Coup de Foudre [Fred Weasley] [6]

⚡️ Chapter 4 ⚡️

Vega watched with fairly widened eyes as – where a split second before there had been an armchair – there now stood, crouched, an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye. Next to her, Harry was just as shocked as her, his jaw dropped in shock – but Dumbledore, very different compared to them, was calm as ever, "Good evening, Horace,"

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," Horce Slughorn said gruffly, clambering to his feet and Vega eyed the situation uncomfortably. "It hurt,"

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like moustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pyjamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin once the Headmaster had finally straightened up to his full height.

"What gave it away?" Slughorn asked as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly, and Vega felt he seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

"My dear Horace," Dumbledore said, looking amused. "If the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house,"

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.

"The Dark Mark," Slughorn muttered. "Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room," He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his moustache flutter.

"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" Dumbledore asked politely.

"Please," said the other man.

They stood back-to-back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion – the furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments reformed in mid-air, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

"So, dragon blood?" Dumbledore asked loudly over the chiming of the newly un-smashed grandfather clock.

"On the walls? Yes," Slughorn shouted, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.

There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.

"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable,"

Slughorn stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within. "Hmm, bit dusty," He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Vega and Harry.

"Oho," Slughorn said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore and then towards Vega's face, taking in her appearance, clearly recognising the two of them from their many appearances on newspapers. "Oho!"

"This," Dumbledore said, moving forward to make the introduction. "Is Harry Potter and Vega Lestrange. Harry, Vega, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn,"

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus," He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.