"Let's talk about something else—Dumbledore mentioned you're quite talented in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Perhaps sensing the mood had turned a bit heavy, Slughorn changed the subject.
"I've seen your academic record," he said, "and I completely agree with that assessment."
"To be honest, Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been a bit of a problem area at Hogwarts."
He lowered his voice slightly. "You know how it is—because of certain… reasons, the clever ones don't usually want the job."
As the new Headmaster, the issue clearly troubled Slughorn.
He had no good candidates. Even his once-proud student, Severus Snape, had already volunteered himself for the position.
Harry thought for a moment before saying, "When I was in third year, Professor Remus Lupin was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we ever had."
"Ah, yes—Remus," Slughorn said with a knowing nod. "I remember him. Even as a student, he stood apart from his three companions. He was a prefect back then. And Sirius—he was another bright Black, haha, very clever, though a bit of a troublemaker."
Slughorn clearly had fond memories.
Mentioning Lupin brought that old group to mind again—those talented students who had always held a special place in his regard.
"I remember Sirius Black leaving Azkaban," Slughorn mused. "That whole incident back then—it was a terrible misunderstanding."
"Horace, would you mind if I kept this knitting magazine?" Dumbledore finally emerged from what had felt like an endless trip to the bathroom.
He held up a magazine, asking as if he'd simply happened to find it lying around.
"Take it," Slughorn said, surprised. "You're leaving already?"
"Yes," Dumbledore replied kindly. "I imagine you still have plenty of important matters to attend to. The Headmaster's post comes with no shortage of work, doesn't it?"
"You may not realize it," Dumbledore added, lifting his glass and draining it in one sip, "but there are things at Hogwarts that outsiders find far too tempting."
He motioned for Harry to follow him, catching Slughorn a little off guard.
As the two stepped out the door, Slughorn hurried after them and, after a brief struggle with himself, called out, "Dumbledore! I've been thinking—perhaps retirement life doesn't suit you after all!"
Dumbledore turned back, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"I think Hogwarts could use stronger defenses," Slughorn said, sounding conflicted. "If you were willing to lend a hand, that would be best."
"I'd be delighted," Dumbledore replied with a small nod.
He chuckled softly as the garden gate swung shut behind them.
"Well done, Harry," Dumbledore said.
"I didn't do anything," Harry said, startled.
"Oh, but you did," Dumbledore smiled. "You helped Horace make up his mind. My old friend is a cautious man—if not for the Death Eaters' downfall, he'd never have agreed to be Headmaster."
Harry saw the deep wisdom in Dumbledore's eyes.
"Horace enjoys the finer things in life," Dumbledore said softly. "He also delights in surrounding himself with people who are famous, successful, and influential. He likes the feeling of being needed, of being at the center of things—though he himself has no desire to wield power. He prefers to stay just beneath it, where he has more freedom to move and breathe."
"But, Professor," Harry said in confusion, "he's the new Headmaster of Hogwarts. That's not exactly a secondary position."
"Yes, it's an important one," Dumbledore replied, as though he were speaking of a position that had never been his own. "But something within those walls compelled him—enough to make him go against his nature and accept it."
"You mean… John?" Harry asked, a sudden spark of insight flashing through him.
"You and John, Harry," Dumbledore said fondly. "Back at Hogwarts, Horace always had a habit of gathering students he favored—sometimes for their ambition or intellect, other times for their talent or charm."
"Horace has a peculiar gift," Dumbledore continued. "He can always spot those destined to rise to prominence in the future."
"He built a little club around himself—a network of connections. He enjoys the benefits those connections bring, and in turn, he can offer favors back to his students."
Harry immediately thought of someone—John Wick.
But unlike Slughorn, John's network wasn't made of acquaintances; it was made of loyal followers.
"I'm telling you this," Dumbledore said, "not so you'll resent Horace, but so you'll understand—he'll try to recruit you."
"John isn't like the others. He refuses to become anyone's trophy, anyone's possession. You must use that to your advantage."
"Use it for what?" Harry asked, feeling a chill crawl up the back of his neck.
Sweat began to form in his palms.
Dumbledore stopped at the church gate and turned to Harry, his expression calm. "You've been subscribing to the Daily Prophet these past two weeks, haven't you?"
"Yes," Harry said, feeling his heartbeat quicken.
"The events in the Hall of Prophecy were leaked like a flood, weren't they?"
"They were," Harry replied, not finding anything strange about it. "Is there a problem, Professor?"
"Did you notice," Dumbledore said evenly, "that not a single word in those reports mentioned the Constellation Society?"
Harry's heartbeat thundered in his ears. Sweat began to bead across his forehead.
He suddenly realized it was true—the Daily Prophet hadn't said a single thing about the Constellation Society.
And what it did print used the name Johnny Silverhand, not John Wick.
He swallowed hard and asked, "Why is that, Professor?"
In the dim night, Dumbledore's face looked unreadable. "A diversion," he said simply.
Harry's mind reeled. It was one of Dumbledore's chess games again—impossible to grasp in the moment, but deliberate in every move.
Since stepping down as Headmaster, Dumbledore seemed to see everything with unsettling clarity.
He knew full well that Hogwarts might soon face a great catastrophe—driven by Voldemort's obsession with the prophecy and his relentless pursuit of immortality.
The battlefield, Dumbledore knew, would eventually shift to Hogwarts.
All he could do now was set the board—make preparations before the storm arrived.
...
In the Constellation Society's group chat—
It seemed Fleur was in love.
The news was so unexpected that it sent ripples through the entire group.
Everyone wanted to know who could possibly have captured the heart of the proud Fleur Delacour.
Even John was curious.
Percy finally cleared up the mystery: "No need to guess—it's Bill."
Neville: "Bill? Bill Weasley?"
Percy: "Yes, that's right. My brother."
The chat instantly exploded with reactions.
Even John was stunned. Those two have met?
Percy had no choice but to explain.
It all started with work.
Bill was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, while Fleur belonged to the Constellation Society.
Their only real connection was Percy—the Weasley who happened to be part of the Constellation Society.
Fleur worked at Silverhand Angel Investments, but her heavy accent often caused… complications.
To fix this, she sought Percy's help for language lessons.
But, well—Percy being Percy—everyone knew how that went.
His lessons were rigid and mechanical, the kind that could put someone to sleep.
Just when Fleur was starting to regret not asking Cedric instead, the talented, charming, and well-mannered big brother, Bill, happened to drop by to speak with his brother about the tension between Percy and their father.
That was when the two met.
Bill remembered her immediately—the beautiful witch from the Triwizard Tournament.
And before long, with his handsome face and the easy charm honed during his years at Gringotts, Bill managed to win over the proud Fleur's heart.
Draco: "He's with the Order of the Phoenix, Fleur."
Fleur: "I like him. That's none of your business!"
Draco: "…"
Even after her romantic history was exposed, Fleur showed not the slightest hint of embarrassment.
Fleur said openly, "Bill hasn't been too involved with the Order of the Phoenix. Maybe I can convince him to join the Constellation Society instead."
"Or maybe he's already thinking the same thing," Malfoy muttered sourly. "With his kind of charm, I doubt he'd even need an invitation to get in."
Percy added pointedly, "Bill earned twelve O.W.L.s during school and was also Head Boy."
Malfoy, who could only boast an 'Outstanding' in Charms and his current title as prefect, fell silent.
"He does sound like an exceptional man," John finally spoke up. "You have my full support, Fleur—whatever you decide."
Hearing John's approval, the last bit of hesitation in Fleur's heart melted away.
"I knew his brilliance would win you over," Fleur said with delight.
John corrected her gently, "It's not his brilliance that moved me, Fleur—it's the fact that you like him."
Fleur froze for a second, then her smile slowly returned as she stared at his name glowing on the badge.
"You're still as impossible not to like as ever, John," she said softly.
The affection in her words wasn't romantic—it came from the kind of genuine admiration that made people want to follow and stand beside him.
Perhaps it was that distinctive French warmth and boldness that allowed Fleur to say it so naturally.
Meanwhile, at the Greengrass household—
Astoria watched as her sister's beautiful face slowly twisted with rage, and she tiptoed carefully across the room, afraid to make a sound.
________
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