Palette

All things truly wicked start from innocence. “Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” This is how it all starts, doesn’t it? A soft voice that is full of respect and gratitude for the father figure in a life of someone who has never had one. A look that is so full of hope and humility that it can easily break one’s heart. The pillows are hot and hard, and it’s like trying to sleep on the stones taken from the fire. Horace sweats all over and turns all the pillows over to reach the other, cooler side which doesn’t help but gives a false hope that something will change. When it doesn’t, Horace Slughorn has no other choice but to admit that he failed fighting the worst of the enemies a person of his age can have, the insomnia. Horace sits in front of the small fireplace in his private rooms and opens up a bottle of good brandy, the only thing that can possibly help him catch the tail of the comet of his sleep. Brandy doesn’t feel half as good as it should, hell, it doesn’t feel good at all. He has a quick thought that, probably, it would be better to find something to wash down with brandy. ”… thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite…” This thought, this memory comes seemingly out of nowhere, and Horace has to shut his eyes and to clench teeth all of a sudden because he is afraid he’d retch. He hasn’t had a crystalized pineapple for years, he can’t stand the taste anymore. The second brandy helps. Horace watches the fire dancing in the fireplace, and he thinks of the Prewett brothers. He taught both of them. Gideon was good at Potions. Fabian was a star at Charms. He didn’t think twice about those unruly but good-humoured boys from Gryffindor until he learned that they joined the majority. “They were murdered. Tell the truth, at least, to yourself,” his inner voice demands, and this voice for some reason sounds like Dumbledore. Horace lets out a small, whining sound. He heard people saying that the Prewett brothers died like heroes. Slughorn hates that, he loathes the idea of dying like a hero because the best thing a person can do is to live. Young men deserve to live their lives. Heroes are for teenage boys who dream of greatness. “Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?” “Go away!” Horace Slughorn says aloud. “I don’t know anything about Horcruxes! And I… I wouldn’t tell you if I did!” Then he realises that another glass of brandy is suddenly empty and the room is empty as well. There are no teenage boys who dream their cruell dreams of greatness and power lurking in the shadows. He also realises that he can’t do it anymore. He can’t stay or teach at Hogwarts when the Prewett brothers are dead, his former and favorite student is bringing havoc and despair upon the world not unlike a terrible storm, and Albus Dumbledore is teaching in Hogwarts as well. That is all too much for one person. He chose all those boys for his Club because he believed they needed his help to reach fame, greatness and power. He believed that youth equals innocence. He chose those boys yet one of them… one of them turned out to be the Devil. Horace writes a letter of his resignation before he starts working on his memories. It’ll be a sloppy job but it will be better than nothing.