"Argus! You finally deigned to show up!"
"Did my lack of a formal invitation mean that much? Not even a letter over the whole holiday?"
Standing before a quaint cottage, Slughorn feigned outrage, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. He could never stay mad at Argus—a student whose brilliance and talent made true sternness impossible.
"I'm truly sorry, Professor. That was my mistake," Argus replied, his apology genuine.
Slughorn blinked, caught off guard. He'd expected some defense, perhaps a mention of the recent turmoil with the acolytes. But Argus offered none—just sincere remorse.
"Professor, don't give young Mr. Grindelwald a hard time," a brown-bearded middle-aged man called from the doorway, grinning as he emerged from the hut.
"Barnabas, stay out of it!" Slughorn shot him a glare. He'd finally worked up the nerve to scold the boy, only for this interruption.
"It's no excuse," Argus said with a smile. "No matter how busy, there's always time for a letter."
"See? Argus gets it," Slughorn huffed, his mood flipping to delight. "Let me introduce you. Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet."
"Hello, Mr. Grindelwald," Barnabas said, extending a hand. "You're quite the sensation in our pages lately."
More guests filed out, and Slughorn beamed through the introductions: "Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies."
A sharp-featured witch with an athletic build nodded coolly at Argus.
"Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry."
The stocky man stepped forward eagerly. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Grindelwald. Ever thought about—"
"Ludo!" Barnabas cut in with an apologetic chuckle. "Forgive him. He was a Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps back in the day—still gets carried away with Quidditch talk."
"It's fine," Argus said. He vaguely recalled Ludo's story: the star Beater accused of signaling Voldemort during his prime, cleared but career in ruins, now scraping by at the Ministry. At least he'd landed a director's role.
Slughorn had invited five or six others too—all prominent figures in wizarding society. Argus couldn't help but admire the professor's knack for spotting potential; his Slug Club alumni dominated their fields. No wonder even high-placed folks squeezed in time for these gatherings—networking with the elite was too valuable to skip.
"Enough loitering at the door—come in, Argus!" Slughorn ushered him ahead, favoritism on full display.
Barnabas ribbed him lightly. "Professor, you're inviting only Mr. Grindelwald? What about the rest of us?"
It was a jest, but Barnabas was stunned. As a tea party regular, he'd never seen Slughorn dote like this. The man's standards were sky-high; even he rarely got such treatment. And Argus? Barely thirteen, fresh off leading the acolytes, his gifts unproven. Only one explanation: Slughorn saw prodigious talent worth any investment.
With Barnabas keeping things lively and Argus no wallflower, the afternoon buzzed with easy conversation and laughter.
As guests departed, Barnabas and Ludo extended personal invites. Argus accepted with a nod, though Slughorn pulled him aside.
"Argus," the professor said after a heavy pause, "I know a bit about you and the pure-blood families. The Slughorns hold sway among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. If you want, I could smooth things over."
He hesitated. "After all..."
Born a Slughorn, Horace felt the pull of family loyalty against his affection for a star pupil. Offering mediation amid the pure-bloods' recent setbacks had cost him nights of inner conflict.
"Thank you, Professor—that means a lot," Argus said, touched by Slughorn's soft spot for the talented. "But I've got it handled. Things with the families aren't irreparable."
Slughorn sighed but dropped it. "If trouble ever piles too high, come to me. I can't promise miracles, but I'll shield you and get you back to Nurmengard safe."
"I will," Argus promised. Then, remembering, he pulled out a pre-wrapped gift from Vinda. "Nearly forgot this. I know you love tea, so here's the freshest oolong blend."
"Thoughtful as ever," Slughorn chuckled, pocketing it with genuine warmth, his earlier melancholy forgotten.
...
Two days later, at the Ministry of Magic, Barty Crouch Sr.—usually shunned by colleagues—found himself mobbed by admirers.
"Director Crouch, you're the backbone of the Ministry! No one else in Britain—or Europe—could've brokered deals with Germany and France so smoothly."
"Indeed—guide us more in the future!"
"You're turning our Ministry into the gold standard for the International Confederation of Wizards."
With most staff from pure-blood lines, the families' directives had sparked swift cooperation. They'd even leveraged overseas ties to funnel deals into Crouch's International Magical Cooperation department, boosting the Ministry's global clout.
Crouch's sagging reputation flipped overnight. The man once teetering on dismissal now basked in acclaim, drawing a swarm of former skeptics keen to curry favor.
---
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