After Professor McGonagall and the others left, Slughorn beckoned Madam Rosmerta, the landlady of the tavern.
"Two steaks, and if you've got roast pork knuckle, that would be even better."
The still-lovely Madam Rosmerta said with a smile,
"We can manage that at noon today."
Slughorn looked delighted.
"Wonderful—remember to brush on two extra layers of honey; I love that flavor."
Loves meat and sweets—no wonder he's so plump.
Once the midday meal was ordered, they skipped more alcohol and asked for two student-favorite drinks—butterbeer.
With only the two of them left at the table, the atmosphere cooled.
Sherlock leaned back, hands folded over his stomach, quietly waiting for Slughorn to speak first.
He could tell that the one who had really invited him out was this chubby old man; Professor McGonagall had merely passed on the message.
After McGonagall and company departed, Slughorn's smile gradually faded, his expression turning gloomy.
Only then did he seem to drop all pretenses, showing Sherlock his true mood.
"To be honest, Sherlock, Minerva and the others wish I wouldn't mention your mother in front of you."
He held the large mug of butterbeer but didn't drink, turning to gaze at the rain-soaked, leaden sky outside and speaking coldly.
"I know what they fear; after Sally changed, she hardly looked like a mother. They hope you'll never recall those memories. I even suspect that after I left, they Obliviated—"
His voice cut off abruptly.
Slughorn set down the mug, closed his eyes in pain, and slumped against the chair.
Sherlock remained silent, pondering Slughorn's unfinished words—so thought-provoking.
"Sorry, I've had a bit too much to drink. Forget what I just said. McGonagall and Dumbledore are the people who care for you most in this world; you can trust them unconditionally."
Slughorn seemed to collect himself, sitting upright with a self-mocking smile.
"Of course, I've no right to say such things—you don't trust me at all."
"I still remember seeing you at the funeral seventeen years ago: hiding in a corner, clutching the toy wand your mother gave you for your first birthday, sitting alone on the floor, hugging your knees, lost in thought."
"The moment I found you, I already guessed the person you'd become today."
"After so many years as Slytherin's Head at Hogwarts, I've seen countless students and know what experiences turn people into what shapes. But I'm powerless—just a frail old man, a stray dog scurrying to hide, fleeing everything I've done."
Hearing this, Sherlock's brows knitted tighter.
He recalled the Original Owner's diary, which mentioned no family at all—even though the study hung a portrait of his mad mother, and his Muggle father still lived and even sent men urging him to inherit the family business.
Yet neither life at Hogwarts nor life after graduation in wizarding society appeared in the diary.
It was as though the Original Owner felt nothing for his parents—no affection remained.
Slughorn's heartfelt words revealed his close bond with Sherlock's mother and his genuine care for Sherlock.
Previously abandoning the Original Owner seemed driven by terror, a desperate need to stay hidden.
"What happened to my mother back then?"
Only after the steaks arrived did Sherlock quietly ask.
It was his first initiative toward Slughorn, yet the answer disappointed him.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't tell you," Slughorn shook his head. "We made a pact, even invoked the Fidelius Charm, to bury the secret forever—unless Dumbledore decides the time is right and tells you in his own way." (TN: Typical Dumbledore. He has no right to hide such stuff.)
Sherlock fell silent inwardly.
He hated dealing with older wizards: everything became riddles, sometimes without even giving you the riddle itself.
"Then why did you seek me out?"
"To warn you, Sherlock." Slughorn's face was grave, his eyes locked on Sherlock. "Hogwarts is dangerous—extremely dangerous—especially with both Dumbledore and that boy present."
He drew a small glass vial from his pocket; inside, a golden liquid shimmered faintly.
Slughorn placed the potion before Sherlock.
"All the help I can offer is this: Felix Felicis, a potion that grants temporary luck. Keep it on you; it may prove useful at a crucial moment."
"Don't scoff at the small dose—Felix Felicis is potent, but you mustn't take too much in succession, or instead of luck it'll bring disaster. At my age, I've used it only twice; what I've given you is a single dose."
Sherlock studied the potion—just its appearance made it look like a work of art.
If it truly could bestow luck, then the brew was formidable indeed.
Slughorn went on,
"I don't know why Dumbledore approved your appointment. Perhaps he believes the Dark Lord's grudge against the post has waned, but I still find it risky."
At this, Sherlock was inwardly startled, yet asked without showing it,
"You mean the Dark Lord's curse on the Defence post? It truly exists?"
"It exists, but it isn't a curse," Slughorn said earnestly. "You yourself are a master of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Sherlock—you know the difference between dark charms and Dark Arts. Jinxes, hexes, and curses are the three danger levels; curses are the most forbidden, the Unforgivable Curses among them."
"But when the Dark Lord vented his resentment on the teaching post, his power wasn't yet that great, so what clings to the position is merely a hex—an obscure one even Dumbledore can't identify or lift."
"Still, I'm certain that if you harbor no malicious ulterior motives in your role, the hex's effect will be minimal. Likely, Dumbledore approved your appointment for that reason."
"Yet no matter what, as long as you remain in this Castle, tread with utmost caution. Hogwarts has never been the safest place in the Wizarding World; even with Dumbledore present, it's more dangerous than anywhere else!"
"Lastly, I hope you'll heed one sentence, Sherlock."
Slughorn stared into his eyes.
"Do not resent your father. He didn't willingly abandon you and your mother. Don't hate him—he is, in truth, the most pitiable of all."
After those words, he spoke no more on any subject.
He finished the steak, devoured the triple-honey pork knuckle, then hurriedly left Hogsmeade—no one knew where he went.
After he departed, Sherlock didn't leave at once. He sat quietly, gazing at the third of butterbeer left in his cup, replaying Slughorn's every word.
From this meeting, he could be sure the plump old man was no minor character in the original tale.
And the Original Owner's background was far more complicated than he'd imagined.