he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. ‘Here —’ He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short that they did not touch the floor.
‘Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?’ Dumbledore asked.
‘Not so well,’ said Slughorn at once. ‘Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.’
‘And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,’ said Dumbledore. ‘You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?’
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, ‘Two. Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,’ he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, ‘the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.’
He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
‘You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,’ said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. ‘Reactions not what they were, I see.’
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