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

Harry ignored.
    ‘I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?’ Harry went on.
    Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: he seemed to be thinking over Harry’s words.
    ‘Well, yes, it is true that He Who Must Not Be Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He Who Must Not Be Named can hardly count me a friend … in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus … I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death did not shake me … if she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection …’
    Dumbledore re-entered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.
    ‘Oh, there you are, Albus,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a very long time. Upset stomach?’
    ‘No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.’
    Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn seemed taken aback.
    ‘You’re leaving?’
    ‘Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.’
    ‘Lost …?’
    Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fastening his travelling cloak and Harry zipping up his jacket.
    ‘Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,’ said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. ‘Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.’
    ‘Yes … well … very gracious … as I say …’
    ‘Goodbye, then.’
    ‘Bye,’ said Harry.
    They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.
    ‘All right, all right, I’ll do it!’
    Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.
    ‘You will come out of retirement?’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ said Slughorn impatiently. ‘I must be mad, but yes.’
    ‘Wonderful,’ said Dumbledore, beaming. ‘Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.’
    ‘Yes, I daresay you will,’ grunted Slughorn.
    As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them.
    ‘I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!’
    Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.
    ‘Well done, Harry,’ said Dumbledore.
    ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Harry in surprise.
    ‘Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?’
    ‘Er …’
    Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.
    ‘Horace,’ said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, ‘likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the back seat – more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favourites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favourites with himself at the centre, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favourite crystallised pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.’
    Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around him, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.
    ‘I tell you all this,’ Dumbledore continued, ‘not to turn you against Horace – or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn – but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection: the Boy Who Lived … or, as they call you