Lily Evans and the Marauder's Secrets

Chapter 5: Slug Club

True to my word, I do indeed show up to Professor Slughorn's 'little party' on Saturday night, the one he'd informed me and Severus about the very first day back. He calls us – all his 'special' select students – and our get-togethers the 'Slug Club', a name which I think really leaves something to be desired. All the students belonging to the Slug Club received fancy scrolls of parchment tied with black satin ribbons and formally inviting us to our first meeting during breakfast this morning, delivered via owl post. Barnaby came soaring down to me as I was spooning eggs onto my plate and studying the staff table – still no Professor Dumbledore. It was starting to get concerning. How long was he going to leave Potter and I without any guidance?

I took the scroll from Barnaby's leg while he helped himself to my freshly-dished up breakfast, then ruffled his feathers importantly before flapping off. I think he was really quite pleased with himself to have delivered his first piece of mail. It also reminded me I really do need to write Mum in the next few days. The muggle school she teaches at starts on Monday and while she loves it, the first week is always a bit hectic. It'd be good to let her know I'm thinking of her.

Beside me, Alice also received her invitation. As a student bearing an old wizarding family name, Slughorn could hardly not invite her, and her shining aptitude in the greenhouses has made her valuable enough to keep on. Frank Longbottom, sixth year prefect and another legacy name, also got one.

None of the Marauder boys did, though it certainly isn't for lack of trying on Slughorn's part. He's been dying to get Potter and Black to join Slug Club practically since we arrived at Hogwarts at eleven. Their names preceded them; Potter's family, apart from being yet another famously pure-blooded wizarding line, apparently got filthy rich off the invention of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, and Black came from yet another well-renowned and talented family line. And then after they got to school, Potter's and Black's unmistakable natural skill in pretty much every subject had Slughorn just a step shy of begging them to join his little club.

But, to no one's surprise and to Slughorn's utter despair, neither Potter nor Black had any sort of interest in spending time with a group of students called the Slug Club, especially not when there was so much mischief to be made. He finally gave up inviting them in our third year, after Potter and Black charmed all the many invitations he'd sent – and they'd apparently kept – to fly around the Great Hall one afternoon at lunch like a great flock of paper-white birds, confusing everyone momentarily in thinking the post was being delivered for the second time that day.

Over at the Slytherin table, Severus was also reading his own ribbon-wrapped invitation. When he finished, he looked to me and his face lit into a smile when he saw I was already looking at him. He lifted his scroll to me, and I waved mine back.

Now, we're all gathered in Slughorn's office. As usual, I can't decide whether he charmed it to feel bigger than it actually is, or if he somehow finagled a larger office than any of the other professors' that I'd seen. Either way, the space is nearly as large as a classroom and the couple dozen people in attendance fit comfortably.

It's nearing eight pm. Winston Diggory did indeed show, with his son Amos who had graduated a few years previous and landed a ministry job right out of school, and lectured us all for the first half hour about all the courses we should take and how great working at the Ministry is, but now the gathering has loosened up. A few of the more politically-ambitious students have cornered the Diggorys, but the rest of us are in much more relaxed conversation circles, mostly catching up about summer holidays. Slughorn bounces from circle to circle, encouraging us to eat and drink more, using the word "excellent" a lot, and clearly feeling excited to be back in his element again. If his energy wasn't enough to indicate as much, his maroon velvet waistcoat, buttons straining over his stomach, sure did. A half dozen house-elves flit about, so small among us that it makes the trays of hors d'oeuvres they're bearing look like they're levitating around the room.