Pluto Projector.

Chapter Six.

Harry flew backwards with (Y/n) in his arms, much to the girl's protest. The two held their wands out.

"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again. Harry's jaw dropped. Where a split second there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," the old man said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt."
The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike 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.
"What gave it away?" the man asked, staggering to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

"My dear Horace," said Dumbledore, 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 on his vast forehead.

"The Dark Mark," the man 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?" asked Dumbledore politely.

"Please," said the other.
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 midair, 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.

"What kind of blood was that incidentally?" asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather clock.

"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. There was a final plunk from the piano, then silence. "Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."
He 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 the two teenagers. "Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scare it bore. "Oho!"

"This," said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, "is Harry Potter and (Y/n) (Y/l/n). Harry, (Y/n), 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 the teenagers, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.

"I suppose we can have one drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old time's sake?" Slughorn hesitated.

"All right then, one drink," Slughorn said ungraciously.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry, directing one of them to take a chair, not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took it with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly, when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.