33 Chapter 33: Private Conversation

After bidding farewell to Professor McGonagall and the others, Slughorn flagged down the proprietor of the pub, the charming Mrs. Rosmerta. "I'd like to order two steaks, if you please. Oh, and if you have roast pork knuckle on the menu, that would be most delightful." he cheerfully placed his order, a broad and expectant smile blooming on his face.

The esteemed Mrs. Rosmerta responded with equal cheer, assuring Slughorn, "I am happy to tell you that it is."

Slughorn's smile grew even wider. "Oh, splendid! Do make sure you add a generous drizzle of honey on it, won't you? I am quite partial to that particular touch of sweetness." His unabashed fondness for such hearty food seemed fitting for a man of his, let's say, abundant proportions.

Their lunch ordered, they kept their liquor count in check by ordering only a pair of butterbeers, a choice standard amongst the students.

As everyone had now cleared out of their corner, a more comfortable feel descended over their table. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his strapping middle, quietly awaiting Slughorn's move. He was certain Slughorn was the one who had arranged this meeting, with Professor McGonagall acting merely as a channel of contact.

Slughorn's jovial facade began to slip after their companions made their exit. His smile gradually dimmed into a pensive frown, revealing his underlying seriousness that, until now, had been masked under a veneer of mirth.

"I must tell you, Sherlock," he began, as he idly swirled his oversized butterbeer mug, "Minerva and the others would rather me not bring up anything pertaining to your mother."

His gaze shifted towards the windows, which were still getting peppered with rain. He had yet to take a sip from his mug. Instead, he just held it between his hands as though it was some form of comfort, framing his words in a uncharacteristically cold tone.

"I can't say I blame them too much... your mother did make a number of questionable choices. I suppose they'd rather you not dredge up such memories. There is even the possibility, that after I left hey erased-" His voice faltered abruptly. Setting his mug down, he closed his eyes momentarily with a look of intense pain and sank back into his chair.

Sherlock observed Slughorn's pause quietly, contemplating his vague words. There seemed to be an undercurrent running through Slughorn's pause, suggesting an unsaid truth.

Externalizing his thoughts, Slughorn paused, looking slightly embarrassed, then urged, "Oh, pay me no mind, Sherlock. I might have had one too many. Just know that you can always trust Minerva and Albus, they have your best interest at heart."

Slowly, he resumed his upright position, managing a small self-deprecating smile. "Who am I to say these things? You have absolutely no reason to trust me, have you?"

"I recall how you were seventeen years ago, a small, lost boy, quietly tucked away during the funeral, wielding the toy wand that your mother gifted you on your first birthday," he reminisced.

"When I discovered you in the corner, I had a premonition about the man you would turn out to be. As the longtime head of Slytherin house at Hogwarts, having mentored countless students, I've come to understand the kinds of experiences that can shape a person."

"I should have been there for you, but at the time, I felt helpless, like a beaten down old man, tail between his legs, seeking refuge. I was in no place to be helping others, when I couldn't even helpy myself."

Sherlock frowned at Slughorn's words. He thought back to the original host's diary. There was never any mention of his family, his unstable mother, his Muggle father who was still alive and had even sent someone to persuade him to take up the family business.

The diary was void of any mention of any relative, whether it was during his time at Hogwarts, or his time in the magical society after graduating.

It was as though the original host harbored no emotional attachment to his family. That or he had done an exceptional job in pushing that part of his life out of his mind.

Slughorn's dialogue, sincere as it was, shed a different light on his relationship with Sherlock's mother. It was clear he cared for her deeply and consequently his extended to Sherlock, whoe seemed to view as his cherished junior.

In view of this, the original host's averting, distant nature seemed to hint at a deeply ingrained fear, something that he'd rather keep hidden.

"What did my mother experience?" Sherlock inquired softly, taking the initiative to address Slughorn directly for the first time, as their steaks arrived.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't tell you," Slughorn shook his head with an apparent note of regret. "We reached an agreement back then. We've even gone to the length of employing a Fidelius Charm to ensure this secret is sealed. Unless Dumbledore deems it appropriate to disclose it, I can't meddle."

A wave of demure silence washed over Sherlock, much like the muted quietness that engulfs the ocean bed.

This was exactly why he wasn't fond of dealing with these older wizards. They always seemed to complicate matters, often presenting riddles without even giving out a hint of what it could possibly be about.

Often he felt that much trouble and conflict could entirely be avoided by simply speaking openly.

"So, why did you call for this meeting?"

"I intended to warn you, Sherlock," Slughorn's face was all seriousness as he made direct eye contact. "Hogwarts can be a perilous place, more so now than ever, you know with both Dumbledore and that boy around."

From his pocket, he produced a small glass bottle filled with a golden liquid that shimmered gently. He placed it in front of Sherlock.

"This is everything I can offer to support you. It's a Felix Felicis Potion, a brew that temporarily induces luck in the one who consumes it. Keep it close; it could come in handy, particularly during moments that require a buffer."

"Don't underestimate its power, Sherlock. It's not called Liquid Luck for nothing, though of course excessive consumption can lead to more harm than good. I myself have only used it twice in my long life. The amount I've given you is perfect for a single use even then I hope you'll never need to use it."

Sherlock looked at the elegant little bottle, which seemed to glow with its own life. If its claimed powers held true, then this potion was indeed an impressive concoction.

Slughorn continued, "I am not sure why Dumbledore approved your job application. Perhaps he reckons that the deep resentment he-who-shall-not-be-named harbored for this position has lost its potency. Nonetheless, I believe it to be a risky move."

Sherlock was genuinely taken aback by this revelation. He composed himself to ask calmly, "Are you talking about the curse that the Dark Lord has put on the Defense Against The Dark Arts position? Does it truly exist?"

"Yes, it exists, but it's not a curse," Slughorn confirmed solemnly, "Being a master in Defense Against The Dark Arts, you should know the difference between curses and dark magic. Dark magic is an umbrella that covers curses, hexes, and jinxes. Curses are the most severe of them all, with all three Unforgivable Curses falling under this category."

"However, when he-who-shall-not-be-named took umbrage to the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, he wasn't as powerful yet. What he attached to this post wasn't a full-blown curse, but just a rather elusive hex which even Dumbledore hasn't been able to comprehend or eliminate."

"Still, I assure you as long as your intentions in this position are pure, the hex won't affect you much. I suspect Dumbledore's decision to approve your application lies in this very fact."

"Yet, as long as you're in this institution, tread carefully. Despite Hogwarts being seen as a place of refuge in the wizarding world, it isn't necessarily the safest. Even with Dumbledore around, it's more dangerous than any other place!" he stressed.

"I hope you take my words seriously, Sherlock," Slughorn appealed, holding Sherlock's gaze. "Don't bear ill-feelings against your father. He did not abandon you and your mother out of free will. He's actually the one you should be pity the most."

After ticking this off his checklist, Slughorn chose to steer clear of dwelling deeper into any topic related to his mother's past.

Having polished off their steaks and the honey-brushed pork knuckle, Slughorn made his brisk departure, his destination as elusive as the man himself.

After Slughorn's exit, Sherlock lingered behind for a while, quietly contemplating the third of butterbeer still remaining in his mug and ruminating over Slughorn's parting words.

His takeaway from the meeting was that Slughorn, in the original storyline, was not merely a supporting character. Furthermore, it seemed that the original host's family history was much more intricate than Sherlock had initially surmised.