Hogwarts: I'm Harry's older cousin

Chapter 450, Section 445: The Talent Collector—Horace Slughorn

"It looks like they've been attacked by someone, Professor."

Dudley looked at the damaged hinge and remarked, "Is our new professor dead?"

"Pull out your wand and come with me."

Dumbledore said in a low voice, gesturing for Dudley to follow behind him.

"I think I should go ahead of you."

Dudley grabbed Dumbledore's shoulder and pulled him behind him: "My reaction time is faster than yours, and if you're attacked, I don't think I'll be able to escape."

"You are the most important insurance policy."

After Dudley finished speaking, he ignored Dumbledore's reaction and went in first.

Dumbledore watched Dudley's retreating figure, simply shook his head slightly, and then followed behind him.

Pushing open the door, the room was pitch black, and nothing could be seen clearly.

"Firefly."

Dumbledore raised his wand to cast a simple illumination spell, but Dudley stopped him.

"Professor, I don't recommend using magic to alert the enemy."

Dudley shook his head at Dumbledore, then took a vial of potion from his pocket and handed it to him.

"You can take this."

Without a second thought, Dumbledore uncorked the bottle and downed it in one gulp. He then smacked his lips and said, "Cranberry flavor, quite sweet. What is this?"

"Night vision serum, which allows you to see things clearly in the dark."

Dumbledore discovered that his eyes could now see things clearly, almost as clearly as during the day.

"And this, Professor."

As he spoke, Dali handed him another thick, black object.

"This is.?"

Dumbledore was puzzled.

It looks like some kind of Muggle tool?

"A high-powered flashlight. Once you see something ahead, shine this thing on it and it'll blind the dog on the other side."

Dudley does know how to use illumination magic, but the effects are so exaggerated that he always carries a powerful flashlight with him.

To be honest, the effectiveness of using a powerful flashlight to engage enemies at night is something you have to experience to believe; it practically blinds you.

"Sometimes these little gadgets are very useful."

Dumbledore did not refuse, put away the flashlight, and followed Dudley into the room.

Pushing open the living room door, they were met with a scene of utter chaos. An old clock lay shattered at their feet, its face cracked, the pendulum lying a little further away like an abandoned sword. A piano lay overturned on the floor, its keys scattered everywhere. Nearby, fragments of a broken chandelier glittered.

The cushions were scattered haphazardly everywhere, already deflated, with feathers peeking out from the cracks, and broken glass and porcelain shards were scattered all over the floor like powder.

There were many dark red, sticky splatters on the wallpaper.

It was blood, and blood that was about to dry up.

Judging from the color of the bloodstains, it must have been there for some time, but

"It looks like a terrorist incident has occurred."

Dumbledore carefully examined the scene before him, cautiously observing the broken fragments at his feet. After a moment, he said to Dudley, "Dudley, what do you think?"

Dudley shrugged upon hearing this: "The answer isn't obvious, Professor."

He gestured towards Dumbledore with his lips.

Looking in the direction he pointed, there was an overturned, bulging armchair on the ground.

"Revealing the true form."

The purple spell struck the armchair, accompanied by a slightly painful groan, and the armchair began to deform at an astonishing speed. In the blink of an eye, it transformed into a bald, fat old man sitting in the same spot.

Transfiguration spells are techniques for transforming oneself.

"Good evening, Horace," Dumbledore said with a smile, looking at the other man.

The next second, the whole room became bright.

Horace Slughorn, a highly accomplished Potions Master, was the former Head of Slytherin and the previous Potions Professor.

"You didn't need to use a spell, and so violently at that."

The bald, fat old man rubbed his buttocks and complained, referring to the spot where the curse had struck him.

The main point is that his posture before transformation was that he was lying on the ground with his butt sticking out.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think you would have appeared before us otherwise." Although Dumbledore was apologizing, there was no trace of apology in his tone. He even added with a hint of praise, "Also, Horace, I didn't cast that spell just now."

"Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Dudley Strasley, one of Hogwarts' most outstanding students."

"He's the one who discovered you."

Dudley glanced at Dumbledore without making a sound.

This old man

Slughorn staggered to his feet, still rubbing his buttocks. After hearing Dumbledore's introduction, his gaze towards Dudley changed: "I know you, one of the inventors of the Restoration Charm, the young recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class."

Horace Slughorn had one particular trait—he had a great fondness for promising young wizards and would invite them to his Slug Club to nurture them.

You could consider this a form of disguised investment.

If it weren't for the fact that Tom had returned, he would have been living a very comfortable life. Over the decades he had managed Hogwarts, many students who had benefited from his kindness would visit him during holidays and festivals. Don't think that the English don't need social niceties; it's the same everywhere.

Moreover, his snot has been running the club all along; don't the students' children want to go in?

This is what we call a social circle.

"I want to know how I was exposed; I mean, I thought my concealment was perfect."

After discovering that Dudley was a recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class, Slughorn showed great interest in him.

This is probably why Dumbledore insisted on bringing him along.

While Slughorn is indeed very snobbish, his fondness for outstanding talent is like that of an avid collector who has seen a rare, out-of-print card.

Dudley glanced at Dumbledore, then at Slughorn, before pointing to the sticky blood on the wall and explaining, "This is dragon blood, isn't it? I think you might not know, but dragon blood has a unique, foul odor. Even if you mixed some deodorant into it to try and cover it up, it can't fool my nose."

"The natural odor of the bio-sulfur inside the dragon's body is very difficult to mask with ordinary deodorants."

"I suggest you try making it with the juice of mint leaves and edelweiss next time. That way, even the most discerning hunting dog won't be able to tell the difference."

Actually, Dali had one more thing to say: besides the smell of the blood, the degree of dryness of the blood was also a flaw.

The blood was dark red and dull, clearly not fresh.

So who would be so bored as to splatter stale blood on the wall? And what would be the purpose of doing that?

The answer is obvious.

(End of this chapter)