Harry Potter 06 - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then …’
    And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognised at once.
    It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-coloured hair quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His moustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystallised pineapple.
    Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn’s office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognised Riddle at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo’s gold and black ring; he had already killed his father.
    ‘Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?’ Riddle asked.
    ‘Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,’ said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. ‘I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy; more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.’
    Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
    ‘What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter – thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favourite –’
    As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly: ‘– you’ll go wrong, boy, mark my words.’
    The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock.
    ‘Good gracious, is it that time already?’ said Slughorn. ‘You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.’
    Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Riddle, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.
    ‘Look sharp, Tom,’ said Slughorn, turning round and finding him still present. ‘You don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect …’
    ‘Sir, I wanted to ask you something.’
    ‘Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away …’
    ‘Sir, I wondered what you know about … about Horcruxes?’
    And it happened all over again: the dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Riddle at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice boomed out again, just as it had done before.
    ‘I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!’
    ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. ‘Time to go.’
    And Harry’s feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back on to the rug in front of Dumbledore’s desk.
    ‘That’s all there is?’ said Harry blankly.
    Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Riddle had asked a question and failed to get an answer.
    ‘As you might have noticed,’ said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, ‘that memory has been