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

Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,’ he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, ‘the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.’
    He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
    ‘You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,’ said Dumbledore.
    ‘Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,’ said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. ‘Reactions not what they were, I see.’
    ‘You’re quite right,’ said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. ‘I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand …’
    He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: it was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring, too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
    ‘So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace … are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?’ asked Dumbledore.
    ‘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,’ said Dumbledore. ‘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. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house – the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands. It’s been very pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbours don’t spot you bringing in the piano.’
    ‘Ingenious,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. 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 rumours have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days –’
    ‘Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,’ said Dumbledore. ‘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?’ said Slughorn. ‘Idiotic woman. Never liked her.’
    Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.
    ‘Sorry,’ Harry said hastily. ‘It’s just – I didn’t like her, either.’
    Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.
    ‘Are you leaving?’ asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.
    ‘No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,’ said Dumbledore.
    ‘Oh,’ said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. ‘Second on the left down the hall.’
    Dumbledore crossed the room. Once the door had closed behind him there was silence. 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 strode 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 said abruptly.
    Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.
    ‘You look very like your father.’
    ‘Yeah, I’ve been told,’ said 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.
    ‘Humph. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favourites as a