Dumbledore rose once more and stepped toward Mulciber. He bent slightly, grasped the boy's left arm, and pushed up the sleeve to the elbow.
There, scorched into the pale skin, was a vivid, red-inked tattoo—the skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth.
The Dark Mark.
"So," Dumbledore said quietly, voice steady though his eyes blazed, "Voldemort has fallen so far as to enlist children as Death Eaters."
The mention of the name snapped Mulciber back into awareness. He shivered and flinched, eyes darting around the room in a resentful glare before dropping back down.
Dumbledore stared at him with a look of deep revulsion. His disappointment was palpable.
Then, without another word, he raised his wand. Ropes burst from its tip, twisting through the air before binding Mulciber tightly, locking his arms and legs in place.
Turning, Dumbledore said, "Minerva, please contact Frank Longbottom. Have him collect Mulciber at first light."
"Understood," Professor McGonagall replied crisply. "I'll secure him in my office for the night."
She flicked her wand. Mulciber's body rose several inches into the air and began to drift behind her as she left the room.
The door closed.
Horace Slughorn twisted his stubby fingers into the folds of his lilac dressing gown, hesitating visibly. Finally, after several halting breaths, he murmured:
"Albus… I've been thinking. I'm nearly eighty now."
Dumbledore looked at him calmly. "You're considering retirement, Horace? At a time like this?"
Slughorn shook his head slowly.
"Well… I am an old man, Albus. A tired one. Tonight's excitement has reminded me just how old. I'd rather like to enjoy my remaining limbs while they still work."
"You're not older than I am," Dumbledore said, amused.
"True. Perhaps you ought to consider retirement too," Slughorn replied with a dry chuckle. "We've both seen better decades."
"You're right," said Dumbledore gently. "But if we all left now—"
"Professor Slughorn," Snape suddenly interrupted, his gaze fixed firmly on Horace. "Why are you really thinking of leaving? At this moment?"
Slughorn blinked at him, startled.
"I can't think of any place safer than Hogwarts right now," Snape continued. "As you saw tonight, only one reckless Death Eater dared act, and even then—Voldemort didn't show his face. Not even with the headmaster absent."
At the name, Slughorn gave a squeaky protest.
Snape ignored it.
"Where would you go, if you left?" he pressed. "Do you really believe the Death Eaters would leave someone like you alone? A wizard of your calibre?"
"What would they want with an old relic like me?" Slughorn blustered.
"I think," Snape said coldly, "they'd like to see your talents put toward subjugation, torture, murder. You don't think they value your abilities?"
Slughorn scowled, clearly offended. But after a pause, his eyes dimmed.
"I've never been one for danger…" he muttered.
"Which is why," Snape said, voice tightening, "you should remain at Hogwarts. As long as Professor Dumbledore is headmaster, the staff here are safer than anyone outside. Voldemort fears only one man. Isn't that so?"
Snape echoed the exact arguments Harry had once used.
Slughorn seemed to drift off for a moment, weighing the words. Eventually, he muttered, "Well… yes. He's never dared face Albus directly… I suppose as long as I don't join him, he wouldn't call me a friend…"
"In which case," he concluded, "staying near Albus may be safest after all…"
The words trailed off, more an attempt to convince himself than anyone else.
Dumbledore watched the exchange with a small, knowing smile.
He turned, stepped behind his desk, and opened a drawer. From it, he drew out a piece of parchment and tapped it with his wand.
"Horace," he said gently, "as a friend, I do hope you'll remain Head of Slytherin. But just in case, here's the formal resignation form. All filled out—only missing your signature."
He passed it to Slughorn.
The old man stared at it, then let out a dry, wheezing laugh.
"Albus, I was joking. Kettleburn's not even retired yet—why should I rush?"
"I'm glad to hear it," said Dumbledore. "After tonight, I'll be reworking staff arrangements. Security will be our top priority."
"Yes, yes," muttered Slughorn, frowning slightly. "Maybe I was just being silly. Tired. That's all."
He excused himself, claiming he needed rest. Once he had gone, Dumbledore turned to Snape.
"A rather persuasive argument," he said, tone wry. "Tonight… well, I owe you thanks."
His expression flickered with uncertainty, as though unsure whether to commend or chastise.
"In these past weeks, you've shown your resolve to stand against Voldemort. And your capacity for action.
"Still, I'd prefer you bring ideas like this to me in future."
"Of course, Professor," Snape replied immediately. A bit too immediately.
It made the words ring hollow.
Snape hesitated, then asked, "Sir, what about Hogsmeade? Is everything all right?"
"Hogsmeade is intact," Dumbledore said softly. "The collapse of the tunnel woke the villagers, thank Merlin. Most of the Inferi were buried in the debris."
"Madam Rosmerta was injured, I'm afraid—badly. But Aberforth brought her to Madam Pomfrey. She'll recover in a few days."
"Go and get some rest, Severus."
"Yes, Professor."