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

and watery eye.
    ‘There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,’ he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. ‘It hurt.’
    The wand-light sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver walrus-like moustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pyjamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin.
    ‘What gave it away?’ he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
    ‘My dear Horace,’ said Dumbledore, looking amused, ‘if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.’
    The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
    ‘The Dark Mark,’ he muttered. ‘Knew there was something … ah well. Wouldn’t have had time, anyway. I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.’
    He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his moustache flutter.
    ‘Would you like my assistance clearing up?’ asked Dumbledore politely.
    ‘Please,’ said the other.
    They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.
    The furniture flew back to its original place; ornaments re-formed in midair; feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared on to side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; 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 clock.
    ‘On the walls? Dragon,’ shouted the wizard called Horace 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 conversationally. ‘My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.’
    He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.
    ‘Hm. Bit dusty.’
    He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.
    ‘Oho,’ he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry’s forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. ‘Oho!’
    ‘This,’ said Dumbledore, moving forwards to make the introduction, ‘is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.’
    Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
    ‘So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.’
    He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
    ‘I suppose we can have a drink, at least?’ asked Dumbledore. ‘For old times’ sake?’
    Slughorn hesitated.
    ‘All right then, one drink,’ he said ungraciously.
    Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him towards a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.
    ‘Humph,’ he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. ‘Here –’ He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short that they did not touch the floor.
    ‘Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?’ Dumbledore asked.
    ‘Not so well,’ said Slughorn at once. ‘Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.’
    ‘And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,’ said Dumbledore. ‘You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?’
    Slughorn said, half-irritably, half-proudly, ‘Two.