Professor, please pay the debt

"Maybe there was a fight, and then—they dragged him away, didn't they, Professor?"

Harry guessed, trying not to imagine how badly a person had been hurt to get blood splattered that high up on the wall.

"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, looking behind a bulging armchair that had been overturned.

"You mean he—"

"Still here? That's right."

Before it was too late, Dumbledore shot suddenly and plunged the tip of his wand into the cushion of the bulging armchair, and the chair let out a scream: "Ouch!"

"Good evening, Horace," Dumbledore said, straightening up again.

Harry's mouth fell open in surprise.It was just an armchair, but in the blink of an eye it turned into a bald, fat old man squatting there.He rubbed his belly and looked at Dumbledore through one painful, tearful eye.

"You don't need to stick so hard with your wand." He said angrily, struggling to get up, "It hurts me to death."

The wand's light illuminated his gleaming bald head, his bulging eyes, his silver-white walrus beard, and the shiny buttons of the maroon velvet over his lavender pajamas.The top of his head only reached Dumbledore's chin.

"How did you reveal it?" He asked gruffly, standing up staggeringly, still rubbing his belly.

It seems that he has an astonishingly thick skin. You must know that he was found out by pretending to be an armchair just now.

"My dear Horace..." Dumbledore seemed to find it ridiculous, and said, "If the Death Eaters really came, they would definitely leave the Dark Mark on the house."

The wizard patted his broad forehead with his plump hand.

"The Dark Mark," he muttered, "I felt like something was missing... Ah, yes. But it was too late. I just adjusted the seat cover when you entered the room."

He sighed heavily, and blew the tips of his two beards up.

"Shall I clean it up for you?" Dumbledore asked politely.

"Please," said the man.

They stood back to back, one tall and thin, one short and stout, and both waved their wands in unison.

The furniture jumped back to its original position one by one, the decorations returned to their original shape in mid-air, the feathers drilled back into the cushions, and the damaged books were automatically repaired, and they were neatly arranged on the bookshelves.

The oil lamp flew to the small table by the wall and was lit again.A large pile of broken silver picture frames flew across the room, glittering, and landed on a writing table, shining like new again.

All the broken, torn, and gaping places in the room were restored to original condition.The smudges on the wall are also automatically wiped clean.

"By the way, what kind of blood is that?" asked Dumbledore, his voice drowning out the pendulum of the freshly repaired grandfather clock.

"On the wall? It's dragon blood." The wizard named Horace yelled back as the chandelier bounced back to the ceiling with a deafening creaking and tinkling sound.

With the final jingle of the piano, the room finally became quiet.

"That's right, Fire Dragon Blood..." the wizard said happily, "The price of my last bottle is astonishingly expensive. However, it may still be usable."

He walked to the sideboard with heavy steps, picked up a small crystal bottle on the top of the cabinet, and looked carefully at the viscous liquid inside against the light.

"Well, it's kind of dirty."

He put the vial back on the sideboard and sighed.Only then did his eyes fall on Harry.

"Ho..." he said, his big round eyes immediately turned to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, "Ho!"

"This..." Dumbledore stepped forward to introduce, "It's Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine named Horace Slughorn."

Slughorn turned to Dumbledore with an alert look on his face.

"You think that's enough to convince me, don't you? I tell you, Albus, the answer is no!"

He pushed Harry away and walked over, turning his face firmly to the side, as if resisting some temptation.

"I suppose we could at least have a drink?" asked Dumbledore. "For the old days?"

Slughorn hesitated.

"Okay, just have a drink," he said stiffly.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and led him towards a chair.It was a chair much like the one Slughorn had just impersonated, with a freshly lit fire and a bright oil lamp beside it.

Harry sat down in the chair, and he had the feeling that Dumbledore, for some reason, was trying to keep him out of the way.

Sure enough, when Slughorn finished dealing with the bottles and glasses and turned his face again, his eyes fell on Harry.

"Hmph..." He quickly looked away, as if he was afraid that his eyes would be hurt, "Here—"

He handed a glass to Dumbledore who was already seated, pushed the tray in front of Harry, and then sank into a pile of cushions on the newly restored sofa, sternly silent.His legs were too short to reach the ground.

"Well, Horace, how are you these days?" asked Dumbledore.

"Not well..." said Slughorn at once. "I can't breathe. Asthma and rheumatism, and my legs don't work as well as they used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old people don't work." gone."

"However, you must have been quick enough to prepare such a welcome scene in such a short period of time." Dumbledore said, "You won't be alerted for more than three minutes, right?"

Slughorn said, half exasperated, half triumphant: "Two minutes. I was in the shower and didn't hear the alarm that my invasion spell had been dispelled. But..."

He seemed to regain his composure, and said grimly, "I'm an old man, undeniably, Albus. A tired old man, entitled to a quiet life and some creature comforts."

He certainly has no shortage of creature comforts, Harry thought, looking at the furnishings in the room.

The room was crowded and messy, but no one would say it wasn't comfortable.There are ottomans, ottomans, drinks and books, as well as boxes of chocolates and piles of bulging cushions.If Harry hadn't known who lived here, he would have guessed it was a fussy dame.

"You're not as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore.

"Yeah, maybe you should consider retirement yourself," Slughorn said bluntly.

His pale green eyes were fixed on Dumbledore's wounded hand. "It can be seen that the reaction is not as quick as before."

"You're right..." said Dumbledore calmly, shaking up his sleeves, exposing the tips of his charred and blackened fingers.

Harry looked and felt a strange stabbing pain in the back of his neck. "I'm obviously duller than I used to be. But on the other hand..."

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands, as if to say that old age has its advantages.

That's when Harry noticed that Dumbledore was wearing a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen him wear before.

The ring was large, crudely made of what seemed to be gold, and set with a heavy black stone with a crack in the middle.

Slughorn's eyes rested on the ring for a moment, too, and Harry saw a slight frown on his brow, and several lines formed on his broad brow.

"So, Horace, all these security measures against intruders... are they against the Death Eaters, or against me?" asked Dumbledore.