Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly,

retching slightly.

“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?”

Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.

Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with

laughter.

“You've got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you're like your mother ... well, I can't fault you

... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”

Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair,

bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.

“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry” she asked through gritted teeth.

“That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of

potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't

work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...”

The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself.

Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.

“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”

Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.

Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last

Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.

“Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.

“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ...”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?”

“I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see—”

“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn.

His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his

sweating brow.

“Dumbledore's shown you that—that memory,” said Slughorn. “Well? Hasn't he?”

“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know

anything—anything—” he repeated the word forcefully “—about Horcruxes.”