Who let this Dementor into Hogwarts!

Chapter 506 The Minister's Son is Very Tempting

Dumbledore walked ahead and pushed open the front door. Harry tried to exchange a horrified look with Cohen—but he found that Cohen didn't seem horrified at all.

Dumbledore lit up the path ahead. After entering, there was a narrow doorway, with only the left door open and a trail of blood on the ground.

That led to a chaotic living room, where an old clock lay shattered on the floor by the door, and the piano looked as if it had been overturned by some huge object, with keys scattered everywhere.

The crystal chandelier on the ceiling shattered, leaving a trail of sparkling fragments mixed with broken glass and porcelain—the light shone on the walls as Dumbledore raised his wand, revealing horrifying marks.

Dark red liquid splattered on the pale blue wallpaper—Harry gasped, and Cohen clicked his tongue in disappointment.

“Dragon blood is very expensive,” Cohen said.

“A dragon—huh? Isn’t that… I mean…” Harry was a little confused, “not a human…”

“I’ve used Norber’s blood to make things,” Cohen said. “It smells exactly the same.”

"Who would spill dragon blood on the wall of an indoor murder scene... so this is actually a staged murder scene?" Harry asked.

“Your analysis makes a lot of sense,” Dumbledore said. “It’s a pity we’re not at school, otherwise I would have certainly given you some extra points.”

“You can add more when you get back to school.” Cohen tilted his head and looked at Dumbledore. “You’re the headmaster, you can add as many as you want.”

"..." Dumbledore remained silent for a while.

"Do people become stingy when they get old?" Cohen asked Harry.

"Alright, I'll give Gryffindor ten points when school starts," Dumbledore sighed.

Harry covered his face.

Dumbledore then strolled leisurely around the living room. Harry had no idea what they were going to do next—but he knew he could do the right thing by following Cohen.

Cohen arrived at a bulging armchair with a clear purpose, examining it closely as if he had discovered something.

“This chair…” Harry was about to say something, but Cohen had already leaned his face in, looking as if he wanted to give the chair a Dementor kiss—

"Stop! Stop! Albus! Albus!"

The chair seemed to grow legs and rapidly retreated backward, accompanied by a roar like that of a walrus—

Harry then realized that the chair was actually a chubby, bald old man.

"That's boring. I thought it would be a talking chair, a perfect match for my talking toilet," Cohen said, feigning disappointment.

"Good evening, Horace." Dumbledore's attention finally shifted from a miniature Thinker sculpture, and he greeted the old man with a few long, sparse, silvery-white beard with great interest.

He really looked like a walrus, with a layered chin and four or five incredibly long whiskers. The only difference was that he was wearing an expensive-looking brownish-purple velvet coat.

“Even if you want me to go back, you don’t have to use such methods!” Slughorn was talking to Dumbledore, but his eyes kept glancing at Cohen and Harry, as if Cohen and Harry were some rare treasure.

Harry leaned closer to Cohen, looking a little uneasy.

“I told you so,” Cohen said in a low voice, turning his head toward Harry.

"The seduction of the old man?" Harry asked. "It's working great, keep it up, and soon we'll be able to squeeze some money out of him..." Cohen said.

“Let me introduce you. This is Cohen, Cohen Norton. I believe you should be quite familiar with him, given your close interest in the newspapers,” Dumbledore introduced to Slughorn.

“Of course…” Slughorn murmured, his gaze towards Cohen now completely undisguised –

But he suddenly realized Dumbledore's purpose and resolutely turned his face away, trying to resist some kind of temptation:

"No! You can't convince me with that, Albus. The answer is no!"

“This is Harry Potter, I think you know him too.” Dumbledore continued with a smile, “Harry, Cohen, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

“Yes, Professor Slughorn,” Cohen said.

“Yes, Professor Slughorn,” Harry said, following Cohen.

"Stop! I haven't agreed yet," Slughorn shouted immediately. "Don't call me professor—of course, you can call me that later if you want, but not tonight."

“Yes, Professor Slughorn,” Cohen said, unmoved.

Harry didn't chime in this time; he's a bit shy.

"At least...can we have a drink?" Dumbledore asked, "for the sake of bygone days?"

Slughorn hesitated for a moment, glancing at Cohen and then at Harry.

"Alright, let's have a drink then," he said in a muffled voice.

Then Slughorn and Dumbledore began to restore the messy room, while Cohen and Harry were placed in two newly appeared armchairs.

“I feel like…” Harry said, unsure.

“If I guessed correctly, you’re here to sell.” Cohen lay back in his chair, fiddling with his wand, then poked it headfirst into the armchair cushion. “It’s normal to be nervous the first time. Take a deep breath—”

“No, that’s not it—” Harry said in a low voice, “Why is he so interested in us?”

“All I know is that he put my dad’s friend in solitary confinement.” Cohen thought of the conversation he overheard during his passionate encounter. “For Arnold to remember it until he was over thirty, that solitary confinement must have been very powerful.”

They repaired the room in just a few dozen seconds, including the time it took Slughorn to carefully collect the dragon blood from the wall into a bottle.

Then, Dumbledore and Slughorn sat facing each other by the fireplace, which had been empty, and suddenly a fire broke out.

Dumbledore sat between Cohen and Harry—a very insidious move, because this meant Slughorn would either have to turn away and not look at anyone, or he would have to look at all three of them at the same time. When looking at Dumbledore, he couldn't help but look at Cohen and Harry on either side of him.

"Hmph." Slughorn finally chose the cross-eyed view, waved his wand, and with a clinking sound, poured the wine into a glass on the coffee table, then handed a glass to Dumbledore, "Here you go."

"How are you, Horace? How have you been lately?" Dumbledore asked with concern after taking a sip of the wine.

“Not good,” Slughorn said. “I often have trouble breathing, asthma, and my legs are getting weak from rheumatism. Ah, it was expected; I’m getting old, I’m not good for you anymore…”

“I know that, ‘the syndrome of feeling weak and aching all over as soon as you hear there’s work to do,’” Cohen said. “My dad had that problem.”

(End of this chapter)