Chapter 32: Slughorn
Horace Slughorn's office was, like the man himself, steeped in a carefully curated air of comfort and affluence.
The room swam with the exotic fragrance of expensive potion ingredients. The walls were lined with photographs of the professor alongside famous witches and wizards. Silver instruments gleamed on his desk, and plush velvet draped every armchair.
"Ah! Regulus, my dear boy, come in, come in!" Slughorn bustled forward, belly leading the way, face wreathed in smiles.
"Sit, sit! A drop of mead? Or perhaps a Lemon Sherbet?"
"Thank you, Professor. I'm fine." Regulus declined politely and settled into the offered chair, posture correct, composure easy.
He studied Slughorn. Shrewd, undeniably — a collector of promising students, the weaver of a vast web of favors and interests.
He prized talent, background, and future utility, yet he also knew when to read the room and avoid risk.
A textbook Slytherin opportunist — not a bad man, simply one who had elevated investment and networking into an art form.
"I heard about the little episode in the common room last night." Slughorn rubbed his hands together, gooseberry-green eyes practically glinting.