"As a matter of fact—"
Dumbledore chuckled warmly, the flush of late afternoon light colouring his aged, wrinkled face a soft gold.
"Severus went through much the same thing in his first few years, you know. And Charlie Weasley, the second Weasley son, was every bit the Quidditch prodigy James was, in his own day—though he'd never say so himself."
"Hmph—"
Professor Slughorn eyed Dumbledore sidelong, one bushy eyebrow lifting, and gave a scornful little laugh. "And after Charlie graduated, Gryffindor turned right around and got Harry Potter, didn't it. I suppose you'd have me believe Gryffindor House is simply blessed—under divine protection, is it, Albus? Some special arrangement with the Sorting Hat I've never been told about?"
"You know I'm not so narrow-minded as that, Horace—"
Dumbledore smiled gently. "What I'd far rather see is players from all four Houses fighting hard on the Quidditch pitch, winning glory for their teams and for themselves, and giving the rest of us a fine match to watch from the stands, whatever colours happen to be flying."
"Always so watertight, aren't you, Albus—never once caught without the diplomatic answer ready."
Professor Slughorn gave another couple of good-natured grunts, shook his head slightly, smiled warmly at Hermione in passing, and set off at his own pace toward the lake, his hands clasped behind his back in a manner that echoed, without meaning to, Dumbledore's habitual stance.
Hermione felt no offense at all at Slughorn's veiled little dig at Dumbledore.
In fact, she was rather fond of Professor Slughorn, since her very first Potions lesson under him.
For all his various foibles—this portly old man, Dumbledore's contemporary in every sense, was nothing like Professor Snape had once been in the classroom. He managed, by and large, to treat all his students with fairness, rather than reserving his warmest favour for Slytherins alone.
Dumbledore, too, began walking toward the lake now. It looked, watching the two of them fall into step together, as though they meant to talk—or perhaps to discuss something rather more particular than the weather.
Hermione's eyes stayed fixed on the two professors as they made their slow way down to the lakeshore, something in their manner catching her attention; she didn't even notice Harry, Ron, and the others descending from the sky behind her until their voices broke through.
"You simply have to join the Gryffindor team, Roya! You absolutely have to!"
In the end, Roya couldn't quite be shaken off—though, judging by the sheen of sweat covering Harry's forehead and the way his chest still heaved slightly, he'd given their little contest most of what he had.
Harry swung down off his broom in one easy motion, flushed with excitement and the lingering thrill of the chase, and immediately pressed his invitation on Roya with urgency. "I'll swear it on my Firebolt—if you join the Gryffindor team, no one will stand a chance against us."
The little Druid girl's smiling cheeks were flushed a bright pink and damp with sweat from the exertion.
Like Harry, the moment she got hold of a broomstick something in her simply lit up, radiant and unmistakable—though ordinarily, off the ground, her lively nature carried a thread of shyness in it too!
"I'm not sure I'm old enough, Harry—"
Roya pressed her lips together as she spoke, glancing down at her own hands, but a pure, untroubled light began flickering in her eyes all the same.
"Oh, don't talk nonsense!"
Ron struck the pose of a seasoned veteran at once, chest out, clapping Roya on the shoulder with the air of an old hand dispensing hard-won wisdom. "Harry joined the Gryffindor team in his very first year—he was eleven, same as you are now!"
"If you say yes, I'll go talk to Angelina the moment we've finished eating tonight, and the two of us will go find Professor McGonagall together, straightaway. I'd bet anything she won't say no—nobody wants Gryffindor to win the Cup more than she does!"
Harry said eagerly, clearly already picturing the lineup in his head.
"Oh, but—"
Harry had been sure that Roya would simply nod yes at that. Instead he saw her biting her lip, her whole face suddenly full of hesitation.
"What's wrong, Roya?"
Harry blinked, genuinely baffled by the shift, while Ron, beside him, suddenly wore the look of someone who'd just worked something out. "You're worried Professor Rahansen won't allow it, is that it?"
Everyone at Hogwarts knew by now that Roya and her companions came from the same place as Professor Rahansen.
"Actually—"
Roya glanced carefully, almost apologetically, toward Hermione, faltering over her words now. "I'm not sure whether it's even allowed, but... what I actually want, if I'm honest, is to put together a team of my own."
Put together a team of her own—what exactly did that mean?
Harry and Ron exchanged a puzzled look between them, both taking in Roya properly, whose height matched a first-year witch's in every respect and gave no obvious hint of what she might be getting at.
But in the end, it was Harry who caught on faster.
"You mean—the exchange delegation."
Harry turned to Hermione with a furrowed brow, seeking confirmation. "Do you think that's even possible, Hermione? Hermione?"
He had to call her name twice, raising his voice slightly the second time, before Hermione, still gazing out toward the lake where the two professors had gone, finally came back to herself with a small twitch.
"Oh—are you two finished, then?"
Hermione brushed back a strand of hair blowing across her eyes and turned properly to Roya, a touch of surprise crossing her face at having missed the tail end of the contest. "Well, Roya, did you manage to beat them both?"
"What were you looking at just now?"
Ron narrowed his eyes and peered off toward the setting sun, following the line of Hermione's earlier gaze. "Is that Dumbledore and Slughorn down there? Are they just out for a walk, or is something going on?"
Hermione shrugged, deciding not to bother guessing what the two professors might be discussing so privately between themselves.
She turned a gentle, focused look back on Roya instead, and it took her no effort at all to catch the lingering uneasiness still sitting on the girl's face. "What is it you actually want to do, Roya? Tell me properly."
Having just been interrupted mid-explanation, Roya looked even more uncertain than before, twisting her hands slightly in front of her—after all, Flomide had solemnly instructed all of them, more than once, to mind their words and hold their tongues carefully while at the castle.
They were still strangers here, guests in this community of wizards, and they needed to learn how to get along within it before asking for too much.
"Roya wants to put together a Quidditch team from within the exchange delegation," Harry said it for her, still a little out of breath himself, "but she isn't sure whether that's even allowed."
"Oh—"
A little startled by the actual scope of the request, Hermione bit her lip, hesitating this time before answering. "I'm sorry, Roya, but I'm afraid that's not something I can decide on my own. Once Professor Watson gets back, though, I'd be more than happy to help you ask his opinion on it."
"You've got quite the silver tongue, Hermione, when you want to."
Ron, standing off to one side with his arms crossed, said suddenly, a teasing note in it.
"Wha—oh!"
Hermione let out a startled, delighted little cry at the sight of a lean, familiar figure striding in through the distant school gates.
"How does it feel to be back at Hogwarts, Horace?"
"Is that the only reason you called me out here for a walk, Albus?"
Professor Slughorn rolled his eyes at the question, wearing the look of a man who'd known all along the other had some deeper scheme sitting behind the pleasant invitation. But a moment later, his smile faded away.
He turned his back to the Black Lake—the evening glow had dyed its surface the deep colour of blood, red and gold bleeding together at the water's edge—and looked out toward the grounds instead, seeking somewhere easier to rest his eyes. His gaze, sharp and shrewd as ever underneath, had gone somewhat lost and unmoored.
The melancholy of deep autumn found no purchase at all in this crowd of vigorous young people scattered across the lawn.
Out on the grounds: young witches and wizards chasing each other between the trees, laughing without a single care visible on their faces; older couples leaning into one another on the grass; O.W.L. students sitting quietly in small clusters, studying diligently over their books in the last of the light—every single one of them radiated the vivid pulse of life!
Slughorn stared out at all of it, half in a daze. The scene was so peaceful, so thoroughly harmonious, that he very nearly forgot, for one blessed moment, that the world beyond this school's walls was mired in blood and turmoil that showed no sign of ending.
"Hogwarts is a fine place—"
Dumbledore's silvery-white beard swayed gently in the evening breeze coming off the water; in his deep blue eyes, too, these blazingly active young people were reflected.
"Yes. It's always been this way here, hasn't it—as if nothing ever truly changes—"
Horace turned his face away from the view, regarding Dumbledore now with a certain distance, his tone took on a harder edge than before. "Don't beat around the bush with me, Albus. I know perfectly well you didn't call me all the way out here for a stroll just to ask how it feels being back at Hogwarts after so long—"
A trace of real helplessness crept into the smile still lingering on Dumbledore's face.
"I don't doubt your intelligence for a moment, Horace. You know exactly what it is I want to ask you about. And you know very well, how many innocent lives that particular piece of information of yours could spare. That one crucial piece of knowledge could decide everything—without it, everything we're striving for right now is nothing but groping about in the dark—"
"And here I was naive enough to think you'd finally given up on this—"
Horace cut Dumbledore off with an irritated, weary mutter.
"But how many more times do I have to say it before you'll actually believe me, Albus? I don't know. Everything I know, every last scrap of it, I've already told you. The memory I gave you—that's everything there is to give, I—"
"Horace—"
Dumbledore let out a deep sigh at that and for once looked entirely at a loss.
Seeing him like that—seeing Albus Dumbledore, of all people, looking so tired—Professor Slughorn wavered internally for a moment too. But really, when it came down to it, what else could he possibly do?
Riddle hadn't truly put any real effort into hunting him down, not yet—but Horace knew better, far better, than to think Riddle had simply forgotten that night. The night he'd come asking about Horcruxes and the terrible hope that had lived behind the question even then.
That was the shame of his whole life—that it was he, Horace Slughorn, without ever meaning to, without ever seeing where the road actually led, who had helped shape Tom Riddle into the most evil Dark wizard history had ever known!
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