Pluto Projector.

Chapter Seven.

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind the three, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

"Well done," Dumbledore praised.

"We didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.

"Oh, yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

"Er..." Harry trailed off. He was not at all very fond of the fact that Slughorn had been much too surprised that a Muggle-born could make a good witch. He decided, however, that he would agree with whatever the Muggle-born with them had to say.

"He is all right," (Y/n) spoke. "A bit cold with our entrance, but who wouldn't be in that scenario?"

"Very wise, Miss (Y/l/n)," Dumbledore said. "Horace likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat— more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick his favourites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or brains, sometimes for their charms or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favourites with himself at the centre, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favourite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office."

(Y/n) was intrigued and impressed whereas Harry was wary and suspicious.

"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against Horace— or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn— but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry— And you too, (Y/n). I daresay you are quite an active figure whether you choose to be or not. You would be the jewel of his collections; 'the Boy Who Lived'... or, as they call you these days, 'the Chosen One.'"

Harry shuddered involuntarily at the new title. (Y/n) reached out and placed her hand on his arm, sending him a short smile. Dumbledore stopped walking, level with the church they passed earlier.

"This will do, Harry, (Y/n). If you will grasp my arm..."

Braced and ready for Apparition this time, the two reached out and took Dumbledore's arm. It was still quite an unpleasant feeling. Once the pressure disappeared and they were able to breathe again, they found themselves standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore. Looking ahead was the crooked silhouette of their friends' house: the Burrow. While (Y/n) found it easy to blend in with both the city life and the countryside life, she prefered the latter due to the quietness.

"If you don't mind, Harry," said Dumbledore as they passed through the gate, "I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?" Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. Harry did not move as he was not at all thrilled about leaving (Y/n) out in the night.
"She has her wand on her, Harry, and she can use it," Dumbledore said, reading right through Harry. "You cannot always be there to protect her." (Y/n) stared at Harry, who had tensed. She never got the full story of what caused her memory loss, but now Harry seemed even less thrilled to leave (Y/n). She ought to talk with him later.

"Go ahead," (Y/n) assured. "They already have their protection spells up. No one bad is going to get past that gate." Harry reluctantly followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.