The third week of June.
The red train let out a long whistle as it rolled into the station, carrying laughter and chatter as it delivered the children back to their hos for the holidays.
This difficult and exhausting school year finally ca to an end today.
Watching Harry safely return to his aunt's house, Dumbledore was at last able to set aside the burden of being headmaster and devote more ti to investigating other matters.
"Albus! I've already said this countless tis! I don't know what Dawn Richter did! I know nothing!"
Inside the stone cottage, Slughorn clasped his hands together, pacing restlessly as he struggled to suppress his irritation.
"Ever since I ca back, you've been coming to see nonstop! Dayti, nightti, every few days without fail! No matter how many tis you ask, my answer is always the sa!"
The bald Potions Master felt his temples throb violently.
Staring at his forr colleague who had co knocking for the thirty-seventh ti, he felt as though he were on the verge of madness.
"Oh, calm down, Horace. I only worry that you might suddenly rember sothing and won't be able to find ."
Dumbledore said the exact sort of thing that made Slughorn want to whack him over the head with a wand, his expression sincere.
"It's been twelve hours since I last left. Have you rembered anything that happened after you were taken away? Anything at all, even the smallest detail."
"No!"
Slughorn gritted his teeth. "Not now, not ever! I'll say it again—Dawn Richter used the mory Charm on . I can't rember anything!"
"Then… shall we try a Pensieve?"
Dumbledore produced an ancient-looking basin from sowhere within his sleeve and placed it on the table.
"As long as it isn't too far back, it can help you recall it."
Slughorn froze.
His lips twitched as he stamred, "A-Albus, you know I hate Pensieves. I hate having my mories examined. You—you can't force !"
"Of course not, Horace. I would never force you."
Dumbledore spoke softly, watching Slughorn's evasive gaze.
"But at the very least, you can tell this. Is Avery still alive?"
At the ntion of that na, the image of a lifeless body lying on the ground rose unbidden in Slughorn's mind. He turned his head away.
"I… I don't know."
"…Is that so."
Dumbledore closed his eyes, reading the unspoken aning in Slughorn's expression.
"Then what about Dawn? Is he alive as well?"
Dawn?
The mont he heard the question, Slughorn reflexively recalled a pair of crimson eyes and instinctively glanced at his own wrist.
Smooth, empty skin.
But that was only a disguise.
Beneath it, those cursed fla-like markings were still deeply embedded in his flesh, restraining his actions and preventing him from saying anything in response to Dumbledore's questions.
Pain flickered through Slughorn's eyes.
He did not want to aid evil, but he feared death just as much.
Damn it.
When would that damned brat finally return to January nineteenth and die there?
Slughorn desperately wished for the news printed in the Daily Prophet to beco reality.
Even though nearly half a year had passed without it happening, to the point that he himself had begun to doubt it, that hope remained his only refuge from reality.
"I don't know."
Slughorn steadied himself and took a deep breath.
"Dumbledore, how would I know sothing like that? Besides, the paper already said it—he's dead."
Dumbledore said nothing, simply watching him with calm, sea-blue eyes.
After a mont, the old headmaster sighed, no longer pressing the issue.
He shifted his gaze toward the cabinet filled with an array of fine liquors, attempting to ease the tense atmosphere.
"Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Judging by the color, at least fifty years old. A fine bottle. Would you mind sharing a glass?"
"Ah, of course."
Slughorn blinked at the sudden change of subject.
When Dumbledore began chatting casually about old friends and life at Hogwarts, Slughorn eagerly joined in, grateful for the distraction.
At last, the mood grew sowhat lighter.
Both n spoke idly, each harboring his own worries. After about half an hour, Dumbledore glanced at the ti and rose to leave.
Slughorn could not have been happier.
"You're heading out?"
"Yes." Dumbledore sighed softly. "You know how it is. The mont term ends, I always beco terribly busy."
Slughorn paused, then realized what he ant.
"Oh, hiring new professors, right?"
He shook his head.
"Who would have thought the Defense Against the Dark Arts post would beco this cursed? If I rember correctly, Professor Quirrell didn't even last half a term."
"Yes. An accident no one wished to see."
Dumbledore recalled that Halloween—the event that completely shattered his carefully unfolding educational plans—and felt a surge of mixed emotions.
As they walked toward the door together, he said casually, "Most of last term's Defense classes were covered by Severus.
While the reception was… well, quite good, I still believe we need a proper appointnt."
"Quite good?"
Slughorn chuckled, recalling the rumors even he had heard.
"I'd wager that assessnt didn't co from any Gryffindor students. Your lion cubs must have placed last in the House Cup."
"This ti, you're mistaken."
Dumbledore picked up his hat from the rack by the door and set it upon his head, recalling events from just a week earlier, after final exams.
Harry, believing Snape intended to steal the Philosopher's Stone, had stord through the obstacles with his two friends.
By sheer coincidence, they defeated the true thief—and the Voldemort attached to him.
The possessed individual had been Professor Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher.
In hindsight, it made sense.
The Flesh-Splitting Curse had its flaws. Tom could not operate independently forever and would inevitably attach himself to another host.
Choosing Kettleburn—a man who lived alone outside the castle, had limited contact with others, and knew about the three-headed dog—was only natural.
Dumbledore sighed with self-reproach.
Distracted by Dawn's affairs and focused too much on internal matters, he had failed to notice Kettleburn's condition in ti.
Fortunately, Voldemort's possession had not lasted long. Professor Kettleburn survived and would recover after a period of rest.
Even so, Dumbledore's unease never faded.
He believed Voldemort must have done more during that ti—things he had yet to uncover.
He planned to scour the castle thoroughly during the holidays.
Returning to the present, Dumbledore blinked.
"Harry and his friends thwarted Tom's plan for the Stone. They earned Special Awards for Services to the School and secured the House Cup for Gryffindor."
Slughorn's expression changed abruptly.
"Wait—Tom? You an…You-Know-Who?"
His heart raced as he tried to remain composed.
"But he—he's dead, isn't he?"
"I'm afraid that while most people believe so, current evidence suggests otherwise."
Dumbledore shook his head, looking at his colleague who was clearly feigning ignorance. Knowing he would get nothing from him about Voldemort, he did not press further.
"By the way, Albus, who are you planning to appoint as the next Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"
Slughorn quickly changed the subject.
"That position's reputation is dreadful now. I doubt many would volunteer. How about Alastor Moody? He's mad, sure, but experienced."
"If necessary, I will ask him."
Dumbledore followed the thread of the conversation.
"For now, though, it may not co to that. Just yesterday, I received an application for the position."
"An application?"
Slughorn was stunned.
"Seriously? Soone applied voluntarily? Surely not so swindler looking for a paycheck?"
"I must correct you, Horace."
Dumbledore replied calmly.
"There's nothing strange about applying voluntarily. Professor Quirrell did the sa last year, transferring from Muggle Studies."
And then he died, Slughorn muttered inwardly.
Dumbledore continued, "As for whether he's a fraud, that remains to be seen once I et him."
By then, they had reached the cottage door.
Dumbledore glanced at the setting sun, nodded farewell to Slughorn, summoned Fawkes in his heart, and vanished in a flash of fire.
The now-quiet Hogwarts.
Dumbledore reappeared in his office.
Fawkes trilled softly and returned to his perch to rest. Smiling faintly, Dumbledore pulled out his chair.
Before he could sit, however, a rapid knock sounded at the door. The handle turned, and it opened.
Professor McGonagall, clad in green robes, stepped inside.
"Albus, I've already gone to Diagon Alley to inquire about the applicant—Leia Hickman. Would you like to hear what I found?"
Poor Professor McGonagall. Even with term over, she remained at the castle, burdened with preparations for the coming year.
"Thank you, Minerva."
Dumbledore, sensing his own overuse of her goodwill, quickly poured her a cup of tea and adopted an attentive posture.
"From what I've learned, Mr. Hickman is currently staying at the Leaky Cauldron. He arrived in Diagon Alley about a month ago."
McGonagall reported briskly.
"He doesn't seem to have lived in Britain before. So patrons overheard him ntioning that he ca from Egypt."
"Egypt?"
Dumbledore frowned slightly.
"But the na Leia Hickman doesn't sound Egyptian."
"That I can't say. He may simply be new to Britain. Very few people know much about him."
McGonagall shook her head, then continued.
"Additionally, over the past month, Mr. Hickman has kept to himself. Every ti he goes out, it's only to buy books."
She added, nodding in approval, "He even posted a notice at the Leaky Cauldron, offering to purchase rare books at high prices or exchange knowledge of equal value."
"A young man who truly loves reading."
Loves reading…
Dumbledore murmured softly, fingers interlaced, his blue eyes thoughtful.
"When is his interview scheduled?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, at three o'clock."
___________
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