly, flawlessly paired with the sharp sour, sugary sweet, and deeply complex herbal bitter taste of the glowing cocktail. The flavors violently, beautifully bloomed layer by exquisite layer directly on his highly refined taste buds.
This, Slughorn thought passionately, swallowing the rich food. This is exactly what life is meant to be.
His wealthy, highly influential pureblood parents had once deeply, aggressively hoped he would climb the political ladder and work directly for the Minister in the Ministry of Magic. And his ambitious friends around him had always firmly felt that with his charismatic, highly manipulative personality and his vast web of connections, he would surely be entirely at ease dominating high-society political settings. But looking back on the long, sprawling journey of his life...
I made the absolute right choice, Slughorn reasoned, taking another sip of his cocktail.
His former Slytherin friends who currently worked for the Ministry of Magic were constantly, agonizingly caught in the terrifying, highly lethal vortex of ruthless political struggles. Their daily bureaucratic work was incredibly complicated, exhausting, and highly dangerous. Constant, sickening flattery was entirely unavoidable, violently adding massive, unnecessary physical stress to their shortened lifespans.
And his friends who actively started massive corporate businesses? They were constantly, exhaustingly busy working around the clock, stressed out of their minds, entirely at the mercy of the brutal wizarding economy, and literally had absolutely zero free time to actually sit down and enjoy the immense wealth they were hoarding.
Not to even mention those pathetic, ordinary wizards who simply worked menial labor for others—they were either constantly poor, constantly bone-tired, or miserably both... No matter exactly how you looked at it—there was absolutely no comfortable future in any of those paths.
But Slughorn? He had absolutely always known exactly what he wanted out of life—
By fully utilizing his undisputed, incredibly excellent Potions level, he had successfully secured an incredibly easy, deeply beloved, highly respected teaching job. He had even effortlessly become the Head of Slytherin House, possessing massive administrative power with minimal physical effort.
At the exact same time—
He lived a highly superior, ridiculously luxurious life. He maintained a perfectly comfortable, lazy daily pace. He had absolute, uninterrupted, free room service from a legion of house-elves. He had access to endless, delicious, premium food, and overflowing cellars of priceless fine wine... He commanded the absolute, unwavering respect of his powerful friends and his wealthy students. He possessed an undeniably excellent, world-spanning political network...
He genuinely, deeply enjoyed absolutely everything about his incredibly comfortable, highly insulated life here at Hogwarts.
His legendary Slug Club, in particular, had successfully, meticulously gathered the absolute most talented, highly connected little wizards in the entire United Kingdom's magic world. And thanks to his early, highly manipulative investments in their careers, they had almost all eventually achieved extraordinary, world-changing success in their respective fields, constantly sending him free, expensive gifts in gratitude.
His life at this exact, luxurious moment simply couldn't physically be any better.
...
Crack.
The crystal glass in his hand suddenly, violently clinked against the brass bar top.
His pudgy hand paused slightly in mid-air, suddenly trembling.
Tom Riddle.
Just simply thinking of that specific, highly cursed name sent a violent, terrifying spike of pure, unadulterated ice directly into Slughorn's veins, instantly shattering the warm, fuzzy buzz of the alcohol.
The student he had been absolutely, unwaveringly certain would have a brilliant, world-changing, incredibly successful political future.
That devastatingly young, highly charming, terrifyingly handsome pale face violently appeared in his mind's eye, smiling that perfect, polite, deeply manipulative smile.
And then... Slughorn's breath hitched painfully in his chest. His mind violently flashed to the highly classified, terrifyingly blurry magical photograph he had accidentally, secretly seen in the Daily Prophet editor's private office just a few short days ago—
Those terrifying, burning, slit-like evil red eyes. That horrific, chalk-white face, entirely devoid of a nose, violently distorted and stretched exactly as if the flesh had literally melted off his skull in a fire—
How? Slughorn thought, sheer, unadulterated terror gripping his heart. How in Merlin's name did that beautiful, brilliant boy actively become this horrifying, inhuman, terrifying apparition?
That horrific, monstrous look... the physical, biological degradation. It was the undeniable, textbook physical look of a deeply, permanently damaged, violently torn soul...
Slughorn physically shuddered, a massive, cold sweat instantly breaking out across his entire body, entirely ruining the comfort of the fire. He frantically raised the heavy crystal glass to his lips with a violently shaking hand and quickly took another massive, desperate sip of the strong wine.
"It's... it's all in the past. It's all over," he whispered softly, highly frantically to himself. His pudgy, ring-covered fingers tightened agonizingly around the heavy crystal glass. He tilted his massive head all the way back and violently drained the rest of the burning wine in one single, desperate gulp.
I went to the library last night. I checked the book. The theory is there, but surely... surely he didn't actually do it...
"It's all over," Slughorn muttered under his breath, staring blankly, terrified, down into the empty, sticky bottom of the crystal glass. He repeated the lie desperately, exactly like a frantic mantra. "Maybe... maybe I just simply saw the photograph wrong... It was blurry. Yes. And besides... I absolutely didn't officially reveal anything to him that night in my office... the memory is safe..."
His panicked voice became lighter and lighter in the empty room, trailing off into a pathetic, desperate attempt at cowardly self-hypnosis.
Let's just keep eating. Let's just keep drinking.
Stay here in the dungeon. Stay comfortable. Do not look outside.
Besides... Slughorn swallowed hard, placing the glass down. If the worst truly happens, and the bloody sky actually falls down upon them all...
Albus Dumbledore is the one standing at the top of the tower. He will be the one who has to hold it up.