The room, properly lit and functional, turned out to be genuinely comfortable. The Muggle owners had taste — good furniture, warm wood, shelves of books that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with a life well-lived. Slughorn had added a few personal touches: framed photographs on a low side cabinet, a tea set that had clearly travelled with him, a stack of Potions journals on the side table.
Dumbledore disappeared almost immediately, citing the need for a brief absence in the vague way of someone who has arranged a situation and is now giving it room to develop.
"Tea?" Slughorn asked, turning to Kevin and Harry with the warmth of a man who has decided that the unplanned visitors are the best thing that's happened to him all week.
"Please," Kevin said. "I'm genuinely parched."
Harry started to decline politely and then reconsidered, accepting a cup.
The tea set obliged without being asked, floating up and pouring itself with the practiced ease of a household long accustomed to magic. Kevin took his cup and drained half of it in one long drink. Harry sipped more carefully, watching Slughorn over the rim with the careful attention of someone trying to read a room.
Kevin had already moved on. He'd found the photographs.
They sat in a row on the low cabinet by the wall — moving photographs, all of them, the kind that make small repeated gestures in their frames. A long archive of Slughorn's professional life, faces Kevin didn't recognise alongside faces he did.
"Your former students?" Kevin asked, wandering closer.
"Every one," Slughorn said, coming to stand beside him with evident pride. "The best of the best. Forty-odd years of teaching, these represent the ones who really — ah." He pointed. "Harry, your mother. And your father."
Harry crossed the room quickly. In the second frame from the left, a man who was very nearly a mirror image of Harry stood beside a young woman with red hair and warm eyes. Both of them were smiling.
Harry picked up the frame carefully.
Slughorn watched him with a nostalgic expression. "Lily was quite possibly the most naturally gifted student I ever taught. Remarkable girl."
Harry didn't say anything, but his face said quite a lot.
Kevin had moved along the row. He stopped at one frame and looked at it thoughtfully. "Who's this one?"
Slughorn glanced over. "Ah — Regulus Black. Sirius's younger brother. Quiet boy, but exceptionally talented. I always rather wished he'd come to us under different circumstances." He paused. "Such a waste."
Kevin nodded. He had a sense of what circumstances those were.
"And Professor Snape?" Kevin asked, glancing further along the row with a performance of casual curiosity. "I don't see him here."
"Ah. Severus." Slughorn picked his words with the deliberate care of a man navigating something delicate. "Tremendously skilled, obviously. But his — temperament wasn't quite suited to the, ah, convivial atmosphere I prefer for my gatherings."
"That's fair," Kevin said, with complete equanimity.
Slughorn blinked. He'd prepared himself for the mild awkwardness of gently criticising a student's beloved teacher.
"The permanent scowl," Kevin continued pleasantly. "The way he delivers a compliment so it sounds like a threat. The habit of asking questions he already knows the answers to, purely to make the person answering feel inadequate. The impression he gives of finding everyone around him mildly disappointing." He paused. "Very effective teaching method, actually. Just not what you'd call socially flexible."
Slughorn stared at him for a moment. Then burst out laughing.
Kevin smiled. He kept his tone fair. "He was an excellent teacher, though. Best I've had."
The combination — the frank assessment followed by the genuine credit — landed precisely as intended. Slughorn looked at Kevin with the expression of a man encountering someone who operates without the usual social insulation, and finding it rather refreshing.
Dumbledore returned at this point, took in the atmosphere of the room — tea drunk, photographs discussed, Slughorn in excellent humour — and made the practical decision.
"Harry, Kevin. We ought to be going soon."
Slughorn turned. The warmth in his face shifted to something that was almost — not quite, but almost — reluctance.
"Already?"
"I'm afraid so. You know why I came, Horace, and I won't pretend otherwise. But I take it from your expression that Hogwarts still doesn't appeal."
Slughorn's moustache worked. "I never said—"
"No, no. I quite understand. It was a pleasure to see you regardless."
Dumbledore rested his hands on Kevin and Harry's shoulders, the gesture of a man shepherding students away from a limited-time opportunity. He allowed the pause to breathe.
"Who said it doesn't appeal?"
The words came out of Slughorn with the speed and volume of a man who has just realised he's about to watch two very good opportunities walk out the door.
"Oh?" Dumbledore turned back, mild as a summer morning.
"I — well—" Slughorn gathered himself with visible effort. "Fine. Fine. But I want Mellors' old office — not some converted cupboard — and I expect a proper salary adjustment."
He pointed at Dumbledore with the authority of a man who knows he's been outmanoeuvred but intends to extract every possible concession from the situation.
"On behalf of Hogwarts students everywhere," Dumbledore said warmly, "we are deeply grateful for your service, Horace."
Slughorn shooed him toward the door with the dignity of a man who has agreed to something and is making sure everyone knows it was his choice.
Kevin caught Harry's eye as they filed out. Harry was trying not to smile.
Kevin wasn't trying at all.