Slughorn shaded his eyes with a hand for a moment- as he tried to see over the alabaster columns of Longbottom Hall. He couldn’t quite tell if those were thunder clouds in the far distance, or just the shadow of the Pennines. He hoped it wouldn’t rain, after all, it was a beautiful day. He turned back to Demetrius Fawley, an old acquaintance, who'd hardly noticed his distraction.

“... and I was saying to Edgar- you know Edgar, right Horace? Edgar Bones? Gertie’s boy?” Said the elderly wizard. He immediately continued as he saw Slughorn’s weak nod. “Well, I was saying to Edgar that I heard that Abraxus Malfoy had contracted a Merfolk Ballet to come to their party this August- all the way from the Campanian coast!”

“Well I must make an appearance!”

“Never miss a party, do you Horace? Well… count yourself lucky.” Fawley sighed. “You don’t have any problem attending that sort of event. Me? I can hardly go if Dolohov is there- and we both know he will be!”

“I try not to make enemies, you know that.”

“You’re a lucky man to not have them find you...” Demetrius trailed off as he caught a glimpse of someone from the corner of his eye. “Well I’ll be damned… I’ll see you at the St. Mungo’s Gala, right Horace?” Without even waiting for a response, the ninety year old wizard practically sprinted away after a what appeared to Slughorn a mere shadow. “Hornby! You owe me thirty galleons!”

Of course, that proved a perfect excuse for Slughorn to rest for a moment. A section of shaded white tables and chairs caught his eye. Slughorn collapsed onto the white, cast-iron lawn chair, he hoped he imagined the groan of steel. His forehead was covered in sweat, for he simply wasn’t meant for this sort of garden party- under the beating rays of the hot sun. He was sweaty enough that he could feel even the Donegal tweed of his outer-robe sticking tightly to his sides. But a wave of his wand cast a cooling charm on himself, and he leaned back in relief as the chill slowly spilled across his portly frame like chocolate syrup over ice cream.

The rest of the table was unoccupied, with most of the guests ambling around the grassy lawn. He only shared the table with a few hor d’oeuvres, along with Ever-Full glasses full of chilled lemonade, and so he was free to watch the tidal movements of the party, who was talking with who, and perhaps even more importantly- who wasn’t talking with who.

Why, right at that moment he could spot Alice Sunderland, looking uncomfortable in her long white dress, and Frank Longbottom a few paces to her right, working up the courage to approach her. He smiled self-indulgently, anyone could have noticed that she had spotted him some time before… and wanted nothing more than a chat.

Then a shadow appeared in the corner of his eye. He turned his head to see a ragged looking man gazing at the party with ill-disguised wonder. He noticed Slughorn looking at him, and bared a gummy smile.

“Right pretty gardens huh?" he said. The man idly scratched an infected pustule on his neck as he watched the party. Slughorn attempted to stop himself from letting out a small sniff, but couldn’t quite disguise it. “Mind if I sit?”

Of course, without waiting for an answer, the man promptly toppled into the chair next to him, and quickly began finishing off the Ever-Full lemonades. He almost expected the charm to wear off, so quickly he was drinking them. In between gulps, he somehow made time for conversation- only words at a time. “Ain’t been to a thing like this- real posh-like.”

“Your name stranger?” The man took no notice of Slughorn’s frigid tone, having switched to swallowing down whole helpings of hor 'd oeurves.

“Red Booth.” He said. Slughorn tried not to wince as Hippogriff tripe dribbled down his patchy stubble. "Got a business deal with a feller here. Invited me to come along."

"Who would that be?"

Booth looked a little askance before straightening his gaze. "No one you'd know." Of course, he had snuck in. Even the Longbottoms would think twice of inviting a guttersnipe.

Slughorn frowned. “Now, Booth is it? I don’t believe I recognize the name.”

“Wouldn’t, would you. I’m introducing myself.” He said that as if it explained everything, and in all truth it did tell Slughorn all he needed to know. After all, for someone like Mr. Booth, this would be the social event of the summer- perhaps his life. For Horace Slughorn it was a Sunday Brunch. He hardly listened to Booth’s inane prattle after that- but not before the man had insulted several politicians, some of whom who were close friends!

After a while Booth wandered off, grown tired of Slughorn’s unresponsiveness. Slughorn couldn’t help but be glad of it. It was one thing to be unknown and unheralded, it was quite another to be rude about it. Booth, after all, was the reason that they had to be exclusive at this sort of things. He tried to not let the conversation spoil the day. Augusta had invited him, and he could hardly turn down a request from such an old friend!



Soft orchestral lifted over the crowd, played by a set of enchanted instruments. He looked over to them and noticed the conductor in front, guiding the instruments. Slughorn prided himself on being able to remember faces, and he’d recognize that nose anywhere; but it must’ve been years since he last spoke to Euterpeus Funke. Last he’d heard he was touring Poland of all places, or perhaps it was some other god forsaken place in Eastern Europe- it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he had talent, and what talent!

Even as he watched Euterpeus dexterously wave the wand, he couldn’t help but see the rail-thin Ravenclaw always dozing away in a charms book during potions. His talent for the art was undeniable, every note exactly as they should be, and sometimes amazingly where they shouldn’t be.

Slughorn couldn’t help but be impressed, especially when he saw that he was weaving the spells as he conducted, further animating them to do his bidding with every wave. What’s more, from what he’d heard from Filius, this was far from Euterpeus’ usual style, which was usually rather brassy. Slughorn couldn’t help but wonder whether the old boy would want to meet Celestina, he had a feeling that the two would get along famously. Of course, he couldn’t approach him during the show, that would just be uncouth. But after, well that was an entirely different story.



Then a rather discordant noise joined in with the instruments, something close to a bear's low growl. Frowning, Slughorn looked around to see a familiar looking head of hair lying, snoring, on the table top. He reached out to tap the back of old Hamish McKinnon's head.

“But hallo!” The gaffer, who sat even heavier than Slughorn, had obviously been dozing off. He smiled as he recognized Slughorn through half blind eyes. "Why, if it isn't young Horace. Well it has been a while."

"I've only recently returned from Peru."

"Machu Pichu does make for a nice day trip." Nodded Hamish. "I went there for Merlin Day, not thirty years ago."

“But the crowd’s all here, eh?” said Slughorn.

“Suppose.” Hamish sighed. “Was always bigger once... Long time ago now. Everyone used to get along back then. Now the Braddocks are all gone, the Proudfoot are feuding with the Taberners again. A sorry state, a right sorry state we’re all in.”

Slughorn nodded morosely. “Rowles aren’t here this year either.”

“Not after Thorfinn and Fabian Prewett dueled at the Solstice,” said Hamish. “Apparently young Thorfinn still shivers at the sight of teacups. Augusta decided not to invite them.”

“I’d heard that Fabian was the one to start the fight.”

Hamish shrugged. “Augusta is trying to keep things pacific... but then I remember when you could see a Potter with a Rosier or a Flint with a Lestrange. We don’t even talk to the Travers nowadays, and they live on the other side of the hill!”

“It’s all a waste.”

“Aye. Politics.” The old man turned back towards his table, still shaking his head. Slughorn leaned back over to continue the conversation- of course, at that moment Slughorn could hear the slight sound of snoring and smiling he straightened. Still, the conversation had given something of a sour flavor to the whole affair really. Now that it had been pointed out, it was hard to miss all the families that were missing, those who were once mainstays and now vanished.

It wasn’t even as if everything went smoothly when families were separated. Slughorn watched where Barty Crouch Jr. sat alone, glaring at a pair that Slughorn barely recognized as Hestia Jones, and Dedalus Diggle. The three looked ready to draw wands and there was no doubt they’d had some sort of spat. All three from relatively similar families, all Gryffindor- not all could be written down as family, not by any stretch.

He thought for a moment of getting up and helping Barty out, sorting the whole situation, but then Slughorn had never liked to get involved in that sort of thing, especially removed from his duties at Hogwarts. He also wasn’t particularly disposed to helping Barty. He’d invited him to one of his tea-times, but the boy nearly ruined the entire thing, ranting and raving about his father. He’d had to apologize several times afterwards to Hyacinth Bulger, Chief Obliviator. Barty was a rather disappointing chap altogether.

Not like the student sauntering by. After all, with his messy hair and hazel eyes, James looked every inch the Potter, and if anything was even more brilliant than his father. Slughorn just wished that he would put a little more effort into potions. He’d attempted to get James to come to his meetings on innumerable occasions, but the boy always seemed to manage to get detention during them.

A sullen look was cast onto James’ face; an uncharacteristically moody expression. It was then that he realized that the boy wasn’t surrounded by his usual crowd, which upon consideration was probably the reason for his attitude. Augusta Longbottom had always hated the Blacks, which of course meant that young Sirius wouldn’t be invited… and the rest of his friends… well they weren’t exactly part of the scene, so to speak. Funnily enough, he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw Sirius Black at the Nott soiree that night, and if Slughorn had to guess, he’d probably be wearing the exact same expression of faint irritation.

“James m’boy, take a seat, have some lemonade!” he said, gesturing to the empty chair next to him, vacated by the rapscallion. James looked lost to him, and he could hardly defy his professorial instincts. Something just told him that the boy needed a little bit of advice. James quirked a small smile.

“Prof,” he said, nodding to him as he settled into the seat. Slughorn didn’t mind the familiarity intimated. The boy just had that sort of natural je ne sais quoi charm that seemed to just take others for the ride and leave them grinning alongside him. It was a trait that Slughorn had always lacked, and perhaps that was part of the reason he appreciated it so much when he recognized it. James said nothing further as he sat, simply staring into the distance. It seemed he was a little lost without friends to lead around.

“Not exactly your cup of tea, eh?” Slughorn whispered conspiratorially, drawing his arm across the calm environs.

James turned to him, a wryness to the way his head was quirked. “Not as much as my parents might wish.” He nodded his head at the elderly couple, sipping tea with Augusta and her husband, serious expressions on their wrinkled faces. “Not enough excitement to it for me, I suppose.”

Slughorn chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ve all felt that way. I was a young man too once. Even if I hardly look the part.” He winked. “These sorts of things grow on you as you get older.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s true!” Exclaimed Slughorn. “Older you get, the more you learn to appreciate the finer things in life.” He lifted up his glass, “Like cool lemonade or a beating hot sun.”

“I’d just rather be with my friends.”

“As would I! As would I! That’s my secret, after all,” winked Slughorn. “I simply make friends wherever I go. In fact, I find an event wasted if I don’t make a new friend while I’m there.”

“Really?” James still looked skeptical.

“I’ll tell you what,” started Slughorn. “I remember you transfiguring Severus into a bat last year. I believe I had to give you a detention…”

James gulped, eyes darting for an escape. “About that…”

“All boyish fun I’m sure.” James nodded gratefully. “Now despite myself, I found myself rather impressed by your human to animal transfiguration! That’s a NEWT level skill, I’m surprised a fourth year could achieve it.”

“It was difficult at first, but once I had a handle on it conceptually…” James shrugged. “It helped to think of Snape as a bat in spirit, and that I was merely transforming him back to his true form. Lily got crabby, but it was a real laugh obviously.”

Slughorn chortled his way to a coughing fit, remembering the way that the little bat had flown around the room madly. After settling down, he continued, still a little ruddy-cheeked. “You certainly have a head for transfiguration, don’t you,” James nodded, a pleased smile spreading across his face. Slughorn pointed to a gaunt looking wizard, whose black beard clung close to his jaw, and intense gaze was fixed tightly on the enchanted instruments. "Do you recognize him?" James shook his head.

"That right there is Eldric von Hartwald. I met him… why it must’ve been a decade ago… when he’d only just graduated from Durmstrang and I was hosting a party for recent graduates of the big three. From what I’ve heard, he’s been dominating the dueling circuits of Transylvania ever since... You know, he’s known for never casting a curse, only using transfiguration to overwhelm his opponents. You might glean a few tips from him, get a little edge over young Severus...”

“You’re not kidding?” James looked over to Eldric with budding interest. Schoolboy rivalries could tap water from even the unlikeliest of wells. Slughorn smiled broadly, he always enjoyed people meeting the right sort. However, James looked a little dismayed after noticing the wizards intimidating profile, bald head and broad shoulders. “Er, maybe later, he doesn’t look like he would want to be interrupted.”

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn. “You see James, making friends is all about approaching them the right way.”

“The right way?”

“If they have something you want, you can hardly expect them to share it with you for nothing,” laughed Slughorn. “You have to give something back.”

“I doubt I have anything that he’d particularly want…”

“Sometimes, James, a good audience is all the reward necessary,” said Slughorn, he looked both ways before handing James a flask under the table. “But when it is not, gifts can come in handy… I’ve heard, after all, that Eldric has a particular fondness for Hybrasilian Whiskey.”

“Are you serious Professor?” Slughorn merely winked at James. A grin split across the boy’s face. He looked to Slughorn with a laugh on his lips. “So what do you want for this?”

Slughorn wheezed out a chuckle. “Now you’re getting it!” He rubbed his chin in thought. “How about you bring your friend, Mr. Black, to a few of my parties next semester. We’ll call that decent enough compensation, eh?”

“I’ll have to drag him,” warned James. “I know Snape often skulks around in them.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to get him there.” Slughorn winked. “I see great things ahead for both of you after all. Even if it’s just for a tad, you might as well make an appearance, eh?”

James shot him another of his grins, as he scampered off towards Eldric. Slughorn smiled fondly, he always liked helping out young wizards of talent, and of course they both knew that James owed him one for the future. He wouldn’t be surprised at all to see the boy on the circuits himself in a few years, he seemed to have an eye for excitement and a head for danger.

The duelist’s bushy eyebrows climbed as James spoke to him, only for his stern features to shift into an outright smile as he took a sip of the whiskey. He’d been saving that to talk to Eldric himself, but as they say, indirect investments often make for steep dividends. Slughorn watched the warlock show James a few wandmoves and dueling steps, apparently re-enacting a recent duel, and even from the distance, Slughorn could see the grand gestures peppering his speech. James, for his part, looked enthralled.



As he watched, a voice suddenly spoke up to him. “You’ve only encouraged him you know.” Augusta truly had a talent for sounding disapproving. It was the stress on the right syllables, the implied huff at the end of the sentence.

“If that is what it takes,” said Slughorn. “Then I’ll gladly encourage him.”

“Takes for what, Horace?” Augusta Longbottom raised an eyebrow. “For the Potter’s only son to become a ruffian, a blackguard, vagabond? Gallivanting across the dueling circuits of Europe, only his wand to his name? You would be one to suggest such a thing.”

“For him to be great.” Augusta only quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t think it truly matters the profession.”

“He’s not a Slytherin.”

“I’d bet that the hat considered it.” Slughorn chuckled. “With a little bit more subtlety, he’d make a wonderful Slytherin. There’s more than a bit of ambition in there.”

Augusta shot him a disapproving glare, but settled into her seat, watching her son flirt with Alice Sunderland out of the corner of her eye as they felt the sun spill across their shoulders. Slughorn, feeling out of his element in the silence attempted to engage her in the architectural elements of the house, but she only looked at him as if he was an idiot and said that it had been redone after a design by Palladio. Apparently, that was a Muggle designer of some consequence. It was clear that Augusta, unlike him, was very much at home in the quiet of the lawn, simply watching the currents of the party as it ebbed and flowed. Finally, she spoke again. “We’ve known each other for a long time Horace.”

“Since you were at Hogwarts,” agreed Slughorn.

“I’m going to be honest with you Horace.” Her head remained resolutely forwards, as if turning to face him would admit an inconvenient truth. Slughorn was momentarily concerned that she would confess her love to him, that would of course be terribly awkward, luckily it was not the case. “I’m worried.”

“Worried?”

“Something’s in the air, Horace.” She shook her head. “Not like anything I’ve felt since Grindelwald was killed. This time it’s happening here. I’m sure of it.”

“Here!?” Horace couldn’t help but feel alarmed. He just looked at the colorful, and tumultuous crowd, the red garden roses bunched up in the hedges and the pearly white tents that set against the emerald lawn. The low afternoon sun that sat hangdog in the sky. He felt as far from war as he ever had. “Why, Augusta, I hardly think-“

“Haven’t you heard about the deaths, the disappearances?” She said quietly, Slughorn had to admit that he had read a little about them in the Prophet. Just murmurs really, names he’d recognized, people he’d known for years. Many thought that there was an assassin on the loose! “Aloysius and Hephaisto Kant, Juliette Peares, Vindictus Vex. Horace- the entirety of the Braddock family vanished without a trace in the night! That’s not even all of them!”

“That’s not a war Augusta!” Slughorn shook his head, jowls swaying pendulously. “It’s a series of crimes. Now I won’t claim to understand why-“

“Dumbledore thinks differently.” She took another sip. “Kant, and Peares were some of the most gifted warlocks that I’ve ever met. I’d go so far as to say they’d give Dumbledore himself some trouble. Vex was an experienced duel master. Doesn’t it seem like perhaps someone is eliminating threats?”

“Albus?” Hissed Slughorn. “He’s made no mention of it to me…”

“I practically had to drag it out of him.” She sipped the teacup she held daintily in one hand. She finally looked at him, her eyes were fiery, and her face was almost cast in a snarl. “These disappearances, they’re hardly coincidences, are they?” She shook her head with a dismissive huff.

“And those murders are only the start of things! There are inferi in Gloucestershire, werewolf attacks near Nottingham, and an entire muggle village disappeared in the Upper Pennines! Horace, something’s happening and it’s happening fast.”

Slughorn didn’t say anything, struck dumb by thought, but Augusta hardly needed any prompting to continue. She cast her eyes over the field, fixing on her son again, still chatting with Alice.

“Albus wants it done all covertly, doesn’t want to cause a major disruption needlessly.” She said. “He made me promise not to start anything. Bah! As if it hasn’t already started!” She took another sip, before pointing to Frank. “Well, Dumbledore can do as he pleases, but I’ve started training up Frank, and I’ve had the wards improved. They won’t find Longbottom Hall an easy target!”

“Albus is doing something about it though?” Slughorn asked pleadingly, his mind rather fixed on that part of the statement.

“Very slowly.”

“Well we can’t forget that he defeated Grindelwald.”

Augusta’s lips thinned. Slughorn found himself sweating, and for once it wasn’t because of the heat. “Not alone he didn’t. I had two uncles die fighting his acolytes.”

“But perhaps-”

“There is no perhaps, Horace. There is no vacillation and there is no fence-sitting.” She poked the table with each point, her eyes always locked with his. He felt like he couldn’t break eye contact. “A war is coming, and this time it’s coming to our doorsteps.”

He slumped back into his chair. “You must know more than that! Vague warnings of danger! What could I possibly do, who knows what this is?”

"There are rumors..." Augusta looked both ways before leaning towards him and continuing in a lower voice. “There are rumors of a new Dark Lord.” Slughorn could feel shivers traveling up and down his spine. Suddenly the sunshine didn’t feel so bright, and the clouds seemed to be rolling in. “Apparently he calls himself... Voldemort.”

Slughorn’s eyes widened. He had a sudden vision of a handsome boy, one who he hadn’t thought of in nearly forty years. Bright, capable, and possessed of that same charisma which animated James Potter, if perhaps of even more potent variety. “Did you say Voldemort,” he hissed.

“Indeed.” Augusta took a sip of tea. Lips thinned into bare pencil marks. “Horrid name really, flight from death. Vulgar even.”

“I…I’m very sorry, but I’m not sure I can help you,” stammered Slughorn. He could only see his student in his mind. He remembered hearing that name whispered between his Slytherins like a joke. He’d always assumed it was a farcical name, even if he knew it referred to Tom Riddle.

“We both know who the enemy is.”

“I know who your enemy is!" said Slughorn. "My friends? My students? You’re asking me to fight and hardly giving me evidence at all! Do I know they’re angry, yes! Of course they’re angry, they’re right to be angry! Hogwarts is catering to the new and abandoning all the old ways. I hardly think they’re killing people.”

“I’ve told you of what is happening, the disappearances, the deaths!”

“And yet you tell me nothing of substance. Why for all I know it’s muggleborns killing people! Kant, Peares, Vex, Braddock, those are all Purebloods!” Hissed Slughorn. “Why would we kill our own.”

“We?”

“A slip of the tongue, Augusta.”

“Horace,” Augusta said sternly. “At some point you will have to make up your mind. You can’t always play both sides.”

“I’m not choosing sides, Augusta,” he pleaded. Even as he spoke to her, he couldn’t help but think more of Tom Riddle. He tried to dismiss the idea that had wriggled its way into his brain. That bright young student couldn’t be a dark lord, he couldn’t be. It all had to be a coincidence, Slughorn even had some idea that he was dead- after all, he’d lost track of him years ago. “I’m not playing anyone. I’m telling you that it’s ridiculous to make accusations like this and tell me to fight without telling me who’s out there in the dark waiting to make a grab at me!”

“Please, spare me the theatrics.” She gave an un-ladylike snort, so far out of character for her that Horace was left gaping. “You’ve played everyone you’ve ever met, or at least tried to. Not maliciously perhaps but played them none the less. You deal in quid pro quo.”

“I have friends Augusta!”

“You have resources, allies, and yes, some very few friends.” She stared at him as she shook her head slowly. “Make sure you don’t confuse who’s who.”




_________________________________________________________________






“Professor Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn, Head of Slytherin.”


The tall, rusty gates to the manor swung open, and he quickly waddled inside, trying to get away from the brambly path full of Grasping Vine, and Devil’s Snare. Exhausted, he leaned against the stone archway, and cast his eyes across the little courtyard between the main gate and the manor house. Heraldries of manticores, dragons and rearing steeds, hung from walls no doubt representing the Notts… or perhaps their defeated foes. He shivered as a cold breeze rolled off the lake.

He found himself greeted at the door to the main building by Vito Crabbe, a recent graduate, and one who never failed to disappoint him. Vito’s eyes narrowed as he scanned Slughorn.

“Name and Password,” he grunted, blocking the entrance.

Horace frowned. “My dear Vito, you were in school last May. Surely you remember me.”

Vito cocked his head to the side looking him up and down. There was a glint in his eye, something vaguely like memory hitting the neurons and finally coming up with something in a dim flash of recognition.“Sorry Professor but I need a password. It’s a private party.”

“Let me think, let me think…” If truth were to be told, Slughorn had tossed his invitation away, and hadn’t given any more thought to a password. He hardly thought he would need one. Vito took a threatening step forward. “No, let me think now Vito. Oh of course!” He coughed. “Avalon.”

Vito grunted assent and sidestepped, letting Horace into the atrium. Slughorn looked back at Vito with a vague sense of pity for his father. He had been a wonderful wizard, singlehandedly designing the Ministry's new building and one of the best Ravenclaws that Horace had ever met. Needless to say, he was as far from his son as a flower was from a gnarled root.


Slughorn made his way through the atrium and into an arching corridor. There, tall stone Viking statues guarded most corners, fiercely bearded and scowling. He nearly yelped as he rounded a corner and came face to face with a snarling, ten foot tall ghoul. Of course it was mounted, but then something about the Nott’s manor made it easy to think that it wasn't, that it was simply roaming the hallways like Grendel. He was only glad that there had been no one there to laugh at him.

He couldn’t help but think, as he made his way further in, that the party seemed rather empty. There was no one else in the corridor and it was getting to be dreadfully foreboding. The paintings that clung to the walls depicted only bloodshed, and the portraits wore ferocious scowls and fierce looking scars, glaring at him as he walked by. In every parlor and lounge, firelight glinted off swords and battle axes on the walls, looking as if they were ready for use at a moment’s notice.


“How very Gryffindor, eh Horace?” said a voice behind him. Startled, Slughorn whirled around o find Phidias Langlais quirking an eyebrow at the art. He rubbed his chin for a moment. “Hardly a surprise that old Cantankerous was the first Slytherin in the bunch. Can you imagine that, in a thousand years and everything changes.”

“I couldn’t,” said Slughorn. “My family was very pleased with me, for getting into Slytherin.”

“I was there when he was sorted you know. They were certainly not happy. Not happy at all. Gryffindor's through and through of course,” said Phidias. “It’s a matter of pride more than anything, generations and generations- there’s expectations there as you know-” Phidias winced slightly. “Well, in the older families that is. Not that the Slughorns aren’t old of course!”

Slughorn gave a tight little smile. “I’m quite aware of my family history, Phidias. But then-” He waved an arm at the decor. “The times are always changing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for where the… salon should be.”

“Why right here! In the same place it's always been, behind the tapestry of the battle for Keggington! Don’t you remember the parties that were thrown here, back before Cantankerous took over- but then… oh. Well, I’d better just show you.”


The soiree was far more intimate than the garden party earlier that day. Men and women were dressed in gowns and dress robes of only the finest make. Traditional of course, long cloaks of velvet with golden brooches pinned at their breast and tall collars that clasped under the neck. They stepped with grace through complicated waltzes, glided through the pavane and even leaped in the daring gaillarde. Each of course knew every dance, every step, and every beat, and every single participant performed it near perfectly in concert.

“Gorgeous isn’t it.” Phidias shook his head from beside him. “The apple of society. Creme de la creme. Superlative really is the only way to describe it.”

“I’ve heard four so far,” said Slughorn gruffly. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny the way that his eye tracked their movements. Phidias was correct on one account- it was rather breath taking. He never grew tired of the sight.

“I mean everyone learns the steps from birth of course,” he said. He took a pained glance towards Slughorn. “Well, most people learn the steps from birth, I suppose others have to learn later.”

“And some simply choose not to dance,” said Slughorn. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I see an old student, Lucius Malfoy.”


Feeling quite grateful to be away from Phidias, he made his way over to where Lucius stood with his young wife, Narcissa. His eyes lit up as he saw Slughorn. He had only graduated a year or two before, but Slughorn was quite pleased with how he was turning out. Already up to some very important things in the Wizengamot.

“It’s simply wonderful to see you here Professor. Among friends- where you belong.”

“It’s jolly good to see you too Lucius, and of course you as well lovely Narcissa.” said Slughorn. “But please, you should just call me Horace.”

“Of course. It’s odd to say but then we’re almost colleagues now aren’t we.” Lucius gave a little smile. “Not so far apart any more. But I can only hope we’ll work even closer in the future.”

Narcissa gave Lucius a sharp look, and so Slughorn bid his goodbyes. It was obvious he’d rather be with his young wife than his old professor, not that Slughorn would blame him, she was stunning to say the least.

As with any party, around the edges of the ballroom floor stood those who preferred the subtler steps of conversation. That of course had always been a bit closer to Slughorn’s forte.

Walpurga and Arcturus lurked in the corner of the room, as they always tended to. Regulus sat with them, ever the dutiful son. He didn’t approach, Arcturus was a decent chap, but Walpurga never forgave him refusing to ban muggleborns from his gatherings. He would have liked to greet Regulus, that of course would have meant he’d be forced to endure Walpurga, and so he merely acknowledged the boy with a nod and a smile.

As he wandered from group to group, underlaid by the soft music, he couldn’t help but notice how faces seemed to close off as he approached. There was just something about the old crowd that seemed more insular, as if they were party to an inside joke that he hadn’t been let in on.

Severus Snape waited by the fire in an overstuffed armchair. He was of course surrounded by his usual friends: Evan Rosier, Mulciber, Avery and Wilkes. They were all good fellows, even if they were a bit wild. Now, Slughorn never quite appreciated their particular sense of humor, running a little too close to simple cruelty for his tastes, but it didn’t change the fact that they were such talented boys.

Each of them had a bit of a dour expression as they rested by the roaring flame, it almost seemed as if they were together in order to share their dismal moods, rather than to improve each other’s. He could overhear a scarce few words of their conversation, “Potter… the Dark Lord… He’ll rue…”

His lips thinned as he heard it. But then he hardly knew what he heard. A few scattered words, that was nonsense really. He could hardly make a judgement based on that! Still, he had a strange notion to call over Severus, to tell him how impressed he was with his corrections to Bartleby’s Draught, and his recommendation that perhaps he should try to publish some of his work, the corrected arithmetical formulas to the potions.

It was a strange feeling that made him want to set the boy back on the right path, without even knowing what path the boy was on. He’d like to say that the only thing that stopped him was the little notion that perhaps Severus wasn’t working off of arithmetical formulas, and simply had a natural understanding of the underlying forces. But there was another reason, as much as he didn’t want to admit it.

It was a vague feeling of unease, one he had felt nearly twenty-five years before as well. It was a sense that eluded the conscious mind, dodged thought and moved into a far more theoretical realm, that tied itself still more firmly to the monkey brain that rested within every man. As he looked at them, he couldn’t help but sniff the musty smell of decay in the air.

Now as he looked around, he couldn’t help but see the moldering rot everywhere he looked. his hair stood on end as he looked at students he had cherished, had mentored and found himself unable to move towards any of them. He felt a sudden stab of pain, how had he failed, that so many of his pupils had been corrupted- turned to dark. A simple wizard knows that the Dark Arts are evil. A smarter wizard sees Dark Magic banned for the harm it does to others. A wise wizard knows that the Dark Arts aren’t forbidden for how they’re used, but rather for the price it takes.

“I’m not the only one who sees it then?” He hadn’t noticed a presence near him, he turned to find Sirius Black staring at the group of young men. His driftwood wand lightly twirled between his fingers, but his heavy brows were furrowed, and his eyes were dark. He’d obviously traced Slughorn’s stare over to Severus’ friends. The boys obviously hadn’t noticed him yet, and Slughorn had the distinct impression that Sirius was trying very hard to not be seen.

“Sees what, Mr. Black.” Sirius just nodded to the group.

“Something different about them… innit?” He looked back to Slughorn, who tried to keep the surprise from his face. “I’ve known that crowd for years, something’s changed. Always been cads, don’t get me wrong. But there’s just something different now; something that wasn’t there before.” Sirius shook his shaggy mane of black hair.

A smile pulled at the corner of Slughorn’s lips, what Sirius had said was funny only for the complete lack of humor in it. Even the boy himself hadn’t quite grasped how close he had cut to the heart of the matter. “Your schoolmates have started down a shadowy path.” Slughorn shook his head, and looked mournfully at the rest of the room. “One that I fear is becoming all too common.”

“They’ve gone dark.” Sirius Black didn’t look at all surprised. “Always thought it’d happen sooner or later, just figured it’d be later really.”

“You disapprove?”

“Well, yeah, Professor.” Sirius’ face was painfully open, and yet he could just as easily see the resolve etched there. “It means that I’m going to have to fight them, doesn’t it.”

“Fight?”

The boy stared at them through lidded eyes, considering his words for a second before finally confirming them. “Yeah. Fight.” He pointed at them. “My whole family’s gone dark at some point or another, we’ve probably committed more atrocities than Genghis Khan. I know what the Dark Arts do to someone, how it twists them. There isn’t any way I don’t end up fighting them.”

“But certainly-“

“I suppose that at a certain point it isn’t enough for me to be against the whole ideology, you know?” He was uncertain with his words, as if he was dipping his big toe into the kiddie pool. “At a certain point I have to prove it.” He looked up to Slughorn hopefully. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Professor.”

Slughorn sighed. “I believe I do.”

Noticing the stares of the five boys on him, Sirius’s eyes widened. “Sorry I’ve got to cut this short professor, but I think it’s best if I take my leave, looks like Snivellus and the gargoyles noticed me.” He shot Slughorn a final grin before sprinting into another room.” Rosier and Avery pursued, but Snape stayed where he was, approaching Slughorn.

“What did he want to talk to you for?” Snape looked pointedly at where Sirius left.

Slughorn plastered a smile onto his face before chuckling. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Severus. Young Sirius just needed a little bit of guidance.”

Snape glared for a moment. Slughorn couldn’t help but notice that the dark circles underneath his eyes had gotten wider, and that his pale skin seemed to have turned a faint sallow. “He’s not a Slytherin.”

“Severus,” said Slughorn, his tone turned cold. “Mind yourself.”

“Apologies, Professor.”

“So m’boy, have you gotten started on brewing that sleep draught you’d been talking about?” Severus pursed his lips, his eyes guarded.

“No sir.” He halted there for a moment, before continuing. “I’ve been… busy.”

“Well…” Slughorn searched his mind for something, anything to say. He couldn’t help but feel that since he had returned from his trip to the Andes, the world had turned without him. Severus should have been a brilliant potioneer, not a burgeoning dark wizard. He needed to get away from this. “I’ll see you later then.”

He spun quicker than he had in years, trying to get away from the slightly distressing sight of Severus Snape and towards the doors to Nott Manor. Slughorn had the strangest feeling that the best thing he could possibly do at that moment was to leave, something wasn’t right. However, before he could even leave the salon, he found himself directly in front of Ernest Nott himself, hand in hand with his young fiancée. As he approached, an odd expression, something akin to a disgusted boredom, appeared on her pretty face and she slipped away. He was trying to remember her name… Parkinson maybe… when Nott spoke.

“Ah, Horace!” Ernest smiled, a wide toothy grin emerging on his broad face. He had been a beater for the Slytherins back at Hogwarts, and one of the best in Horace’s time at Hogwarts. He’d been recruited by nearly six professional teams, but of course that was out of the question for a Nott.

Ernest had been one of the few students that had nearly immediately made an impression on Slughorn, and he’d attended his first meeting only halfway through his first month at Hogwarts. If Slughorn was being honest, it was quite easy to see why; Ernest Nott cut an impressive figure. The ermine trimmed robes that clung tight to his muscular shoulders and the golden hair that hung loose across his brow made for a rather decent impression of a Beowulfic hero, one only enhanced by his easy-going manner. “Jolly good to see you.”

“Ernest! Why, yes, spiffing really,” Slughorn couldn’t help but let his lips curve into a delighted smile at the sight of his former pupil. “How are you, dear boy?”

“Excellent, excellent,” he said. “Good health and good spirits really.” Ernest gave an exaggerated wink and Slughorn didn’t have to fake his chuckle. “How are you enjoying the soiree?”

“Spectacular, really!”

“Good to hear, I was thinking of doing a dinner actually…” He looked to both sides, once he spotted his wife on the other side of the room he continued. “Well, I was thinking of doing a dinner, but after that Parkinson mess…”

Slughorn nodded his head understandingly. “You just can’t serve occamy a l’oranje with Veela Wine. It causes the taste to foul.”

“Someone should have told theme that I suppose! Well, Sybarita is a Parkinson of course, and it seemed rather uncouth to bring it up.” Both let out a few chuckles before continuing. “So, how are things at Hogwarts?”

“Well, don’t tell anyone I said this, but it was a little bit of a disappointment this year really.”

“Oh?”

“Hard to tell this early however.” Slughorn shrugged. “Brilliance can come in flashes.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure." Ernest nodded his head.

It was obvious to Slughorn that Ernest didn’t quite grasp the gravity of the situation. Over the past year Slughorn had been lucky to have a class where a potion hadn’t gone catastrophically wrong. There had been three separate occasions of an entire class having had to attend the hospital wing. There had been seventeen accidental poisonings- three intentional! That wasn't even mentioning the forgetfulness potion gone so horribly wrong that one first year Ravenclaw was still hearing voices from the void. The only promising student was a Shacklebolt, but even he displayed no true talent for potions, merely managing to not screw up.

"It's worse than you can imagine," said Slughorn.

Ernest shook his head. “The school is going to the dogs. They’re letting all the riff-raff in now, aren’t they?”

“I don’t believe the admissions policy has changed, no.” Slughorn thought it had always been clear that every witch and wizard in England was entitled to attend Hogwarts, even if many didn’t- due to expenses or lack of talent.

“Perhaps…” He seemed struck with an immense displeasure for barely a second before he continued. “You’ve never come to the manor before, have you?”

“Only once, and that was back in your father, Cantankerous’, day. Apparently, it took him too long to compose the guest list and so he never made the effort again.”

Nott guffawed. “That does rather sound like him. He was a good man, but never the most sociable.”

“Oh, may he rest in peace, but he was just a little too obsessed with rank.” Agreed Slughorn. “Never gave people room to rise. Conservative to the bone.”

“Wasn’t content to leave it alone at Pureblood, had to make distinctions,” said Nott. “Even I’ll admit- and you’ll never catch me crying for centaur rights- that the Sacred Twenty-Eight business was all poppycock. The Macmillans only go back seven generations, and leaving out the Potters, Crouches, Diggorys, and even the Smiths, even if they’ve married their share of well… muggleborns.” He shook his head with disgust.

“I forgot you were something of an historian.” Slughorn forced a little smile. His ancestry only traced back to around the Statute of Secrecy- he always had to be careful about engaging too recklessly with the Old Families, who considered even that, new blood.

“Indeed… something to do I suppose. After all, it would be rather low-brow for me to work in government.” Nott gave a wry twist of his lip. “And we all have a duty to preserve our cultural heritage.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I really couldn’t.”

He smiled that familiar toothy grin. “So, tell me Professor, did my father deign to give you the history of the manor?”

“I believe he was too busy overlooking my low origins.” Slughorn felt that he was somewhat justified in being miffed about that.

“Of course.” He smiled sheepishly, managing to convey an apology without being so plebian as to actually deliver it. “Walk with me, Horace.” They turned from the parlor to a corridor running the side of the building, he stopped at the enchanted portrait of a bearded and stern-faced man with long black hair. Yet the shining blue eyes that peered out of the portrait couldn’t help but seem rather familiar. He grasped a staff tightly in his hands, and seemed aloof of the portraits around him.

“This of course is the portrait of my distant ancestor Snotta, the first recorded Nott, and the man who founded our first home, far from here, the town of Nottingham, where he protected an entire muggle village and in return received fealty.”

Slughorn made various approving noises and as they walked further down the dark corridor, they came to a depicted battle scene. Horace watched as Housecarls and Thanes with their long battle-axes fought raiders, and in the center of the painting, two wizards dueled, one seemingly bearing the essence of ice itself, and the other skillfully wielding a whip of fire. But as the battle continued, a man seemed to sneak behind the fiery warlock and stick a knife in his back. Nott narrowed his eyes as he watched. Slughorn himself couldn’t help but let out a small, “Oh my.”

“The Danes came in the Ninth Century. They were led by a sorcerer of immense power, named Old Hoarbeard. My ancestors defended their home bravely, but they were betrayed. Knives in the dark killed most of them. Knives wielded by the muggles they protected…” Nott looked at the painting with a bit of disgust, he shook his head slowly. His next words sounded almost like a solemn vow. “That battle would be the last time a Nott associated with muggles on his own accord.” As they moved past the painting, Ernest pointing out small busts or specific paintings and Slughorn nodding at the right times, they came to a pair of lancet windows overlooking the lake.

“Well, what you have to understand, is that we Notts have lived on this land for a very long time. Longer than there has even been an England. But this castle, has a history that long outstrips ours. After all, this was not our original home and yet it was here, in a much-reduced state, long before we came. As my father once said, there once was no Notts, but there always was a castle here.

“Now, the only hint lies in our chronicles, which mentions the great adventurer Eobald Nott, who obsessed with the greater Merlin, managed to find his tomb- and his home. Of course, in all the stories Merlin’s tomb rests near Nimue, the Lady in the Lake and the holder of Excalibur. The chronicles specifically mention that he desired that the Notts make their home by the lake forevermore.” Nott winked as if revealing a great secret. But Slughorn was more interested in the wistfulness that had crept into Nott’s voice.

Slughorn couldn’t help but be impressed. The small, unimposing pond outside must have been of great significance, to spawn a story such as that. “Quite a tale, Ernest.”

Nott didn’t seem to notice. He stared at a small painting to the side, depicting a man, clad in armor but with the same shining blue eyes, wielding fiendfyre against a company of knights. Even in the painting one could see the sweat off the wizard’s brow, and the tight control with which he held the spell. Behind him stood the castle itself.

“We were the last to surrender to William the Conqueror, you know? The first in battle and the last to leave. But we were driven into hiding by William, and dispossessed of all but this, the only piece of land we could protect. It’s a great lesson for all of us, we left the mundane long before everyone else. There is no reason to bring the muggle into what is magical.”

With that, he walked back to the atrium parlor, where he absentmindedly hefted a flagon of ale that had appeared in his hand. It was obviously very different from the wines being sipped around them, and Ernest seemed quite unaware of the stares, or perhaps rather uncaring. It suddenly seemed obvious to Slughorn that the barbarian image of Nott was quite intentional. History, after all, tended to not stay in the past. “Of course, now wizards look to muggles as their saviour. As if they have something to teach us…” Nott sneered at the thought, an expression that looked out of place on his handsome face. “We are different, and they don’t- can’t understand that. Think that we should change… well I say let them change!”

Slughorn nodded his head, he’d never liked change himself.

“Every year there is just more of the wrong sort.” Ernest shook his head slightly, before leaning in. “Every year more and more. They come and yet they don’t appreciate. They don’t understand Hogwarts, what it means- they just can’t. They can’t understand magic. They think of it as a tool!”

Slughorn nodded as Ernest spoke, but in his mind appeared a flame haired girl with piercing emerald eyes. Perhaps most muggleborns didn’t quite understand the way that magic worked, didn’t appreciate what it meant, but far be it to suggest that none of them did. Perhaps some were more witch than woman, even in their minds. “I’d hardly say that’s a reason to stop them from coming however-“

“But don’t you think that perhaps they should be subordinated?” He asked in a flat tone. “Don’t you think perhaps they should be made to understand their… place in the world? In order to preserve our way of life!”

“Ernest, I dare say you’re starting to sound alarmingly like your father!”

“No, Slughorn, listen to me.” Slughorn was suddenly aware of the figures around the room who were doing a very bad job of disguising their immense interest in the conversation. Crabbe leaned in, his fingers tapping on a banister overlooking the room. Belenus Bulstrode’s hand kept twitching closer and closer to his wand. Malfoy wasn’t even listening to the witch speaking to him, instead looking straight at them, a curious look in his eyes. For the first time in his life, Slughorn felt profoundly uncomfortable with the company he kept. “We all know you. We all remember you fondly. You’re a good Pureblood wizard. You understand the importance of history!”

“Ernest, you were always one of my star pupils. I always knew you’d go on to do great things,” Even as he spoke, Slughorn’s eyes darted around desperately. He could see more and more people who had been dispersed across the castle filtering into the room. The Lestranges were all entering together, but he was sure there was a bounty on Rabastan’s head! Yaxley, the elder Avery, the Carrows, Jugson and Macnair. All former students of his, and all with dark looks in their eyes. The fire at the center seemed to dim, and shadows seemed to stretch on the floor, grasping and clawing at him. “But you have to understand. That was history, and this is now, you can’t forget that!”

“There was something you told me. It was a long time ago, but it’s always stuck with me.” Nott’s lips twisted upwards, a pale shadow of his wide grin. “You told me that you think a day is wasted when you don’t meet a new friend. Well, Slughorn, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“You know Ernest…” Slughorn’s face settled in a morose look, and he chuckled a little. “…well, I find myself a bit tuckered out. I think it would probably be best for me to just head to bed at this point. It is getting rather late.”

As he stumbled towards the stairs, he found himself blocked by the bulk of Vito Crabbe. The wizard’s eyes just narrowed menacingly as Slughorn ran into him. Ernest called out as he stood at the foot of the marble staircase. “I really do think you ought to meet my lord… my friend.”

It was clear now to Slughorn what this was about, so very clear. He cursed himself for not having noticed sooner. Obviously, this Dark Lord truly had his claws sunk tightly into the families of worth. Of course, a romantic like Nott would have been his first target. Slughorn wondered now if there was any way for him to leave, or if it had truly been his choice to come. He couldn’t stop thinking that all this had probably been happening under his nose for quite some time, and he cursed that he hadn’t nipped it in the bud. He wondered if every person in the party was in on the game, whether he’d been purposely deceived, and the worst part of it was that they had not admit to anything.

“I’m not a part of this war, or any war.” Slughorn said pleadingly, attempting to pry away from Crabbe’s grip. “You know that Ernest. I’m merely a professor!”

“Mere professor!” Nott stalked up and down the red rug in front of the roaring fire. Slughorn couldn’t escape the impression that he was staring at a lion with the cage left open, trying to decide whether or not to devour him. “You and I both know that’s not true, Slughorn. After all, you have so many contacts. So many sources.” Slughorn could almost feel his heart seize up as Nott finally relaxed into a chair.

“Friends, Ernest!” Slughorn cried. “Friends!”

“Yes of course. Friends… You know Slughorn, we also have many friends.” Ernest quirked a smile. “You might even find some old ones in the mix.” Slughorn came to the slow realization that he was probably not going to make it out of the party alive, at least not without being forced into servitude to a specter of his past. As he looked to Crabbe, he came to a sudden and inevitable conclusion.

Slughorn was not a particularly martially minded man. He was a creature of peace. But there came a time in a wizard’s life, where he’d have to remove the plush slippers from his feet, slip out of the smoking gown, place the fez by the end table and defy both better judgement and better nature. It was clear that Nott thought he could intimidate him, and he was right. But Nott had also overplayed his hand a touch, for Slughorn suddenly realized that to a certain degree there was nowhere left to run, but through. No hope on the other side, such a thing could motivate even the most timid of men. His wand, ten inches of cedarwood suddenly appeared in his hand, and he cast a fond smile down at it before he firmed his glare at Crabbe.

“I will not be coerced into fighting a war.” He raised his wand in front of him, right at Crabbe’s throat, and he couldn’t help but feel many a measuring eye cast on him. “I am not a man of violence, but I will most assuredly defend myself.”

Ernest only furrowed his heavy brows as if reevaluating a deeply set impression. A surge of righteous anger flowed through Slughorn in that moment, the fury of a man forced beyond his limits. Slughorn gritted his teeth as Vito Crabbe approached once more. A tiny flick of his wand caused an arm to reach out of the stone steps and bodily throw Crabbe out of his path, sending him tumbling down the stairs, where he lay stunned on the floor. Let them underestimate him at their peril. If it was true that Horace Slughorn was a man of creature comforts, it was equally true that he would defend them jealously. He let his arm hang by his side as he marched up the stairs and towards freedom. Only as Slughorn grasped the door-handle did Nott call up to him. Somehow, Slughorn could again hear the old student he once knew.

“You do know this was your chance Horace?” He said, and Slughorn had to risk looking back to that broad honest face even as a breeze tousled his hair and bid him step forward. “To be one of us. To be truly accepted.” There was a pleading note to Ernest’s voice, as if he was bidding Slughorn to see reason. “You’ll have to choose your side eventually!”

“To join for war? In the name of death and suffering?” Slughorn shook his head and stepped out into the warmth of the summer’s night without another word.



Please place all reviews in spoiler tags ~Sorrows

 

Spoiler: Reviews

Plot & Pacing: 3/5
I'll be honest. I didn't like this simply because it was about Slughorn. I felt like it could have been much shorter and achieved the same thing. A character piece about who Horace Slughorn is as a person could be defined in short, poignant moments. Pacing is erratic. You can tell which parts you liked writing more than others and I have to say that it hurts this story. You need to devote equal attention to all aspects of story, despite your love of specific ideas otherwise the story itself will suffer in the end.

I feel like you missed the mark with what you were trying to achieve here.

Characters: 3/5
While the MC bares Horace's name and likeness and a few of his habits; this does not really sell well for me. Slughorn is my least favorite character in canon, second only to Umbridge. He lacks depth, he's compelled by very basic, creature like desires, and you've done nothing to really establish that here. You took someone who is pretty much tabula rasa and left them even more bland than canon did.

I feel like that might be overly harsh, but that's how I feel.


Prompt Use: 3/5
Your use of prompt is interesting. I would argue that more needed to be done here for you to earn the full weight of this category, however it left me feeling like when you're watching a movie and they use the name of the movie in the movie? That's what your use of prompt felt like here.

Other: 3/5
Overall, if I was looking for something to read, I'd give this a glance. I can't say this is my favorite out of all the submissions, but I also wouldn't say that its the worst. There are things here that could be neatened up and this would be a bit of character development that would set itself apart from the others.

The comp is already riddled with several character pieces and I find myself wishing there was more to this one than that.

Thank you for submitting, however, best of luck.

12/20

 

Spoiler

My main problem with this story is that there's a lot of excess weight here. A lot of words that exist for the sake of existing, but I don't think they add much in terms of building the world (because other aspects already cover it and its just being restated), or building character. You could trim this down, streamline it more and it'd be a much stronger piece.

For example, there's a lot of time spent at the parties and observing OC's who show up once and leave. While that captures the real life aspect of a party, stories tend to need more focus than that. Cut out the boring bits, filter only what is interesting.

Second, I think that Slughorn's character is confused. I still don't quite grasp why he chooses to fight in some places and not in others. He refuses to partake in a war, but is willing to fight to keep his neutrality? It reminds me of the contradiction of waging war for peace.

Finally, the climax of the piece is lacking. Slughorn psyches himself up to fight back, does so briefly and then just...leaves? It feels quite unsatisfying.

 

Spoiler

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As charecter study I really think this works. Slughorn is not a charecter that is given much time or sympathy in canon or in fanfiction so it is nice to get something that really explores his mindset.

I also really like the period of time you chose to portray. The interwar years when Voldemort was not yet a know figure. It's an interesting setting. I like the slow tension you try to build beneath the genteel parties. I also like how you expanded the wizarding population, bringing in far more families that it seems never made it out of the first war. Intentional or not it really gave me a sense of the damage Voldemort's first war did on the pureblood culture it claimed to try and protect. (Also some great names there, if you came up with them, congratulations, they are very JK-esque.)

The contrast with the second party and Slughorns realisation as to what was happening was a good structure to follow. Slughorns unique connections with the young Slytherin's and high society makes him an interesting perspective to explore the rising tensions from.

That being said, I can see what you were going for, but I think that overall this story suffers for being a bit too unfocused. Each scene you have written does not always have a purpose, which it should in something this length. This leads to a certain amount of drag that undermines the subtle tension that is building beneath the surface. There are several plot threads that are set up to go nowhere (the strange man, James meeting the dueling masted, Sirius being at the other party.) The big one, Slughorn being foeced into action, amounts to little, physically or thematically. You set up Slughorn knowing who Voldemort probably is but fail to explore it

I found this interesting and enjoyable. If it had a stronger direction and sense of purpose I would want to read more of Slughorn navigating Voldemort's first rise.