To be honest, Lynn had never experienced such an uncomfortable lunch.
He had lived for a very long time and eaten countless meals, yet never before had he found himself thinking, Why isn't this over yet? so many times during a single afternoon.
It would have been tolerable if the food were the only problem.
Slughorn spent half the afternoon aimlessly discussing subjects he considered interesting and the other half rambling about the past.
He recounted countless anecdotes about famous wizards.
There was the wizard who had burned through his cauldron during a Potions examination, the student who had accidentally transformed himself into a teacup during Transfiguration and could not change back, and the Quidditch player who had fallen from his broom during a tournament final, only to be caught by a passing Hippogriff.
Every story was quite interesting—
Assuming any of them were true.
As Lynn continued listening, he gradually sensed that something was amiss.
The "protagonist" of every story inevitably turned out to be one of Slughorn's "old friends."
Every tale that began with "I once knew someone" invariably ended with "He is now a senior official at the Ministry of Magic," "He possesses considerable prestige in the international wizarding community," or "He was one of my students, you know."
"I founded a club," Slughorn declared proudly. "It is called the Slug Club. The name comes from—"
He paused and lightly tapped his chest with one finger.
"The first part of my surname. You see, Slughorn. Slug."
The Slug Club.
Before coming here, Lynn had heard the name mentioned only occasionally.
The club had existed for many years.
During Slughorn's previous tenure at Hogwarts, he had invited a selection of students he considered "promising" to join every year.
Not necessarily the students with the best marks.
Not necessarily the most intelligent.
Not even the most hardworking.
Only those Slughorn deemed promising.
His definition of promising was rather subtle. It encompassed family background, social connections, personal talent, fame, prestige, and numerous other factors.
If someone possessed anything capable of catching Slughorn's eye, they stood a chance of receiving an invitation.
Admittedly, many of those students later became prominent figures within the wizarding world.
Senior Ministry officials, Healers at St Mungo's, Quidditch stars, bestselling authors—all had once belonged to Slughorn's club.
Thus, the Slug Club was not famous because countless people wanted to join it.
Rather, it had become famous because so many successful people had once been members.
The cause and effect had been reversed.
Outside, the sky gradually darkened.
The clouds changed from white to grey, then from grey to a deep, ink-like black.
As night fell, the rhythmic clatter of the train's wheels against the tracks became increasingly distinct.
Slughorn finally pulled himself free from the endless mountain of his memories.
He glanced out the window, and his expression became remarkably animated. His eyebrows rose, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell slightly open in surprise.
"My goodness! I didn't even notice how late it had become."
He paused and swept his gaze across the compartment.
His eyes lingered on Lynn for a moment, then on Harry, before he withdrew his attention and took a sip from the glass of water before him.
"Well..."
Slughorn set down the glass, his voice tinged with regret.
"Much as I hate to end our delightful gathering, you must all return to your compartments and change into your school robes."
He looked toward Lynn and Harry.
"Lynn, Harry, you are both welcome to visit me whenever you like. The rest of you are welcome as well, of course."
The moment he finished speaking, Lynn and Edgar stood and headed directly for the door.
It closed behind them with a soft click.
"It's finally over."
Edgar released a sigh of relief in the corridor.
His entire body radiated the relaxation of someone who had finally regained his freedom.
He leaned against the carriage wall and released a long, heavy breath, seemingly expelling all the frustration he had accumulated throughout the afternoon.
"Yeah," another voice agreed from beside them.
The two turned and saw Belby.
He stood several paces behind them, still holding his purple invitation. His expression was far more relaxed than it had been inside the compartment, and a faint smile even appeared on his face.
Belby glanced back to make certain Slughorn had not followed them.
Only then did he lean closer and lower his voice until only Lynn and Edgar could hear him.
"I'll tell you a secret. I'm actually quite close to my uncle."
Edgar stared at him in surprise.
"Then what you said earlier—"
"My uncle taught me to do that," Belby explained. "He doesn't particularly approve of Slughorn's methods. When he learned that Slughorn was returning to teach at Hogwarts, he specifically told me that if I pretended we weren't close, I could easily avoid being invited to his parties."
Lynn studied the smile on Belby's face and remained silent for a moment.
Everything had unfolded exactly as Belby's uncle predicted.
During the second half of the gathering, Slughorn had barely spoken to him.
"You're incredibly lucky," Edgar sighed. "No matter what I say, I can't exactly pretend I don't know my own father."
Belby glanced at him, his smile deepening slightly.
"In that case, all I can do is wish you good luck."
He waved goodbye to them before turning and entering a nearby compartment.
The train gradually slowed to a stop.
Outside, dim yellow lights flickered along the platform. The surrounding mist blurred them into hazy halos.
Hogsmeade Station.
They had finally arrived.
The moment the carriage doors opened, Lynn was the first person to rush outside.
He moved so quickly that the surrounding students felt only a gust of wind sweep past them. None even caught a clear glimpse of his shadow.
"Lynn!"
Edgar hurried after him, already panting.
"I remember you're a prefect! Don't you need to maintain order?"
"Maintain order, my ass!" Lynn shouted without looking back.
He showed no intention of stopping. If anything, he accelerated even further.
His voice drifted back from far ahead.
"I didn't even get to eat a proper lunch! No one's making me work tonight!"
...
More than an hour later, the desserts vanished from the dining tables, leaving the golden plates clean and gleaming once again.
All the food that had been piled high before the feast—roast beef, fish and chips, shepherd's pie, Yorkshire pudding, and pumpkin juice—had been completely devoured.
Not even a crumb remained.
A Hogwarts feast never disappointed.
At the very least, it was ten thousand times better than Slughorn's Warping Rabbit.
When Dumbledore rose to his feet, the laughter and conversation echoing throughout the Great Hall instantly fell silent.
"Good evening, everyone."
Dumbledore's voice carried throughout the quiet hall.
Smiling, he spread his arms wide as though preparing to embrace the entire room.
"Look at his hand."
William's voice came from beside them. It was not loud, but in the silent hall, it was clear enough to hear.
Edgar turned toward Dumbledore's outstretched arms.
His gaze lingered on the old wizard's hand for a moment before he looked back at William.
"It looks normal," he whispered. "What's wrong with it?"
"I mean Dumbledore is wearing a ring," William explained, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. "He never used to wear rings. If you don't believe me, ask Lynn."
Edgar turned his head again and examined Dumbledore more carefully.
There was indeed a ring on Dumbledore's right hand.
Its design appeared extremely ancient.
It was nothing like the Malfoy family's rings, which were encrusted with gemstones and practically screamed, I'm rich!
Nor did it resemble the Weasley family's simple silver bands, which possessed almost no presence whatsoever.
It fell somewhere between the two—old-fashioned and bearing the unmistakable marks of time.
The band was dark, perhaps made from blackened silver or some specially treated metal. It gleamed faintly beneath the candlelight.
Set into the band was a black gemstone only slightly smaller than a Golden Snitch.
"How have I never seen him wearing that before?" Edgar muttered.
"That's why I told you to ask Lynn," William replied.
Lynn stared at the ring for a moment.
"I don't know. Don't ask me."
He truly had no idea.
Although Lynn frequently visited Dumbledore's office—and had done so so many times since his first year that he could no longer count them—he genuinely could not remember whether Dumbledore had ever worn rings.
Whenever Lynn entered the Headmaster's office, his attention was never focused on Dumbledore himself.
Sometimes, he watched Fawkes.
Other times, he studied the portraits covering the walls, the documents and letters scattered across Dumbledore's desk, or the strange silver instruments filling the room.
But Dumbledore's hands?
Who would stare at a hundred-year-old man's hands for no reason?
---
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