Annabeth Chase and Things Are Getting Intense

Chapter Four

It seemed to have gotten colder while they were inside talking to Slughorn. Annabeth rubbed her arms as they walked, though the cold did keep her more alert.

The downhill road was hard on her tired ankle, making her limp a little more pronounced as they walked back the way they came. She scowled, annoyed at her weaker foot.

"Annabeth, are you limping?" Harry asked, brows furrowed in concern.

Annabeth waved him off. "It's old. It just acts up sometimes."

"We are going to the Burrow now," Dumbledore said. "Your night is almost over. Well done, you two."

Harry blinked. "We didn't do anything."

"Yes we did," Annabeth said. "We gave him the bait. Us." She gave Dumbledore a sharp look. "Isn't that right?"

Dumbledore bowed his head. "You showed Horace exactly what he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

"Er..."

"No."

"Horace," Dumbledore said, smiling, "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 favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm 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 favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always enjoying some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison office.

"I tell you all this, not to turn you against Horace—or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn—but to put you on your guards. He will undoubtedly try to collect you both. You would be the jewels of his collection; the demigod and the Boy Who Lived. Or, as they call you now, Harry, 'The Chosen One.'"

Next to her, Annabeth felt Harry shiver, and she knew he was thinking about the prophecy. Dam oracles.

Dumbledore slowed to a stop at the church they had appeared by. "This will do. If you will grasp my arm."

Once again, Harry laid a hand on Dumbledore's forearm, and Annabeth grabbed his shoulder. She took a deep breath and held it, then slowly let it out. She could do this one more time. Just one more, and then they would be done.

If Harry noticed Annabeth squeezing his shoulder like a stress ball, he didn't say anything. Dumbledore twisted on the spot, and the darkness closed in.

Annabeth tried taking a deep breath but it was like there was a plastic bag over her head. Her entire body felt like it was being shrink-wrapped as she tightened her hold on Harry's arm, just to reassure herself that someone was there and that she wasn't falling down through darkness again, though she couldn't feel the ground beneath her feet and there was no air in her lungs when she tried to breathe, shit, shit, shit—

A cool breeze kissed her face. Annabeth breathed in the night air greedily, letting go of Harry's shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him rub it, but he didn't say anything.

She was out of breath and she could feel her mind delving into panic again, so she used a method one of the Apollo kids had taught her: examine your surroundings. Go through the alphabet. Find something around you that begins with each letter.