Nero's curiosity sharpened. "Something about Voldemort?"
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I have spent these past months chasing a shadow, a trail that led me deeper into his past. You see, I recently confronted an old acquaintance, Horace Slughorn."
Nero leaned forward, intrigued.
He knew precisely who Slughorn was and the role he played in Tom Riddle's descent into darkness.
Dumbledore's abrupt decision to seek him could only be related to their recent discovery.
He leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "Rather than simply telling you, Nero, I believe it would be far more illuminating for you to witness what transpired yourself."
With that, Dumbledore rose from his chair and moved toward a cabinet behind his desk.
From within, he withdrew a wide, shallow stone basin, the Pensieve.
The silvery substance within swirled hypnotically, shifting like liquid stardust.
"Come, my boy," Dumbledore beckoned, gesturing for Nero to step forward. "Let us take a dive into memory."
Nero nodded, stepping closer.
He had experienced the Pensieve before, but the prospect of diving into a direct confrontation between Dumbledore and Slughorn filled him with anticipation.
Together, they touched the surface of the Pensieve, and the world around them blurred.
The hazy mist solidified into a richly adorned room, a private lounge in what appeared to be a luxurious wizarding club.
Golden chandeliers flickered above, reflecting in the dark mahogany furniture.
Bottles of fine liquor lined the walls, their labels aged and rare.
Seated at the center of the room was Horace Slughorn, looking more rotund and flushed than usual, his mustache damp with sweat.
A nearly empty glass of brandy rested in his hand, and several bottles sat open on the table before him.
Across from him, with an expression of polite patience, sat Albus Dumbledore.
"I must say, Albus," Slughorn slurred slightly, swirling his drink, "this is quite the treat. You always did know how to pick the finest establishments."
Dumbledore chuckled. "It is my hope that good company and fine drink might loosen the shackles of memory, dear Horace."
Slughorn's jovial smile faltered for a split second. He looked away, focusing intently on his brandy. "Memory? Oh, dear me, Albus, you always were too fond of such serious discussions."
Dumbledore did not press immediately. Instead, he refilled Slughorn's glass with a simple flick of his wand, the amber liquid flowing smoothly. "Indulge me, my old friend. I find myself rather interested in your former student, Tom Riddle."
Slughorn visibly stiffened. He placed his glass down and feigned a laugh, though it was brittle. "Tom, yes, yes… an exceptional boy. So talented, so charming."
His fingers fidgeted against the table. "A shame what became of him."
Dumbledore's gaze did not waver. "You know, Horace, I have spent years untangling the threads of his past. And now, I find myself at a critical juncture." He leaned forward slightly. "I know he came to you inquiring about Horcrux."
Slughorn's face went pale. His jovial demeanor evaporated. "I, I don't know what you mean."
Dumbledore's expression remained serene, yet his next words were spoken with quiet weight. "I have already uncovered two of them, Horace." He paused, letting the revelation settle. "One contains a single soul. The other… holds one hundred and ninety-three."
Slughorn's lips parted, but no words came.
His face turned sickly, his fingers trembling over his glass.
"He came back to you, didn't he?" Dumbledore continued. "After he graduated. He sought you out again."
Slughorn's breath quickened. He hesitated, swallowing hard. "Albus, you have no idea what you're asking me."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. "Enlighten me, then."
For a long moment, Slughorn said nothing.
Then, after a long, shuddering sigh, he reached for the brandy and took a deep drink.
His eyes, usually twinkling with self-satisfaction, were dark with something that looked disturbingly close to fear.
"It was 1947," he finally whispered. "He sought me out, appearing at my doorstep as if he had never left Hogwarts. He was… changed. Not just older, but darker. His charm was still there, but it flickered, Albus, like candlelight in a storm. He spoke with kindness one moment, then turned cold as ice the next." Slughorn clenched his fists. "I was terrified."
Nero, watching from the sidelines of the memory, found himself leaning forward, hanging onto every word.
Slughorn's voice wavered. "He asked me questions, dangerous ones. Not about making a Horcrux, no, but about something being… wrong with them."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed slightly. "Wrong?"
Slughorn nodded hastily. "He said he felt something flawed with the magic. He was searching, but he wouldn't tell me what for." He shuddered. "It was as if he was… unraveling."
Dumbledore remained silent, allowing the weight of Slughorn's words to settle. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle yet firm. "Did you tell him anything, Horace?"
Slughorn hesitated, his expression torn between shame and fear. Then, with a deep, resigned breath, he muttered, "I told him I didn't know the true origins of Horcrux magic. But as he was growing more and more agitated…"
He swallowed thickly. "I told him that the family of Owle Bullock might."
Dumbledore's expression did not change, though something flickered behind his eyes. "The author of Secrets of the Darkest Arts."
Slughorn nodded miserably. "Yes. His descendants… they might have answers."
The memory swirled, dissolving into silver mist, and a moment later, Nero found himself back in Dumbledore's office, the swirling Pensieve before them.
Silence stretched between them as the weight of what they had witnessed settled in.
"Well," Nero finally said, breaking the stillness. "That was enlightening."
Dumbledore allowed himself a small, tired smile. "Indeed." He looked toward the flickering fire, lost in thought. "Tom was not content with what he had created. He sensed a flaw. And he sought to correct it."
Nero's mind raced with possibilities. Why or how did Voldemort, who had thought to have attained perfected immortality, feel his Horcruxes were flawed? And what did Owle Bullock's descendants know?
Nero felt again that this world was diverging more and more from the Harry Potter books he had read.
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