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eggxeggxegg · 2 years

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What really happened during Slughorn’s memory (it’s actually pretty lame and unimportant)

***

Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their midteens. Tom was lounged back in his chair, aloof and defensively composed.

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” he asked.

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging his finger and winking in a playfully belittling manner. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”

Tom forced a smile as the other boys laughed at him, casting him mocking looks.

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and the careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite —“

Several of the boys snickered again.

“— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry.”

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. It seemed he was the butt of a running joke among the others.

“I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the right kind of background, for one thing.”

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. It seemed Slughorn had forgotten that Tom was a penniless orphan who was raised in a muggle orphanage.

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn briskly, “couldn’t be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never been wrong about a student yet.”

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock behind him and he looked around.

“Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Tom, however, stayed behind.

“Look sharp, Tom, you don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect . . .”

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. . . .”

“Sir, I was wondering what you know about . . .” Tom debated whether this was even worth his time. “. . . about Horcruxes?”

“Project for the Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” asked Slughorn, politely uninterested, fiddling with his wine glass.

“Not exactly, sir,” said Tom. “I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”

“No, well, you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom,” chuckled Slughorn. “That’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed.”

“But obviously you know all about them, sir?” Tom pushed on, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. “A wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I’d ask —“

“Well,” said Slughorn, now fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, “well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”

“I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir,” said Riddle. His voice was controlled, but his impatience was starting to leak through.

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn in the sort of manner that was overconfident, oversimplified, condescending, and probably inaccurate, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form . . .”

Slughorn shared a knowingly condemnatory look with Tom.

“. . . few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”

Tom was pretending to look incredibly interested.

“How do you split your soul?”

“Well,” explained Slughorn. “You must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

“But how do you do it?”

“By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the advantage: He would encase the torn portion —“

“Encase? But how —?”

“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know! Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?”

“No, sir, or course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to offend. . .”

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn lightheartedly. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these things. . . . Wizards of a certain high caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic. . .”

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven —?”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” exclaimed Slughorn, though there was no real weight to it. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case . . . Bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . .”

Slughorn was shaking his head with patronizing amusement, shutting the conversation down.

“Of course,” Slughorn ensured Tom, “this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing isn’t it? All academic . . .”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly.

“But all the same, Tom . . .” Slughorn continued to lecture. “Keep it quiet, what I’ve told — that’s to say what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know . . . Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it . . .”

“I won’t say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, an expression of exasperation on his face.

#exact same dialogue just with changed context and tone #because Slughorn is delusional and Dumbledore gaslit him #Slughorn’s memory totally twisted it. memories are unreliable as fuck #fuck canon: the narrator was unreliable #kill the author (it’s like death of the author but with more spite)

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