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Ethan waited patiently as Slughorn struggled to compose himself.
At last, the professor lowered his trembling hand from his face. His eyes were red, but his breathing had steadied.
"You can help Harry now, Professor," Ethan said, his voice firm.
Slughorn sniffed, dabbing at his eyes. Ethan pressed on.
"I know You-Know-Who questioned you about Horcruxes. I need that memory, Professor. With it, I can fight him."
Slughorn flinched. His expression darkened.
"Dumbledore sent you," he muttered, his voice laced with resentment.
For a moment, anger flared in his watery eyes, but it faded just as quickly, giving way to hesitation.
"But I—" Slughorn's face grew even paler.
"You're afraid he'll find out," Ethan said, reading his fear with ease.
Slughorn remained silent, but his hands trembled, fingers twisting in his lap.
"You don't have to leave Hogwarts. It's protected Lucius Malfoy's family—it can protect you, too."
Slughorn let out a shaky breath but said nothing.
Ethan's gaze didn't waver. "I hope you can be as brave as Lily, Professor."
At her name, Slughorn shuddered. He raised a trembling hand to his mouth, looking for a moment like an overgrown child.
"I feel disgraceful," he murmured through his fingers.
"Ashamed—ashamed of what that memory will show. I—I may have caused great harm that day—"
"You can still make things right," Ethan said gently.
"Lily is gone, but you can help her son."
A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossed Slughorn's face. He closed his eyes for a long moment, battling himself.
Then, at last, he exhaled a heavy sigh.
With slow, deliberate movements, he reached into his pocket, drawing out his wand and a small empty bottle.
Pressing the tip of his wand to his temple, he pulled away a long, shimmering strand of memory.
The silver thread stretched and coiled, glowing as it hovered at the tip of his wand.
With shaking hands, Slughorn guided it into the bottle, where it swirled like liquid smoke.
He corked the bottle with a trembling sigh and extended it to Ethan.
"That's it," he said hoarsely.
"Please… don't think too badly of me when you see it."
Tears slipped down his round cheeks, dampening his walrus-like mustache.
Ethan took the bottle carefully. "Thank you, Professor. You made the right choice."
With a final nod, Ethan turned and left, leaving Slughorn alone with his grief.
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Ethan arrived swiftly at the Headmaster's office, the small bottle clutched tightly in his grasp.
Inside, Dumbledore stood before the black-draped portrait of Mrs. Black, his expression distant, as if lost in thought. At the sound of Ethan's footsteps, he turned, eyes twinkling as he smiled.
"What brings you here, Ethan?" he asked warmly.
Ethan held up the bottle. "Slughorn's memory."
For the briefest of moments, Dumbledore's face was unreadable.
Then, suddenly, his smile widened into something more genuine, more triumphant.
"Ah," he breathed.
"Thank you, Ethan. This will help us immensely."
He stepped forward, plucking the bottle from Ethan's hands with careful reverence.
Without hesitation, he strode to the cabinet, retrieving the Pensieve.
The fight against Voldemort had taken a step forward.
"Now," Dumbledore murmured, placing the Pensieve on the desk.
He uncorked the small bottle and tipped its shimmering contents into the stone basin.
The silvery memory swirled like liquid smoke.
"Finally, we can see the truth."
Ethan leaned in, feeling the familiar pull as the world around him dissolved into darkness.
They landed in Slughorn's office—years ago.
The scene unfolded before them. A group of boys shuffled out of the room, their chatter fading as they disappeared into the dimly lit corridor.
Young Slughorn rose from his chair, collecting empty glasses and placing them on the desk.
A rustling sound made him turn.
One student had remained behind.
Tom Riddle.
Slughorn smiled kindly. "Come now, Tom, you don't want to be caught wandering after curfew—you're a prefect, after all."
"Sir," Riddle said smoothly, his voice polite yet measured.
"I wanted to ask you something."
Slughorn hesitated, then gestured for him to continue.
"Well, ask away, my boy. One at a time."
Ethan and Dumbledore exchanged a glance. They both knew this was the moment—the question that had set everything into motion.
"Sir, do you know anything about Horcruxes?"
As he spoke, Riddle's fingers idly traced the black gemstone ring on his hand.
Slughorn stiffened. His pudgy fingers gripped the stem of his goblet as he studied the boy before him.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts, is it?" he said lightly, though a flicker of unease crossed his face.
"No, sir," Riddle replied, his tone carefully crafted.
"I came across the term in a book, but I didn't quite understand it."
Slughorn sighed, shaking his head.
"Well—yes—I'm not surprised. You'd be hard-pressed to find a book on Horcruxes in the Hogwarts library, Tom. It's a very dark subject. A very evil one."
"But you know about them, don't you, sir?" Riddle pressed.
His voice was steady, respectful—just the right touch of curiosity without appearing too eager.
"I mean, a wizard of your brilliance—if anyone could explain it, it would be you. That's why I thought I'd ask."
Ethan watched closely.
Even at this young age, Riddle was a master manipulator.
The carefully placed hesitation, the casual flattery—subtle, but deliberate.
Enough to make Slughorn feel important without seeming insincere.
Slughorn let out a deep "hmm," avoiding Riddle's gaze as he toyed with the ribbon on a box of crystallized pineapple.
A faint smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, I suppose there's no harm in a basic explanation," he mused.
"Just so you understand the term, of course."
He straightened slightly.
"A Horcrux is an object that contains a fragment of a person's soul."
Riddle nodded, feigning confusion.
"But I don't quite understand, sir. How does one… create such a thing?"
Even though Riddle concealed it well, Ethan could hear the faint tremor of excitement in his voice.
Slughorn hesitated, glancing toward the door as if debating whether to continue.
But the pride of being seen as knowledgeable won over his caution.
"Well, to put it simply—you split your soul," Slughorn said.
"Place a fragment into an object outside your body. That way, even if your body is attacked, even destroyed… you wouldn't die. A piece of you would remain in the world, untouched."
Ethan shivered.
Voldemort's future words echoed in his mind: I was ripped from my body, less than a ghost… but still, I lived.
Slughorn's tone softened, almost regretful.
"Of course, very few wizards would ever consider such a thing, Tom. Less and less as time goes on. There are far worse things than death, you know. Most would say it's a mercy."
But Riddle's hunger was now unmistakable.
His expression, once carefully neutral, gleamed with something darker—something insatiable.
Immortality.
It was all he had ever desired.
"And how," Riddle asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "does one split their soul?"
Slughorn stopped fiddling with the ribbon. He set the box down with a heavy thud and finally met Riddle's gaze.
"Oh," he murmured, uneasy now.
"You must understand, Tom—the soul is meant to remain whole. To split it is a violation. A crime against nature."
"But how?" Riddle pressed, his voice sharper now, urgent.
Ethan held his breath.
This was the moment where everything changed.
And Slughorn, unaware of the horror he had just enabled, was about to answer.