Fic: Taking Stock
Title: Taking Stock
Author: lyras
Characters and pairings: Horace Slughorn
Rating and warnings, if any: PG-13
Prompt, if any: Loosely based on this from lyras: "Something to do with Slughorn and Tom Riddle. Did Riddle ever make Slughorn's wall of fame? When did Slughorn admit that Riddle was evil?"
Summary: After his Christmas party, Horace takes stock.
When the last guest has floated away, you crumple into your armchair with a sigh. All wonderful people, so much to offer the wizarding world (and you), but gosh, you're getting too old to organise these events yourself. Should have had a secretary do it, but Hogwarts doesn't go in for the sort of salary that would require.
Anyway. You pour yourself one last glass of mead. You've had a little too much, of course - just a smidgeon too much - but you needed to, otherwise you'd have run out of energy hours ago. The host must be up to scratch at his own gathering!
It went off rather well, all things told. A couple of awkward moments - what was young Malfoy doing trying to gatecrash like that? One would have expected him to have more self-respect. Pity he couldn't have been invited openly, of course, but then, his father...And the Lovegood child, regaling everyone with those ridiculous theories of hers; you wonder what Potter sees in her. One can't fault his egalitarian attitude to friendships, at least. A chip off the old block in that way - his parents never cared who their friends were, either. Funny attitude.
You sniff the mead and take a sip. One more glass won't hurt; you need a pick-me-up after all that. What with Lily Evans's eyes looking out of Potter's face, with Voldemort out there, creeping closer, and with Dumbledore after you all the time for that damned memory, you're beginning to wonder whether you made the right choice in August.
Still, when you consider the preceding few months (living out of a suitcase, hiding from friends and enemies alike, always wondering if that knock at the door would be the final one - and when it came, perhaps you wouldn't even mind, because they'd take you to him again after all these years), Hogwarts is an improvement. It's always been the safest haven during dark times, and that won't change while Dumbledore is at the helm. You've been able to regain a semblance of your previous life here, bringing together old friends and new, fostering the talents of the best that the school has to offer.
You gaze at the photographs on display. It's a shame so many of them couldn't make it tonight. Gwenog came, of course; what a trooper that girl is. And Worple and his Sanguini - not exactly at the top of your guest list, but never mind, they were popular with the girls. And it was wonderful to catch up with...oh, dear, what's his name? Really, if you can't even remember that, what's he doing on your wall?
Oh, that's it. High up in the Ministry's Treasury Department; a nice boy, did you a favour a few years ago when there was some awkwardness about Polyjuice Potion getting into the wrong hands.
You take another sip, and another, as your gaze wanders from one photograph to the next. Poor Lily. She could make you forget you were an old man when she smiled. Such a warm, generous girl. Of course, if they'd kept Muggleborns out of the school, as they ought to have done in that political climate, she need not have died. But, ah, you don't like to think too deeply about these things. She was a wonderful student, at any rate - a natural potion-maker, although you do wonder just how much help she had from young Severus.
By the time you reach the last picture, the glass is half-empty and you glance at the bottle...but, no. You'll empty this one first.
Your gaze reaches the dresser and your hand follows suit. You pull out the photograph from the secret drawer in a second, because your fingers know exactly where to go, despite the fact that the last time you put it back you vowed, the way you always do, never to look at it again. You stare at the image and let your head fall back with a moan.
You've worked so hard for so many years to keep your distance. But whenever you look at this picture, you wonder how something so beautiful could possibly be evil; surely such beauty is not an accident in the ways of creation? He was powerful, all right - he had you wrapped around his little finger from the moment he first stepped into your classroom with his pale, sharp features, that lush dark hair, that knowing smile, and that power that gave him the confidence of a wizard three times his age.
Oh, yes, you know your weakness, and you've worked hard all your life to suppress it. Yes, perhaps a couple of students have misunderstood you, and have offered themselves expecting patronage in return. But you're proud to say that you've never taken advantage of that kind of thing. If on occasion you have let yourself get too close to someone or other, you've always distanced yourself, at least until they were out of school. You have your failings, but you'll never be one of those.
And if you've given in to your imagination in the heart of the night, who has it hurt? If you have woken sweaty and flushed, with the image of a dark-haired boy or a pretty girl at the end of your wand, who has suffered except you? Nobody, you're willing to bet a year's supply of mead on it!
You sip your drink. You'll put the photograph back soon, and nobody will suffer. Nobody will care that you've let yourself down over a fifty-year-old picture. Nobody will know. You think again of Dumbledore and his ridiculous demands. He wants to ruin you; it hurts, but it's the truth. Why else would he want to know the details of a failed friendship that has been over for decades?
You stare at the photograph one last time.
Author: lyras
Characters and pairings: Horace Slughorn
Rating and warnings, if any: PG-13
Prompt, if any: Loosely based on this from lyras: "Something to do with Slughorn and Tom Riddle. Did Riddle ever make Slughorn's wall of fame? When did Slughorn admit that Riddle was evil?"
Summary: After his Christmas party, Horace takes stock.
When the last guest has floated away, you crumple into your armchair with a sigh. All wonderful people, so much to offer the wizarding world (and you), but gosh, you're getting too old to organise these events yourself. Should have had a secretary do it, but Hogwarts doesn't go in for the sort of salary that would require.
Anyway. You pour yourself one last glass of mead. You've had a little too much, of course - just a smidgeon too much - but you needed to, otherwise you'd have run out of energy hours ago. The host must be up to scratch at his own gathering!
It went off rather well, all things told. A couple of awkward moments - what was young Malfoy doing trying to gatecrash like that? One would have expected him to have more self-respect. Pity he couldn't have been invited openly, of course, but then, his father...And the Lovegood child, regaling everyone with those ridiculous theories of hers; you wonder what Potter sees in her. One can't fault his egalitarian attitude to friendships, at least. A chip off the old block in that way - his parents never cared who their friends were, either. Funny attitude.
You sniff the mead and take a sip. One more glass won't hurt; you need a pick-me-up after all that. What with Lily Evans's eyes looking out of Potter's face, with Voldemort out there, creeping closer, and with Dumbledore after you all the time for that damned memory, you're beginning to wonder whether you made the right choice in August.
Still, when you consider the preceding few months (living out of a suitcase, hiding from friends and enemies alike, always wondering if that knock at the door would be the final one - and when it came, perhaps you wouldn't even mind, because they'd take you to him again after all these years), Hogwarts is an improvement. It's always been the safest haven during dark times, and that won't change while Dumbledore is at the helm. You've been able to regain a semblance of your previous life here, bringing together old friends and new, fostering the talents of the best that the school has to offer.
You gaze at the photographs on display. It's a shame so many of them couldn't make it tonight. Gwenog came, of course; what a trooper that girl is. And Worple and his Sanguini - not exactly at the top of your guest list, but never mind, they were popular with the girls. And it was wonderful to catch up with...oh, dear, what's his name? Really, if you can't even remember that, what's he doing on your wall?
Oh, that's it. High up in the Ministry's Treasury Department; a nice boy, did you a favour a few years ago when there was some awkwardness about Polyjuice Potion getting into the wrong hands.
You take another sip, and another, as your gaze wanders from one photograph to the next. Poor Lily. She could make you forget you were an old man when she smiled. Such a warm, generous girl. Of course, if they'd kept Muggleborns out of the school, as they ought to have done in that political climate, she need not have died. But, ah, you don't like to think too deeply about these things. She was a wonderful student, at any rate - a natural potion-maker, although you do wonder just how much help she had from young Severus.
By the time you reach the last picture, the glass is half-empty and you glance at the bottle...but, no. You'll empty this one first.
Your gaze reaches the dresser and your hand follows suit. You pull out the photograph from the secret drawer in a second, because your fingers know exactly where to go, despite the fact that the last time you put it back you vowed, the way you always do, never to look at it again. You stare at the image and let your head fall back with a moan.
You've worked so hard for so many years to keep your distance. But whenever you look at this picture, you wonder how something so beautiful could possibly be evil; surely such beauty is not an accident in the ways of creation? He was powerful, all right - he had you wrapped around his little finger from the moment he first stepped into your classroom with his pale, sharp features, that lush dark hair, that knowing smile, and that power that gave him the confidence of a wizard three times his age.
Oh, yes, you know your weakness, and you've worked hard all your life to suppress it. Yes, perhaps a couple of students have misunderstood you, and have offered themselves expecting patronage in return. But you're proud to say that you've never taken advantage of that kind of thing. If on occasion you have let yourself get too close to someone or other, you've always distanced yourself, at least until they were out of school. You have your failings, but you'll never be one of those.
And if you've given in to your imagination in the heart of the night, who has it hurt? If you have woken sweaty and flushed, with the image of a dark-haired boy or a pretty girl at the end of your wand, who has suffered except you? Nobody, you're willing to bet a year's supply of mead on it!
You sip your drink. You'll put the photograph back soon, and nobody will suffer. Nobody will care that you've let yourself down over a fifty-year-old picture. Nobody will know. You think again of Dumbledore and his ridiculous demands. He wants to ruin you; it hurts, but it's the truth. Why else would he want to know the details of a failed friendship that has been over for decades?
You stare at the photograph one last time.