Chapter 729: Slughorn
The moment Wade pushed open the WardDoor, a thick, cloying scent of sedatives and blood filled the air. The room was lit by a single Oil Lamp, casting a dim, flickering glow. In the far corner, hunched like a startled hedgehog, was a frail, bent figure wrapped tightly in a tattered emerald-green Cloak.
"Don’t use Lumos," the young healer Pai whispered urgently to Wade and Harry. "And don’t speak too loudly. He fears bright light... and loud voices."
The slight creak of the door had already disturbed the patient, who flinched violently, instinctively curling inward as if trying to hide. His voice, hoarse and trembling, rasped out:
“No… don’t come near… please…”
Wade stared. The man was skeletal—bald, hollow-eyed, his robes hanging loosely on a frame like a tattered curtain draped over bone. Bandages wrapped tightly around his neck and wrists, stained with dark, creeping red seepage. Ordinary wounds healed in an instant under potion magic. But wounds still bleeding through bandages—those were either poisoned or inflicted by Dark Magic.
Dumbledore stepped forward slowly, his voice soft and calm.
“Horace… it’s me. Albus…”
“No… no…” Slughorn suddenly convulsed, flailing his arms wildly. He screamed in agony, voice cracking:
“I know nothing! Leave me alone! Please… just leave me alone!”
He slammed himself against the wall, and Dumbledore raised his wand with a swift, silent motion, immobilizing him. For a moment, Slughorn thrashed violently—then froze. His milky eyes flickered with a sickly, unnatural light. A grotesque smile stretched across his waxy, yellow face.
“Oh, oh… thank you for the pineapple, yes… I adore it…”
A flush bloomed across his face, unnatural and vivid. He turned his gaze toward the empty wall, speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone:
“See this Honeywine? It’s from the Headmaster of Wagadoo… top-tier. Care for a taste? Tell you what—no one else has ever been honored with it. Just you…”
Then, as suddenly as it came, the light in his eyes shattered. He collapsed back into a trembling ball, gnawing frantically at his own nails.
“Don’t ask me… don’t… it’s… it’s evil… I can’t… I can’t say anything…”
Harry stood frozen, staring at the frantic, broken man. Then Dumbledore gently nudged his back.
The boy hesitated, then took a single step forward. A faint beam of light fell across his face, catching the green of his eyes.
Slughorn turned. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Harry’s. The moment stretched—tense, unbearable. The crimson hue in his gaze sent a chill through Harry. It reminded him of Voldemort. A pang of discomfort, mixed with unexpected sympathy, rose in his chest. He stepped forward again, voice quiet.
“H-hello… sir… is there anything I can do?”
Tears—huge, silent drops—suddenly spilled from the hollows of the old man’s cheeks. He opened his mouth, trembling, like a child weeping. Muffled, broken words escaped his lips.
Harry strained to hear. After a moment, he understood.
“Lily Potter… Lily Potter… forgive me… Lily Potter… I was wrong… I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have told him those things…”
Harry froze.
Slughorn collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, curling into a fetal position, whispering apologies to someone long dead. His body shook with remorse.
Harry turned, stunned, to Dumbledore—then back to Slughorn. His voice trembled.
“You said… Lily Potter? My mother? You… you knew her? Why are you apologizing to her?”
Slughorn stopped crying. He lifted his head, eyes blank, unfocused. Then, without warning, he let out a high-pitched, manic giggle.
“Correct answer! Ten points to Gryffindor. Please, take a seat, Miss Ivan.”
He spoke as if lecturing students in class—his face lit with an unnaturally radiant smile, tears still dripping from his cheeks.
“Yes… the brewing of Felix Felicis is extremely complex. I’d wager there are fewer than a handful of wizards in all of Britain who’ve ever succeeded… Now, let me explain the key points…”
The absurdity of it—his cheerful tone, his weeping, his manic grin—left Harry utterly shaken. He didn’t know why, but something in him ached. He couldn’t bear to speak further.
“Try it, Wade,” Dumbledore said softly.
Wade stepped forward. He managed a polite smile—then froze.
Slughorn reacted as if struck by lightning. His body convulsed. His eyes widened, pupils shrinking to needle points. He stared at Wade, unblinking.
“No—!”
A guttural scream tore through the ward.
Slughorn flung himself against the wall, clawing at his head, screaming hysterically:
“No—no—don’t ask me! I’d rather die! Tom!”
Wade’s eyes snapped wide open.
In the chaos, Slughorn knocked over a bottle on the bedside table. The young treatment assistant lunged to stop him—but was too late. He flailed helplessly, arms waving like a clumsy bird trying to fly.
The screams didn’t stop. Treatment staff burst into the ward. Dumbledore swiftly pulled Wade behind him.
The thick green curtain snapped shut with a sharp thwack, sealing the raging man inside. But the shrieks—raw, desperate—still echoed through the walls.
“Don’t disturb the patient!” one masked healer barked, shoving them all back. “Out! Now!”
The door slammed shut behind them with a final, deafening bang.
Outside, Harry stood pale, gripping his wand tightly, unable to imagine the torment inside.
Dumbledore stood like a statue, his long beard trembling slightly. His eyes burned with a sorrow too deep for words.
Minutes passed. The screams gradually faded—became ragged, broken sobs, like a dying animal’s whimpers. Then silence.
They were all exhausted. Cold sweat soaked their backs. Even the air felt heavier.
Wade’s gaze grew distant, unfocused. For the first time, standing outside the ward, he truly understood: the agony of watching someone suffer—of being powerless, a silent witness—was its own kind of torture.
The man inside was a stranger. Yet the sound of his pain had torn at Wade’s heart.
If it were someone blood-related… what kind of agony would that be?
The light in Wade’s eyes dimmed. A quiet, unspoken sorrow welled up inside him.
Then—Boom!
The ward door flew open.
An older healer stormed out, robes flapping like wings, face flushed with fury.
“Dumbledore! I told you—his condition is critical! He needs rest! Rest! How could you—how could you do this to him?!”
She stopped mid-sentence, eyes locking onto the two boys beside Dumbledore. Her mouth dropped open.
“You… you’re…?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, placing a hand on both their shoulders. “These are Wade Gray and Harry Potter. You know why I brought them. You understand… this is not just for him. It’s for the Wizarding World. Please… give us more time.”
The treatment assistant hesitated. She glanced back at the ward—where the broken figure still lay curled on the floor—then at the two boys. Finally, she exhaled, heavy and long.
“Five minutes,” she said. “If he’s triggered again… you’re out. All of you.”
(End of Chapter)
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