Гарри Поттер и Принц-полукровка
Horace Slughorn
Dumbledoremovedcarefullyintothemiddleoftheroom,scrutinizingthewreckageathisfeet.Harryfollowed,gazingaround,half-scaredofwhathemightseehiddenbehindthewreckofthepianoortheoverturnedsofa,buttherewasnosignofabody.
"Maybetherewasafightand—andtheydraggedhimoff,Professor?"Harrysuggested,tryingnottoimaginehowbadlywoundedamanwouldhavetobetoleavethosestainsspatteredhalfwayupthewalls.
"Idon’tthinkso,"saidDumbledorequietly,peeringbehindanoverstuffedarmchairlyingonitsside.
"Youmeanhe’s—?"
"Stillheresomewhere?Yes."
Andwithoutwarning,Dumbledoreswooped,plungingthetipofhiswandintotheseatoftheoverstuffedarmchair,whichyelled,"Ouch!"
"Goodevening,Horace,"saidDumbledore,straighteningupagain.
Harry’sjawdropped.Whereasplitsecondbeforetherehadbeenanarmchair,therenowcrouchedanenormouslyfat,bald,oldmanwhowasmassaginghislowerbellyandsquintingupatDumbledorewithanaggrievedandwateryeye.
"Therewasnoneedtostickthewandinthathard,"hesaidgruffly,clamberingtohisfeet."Ithurt."
Thewandlightsparkledonhisshinypate,hisprominenteyes,hisenormous,silver,walruslikemustache,andthehighlypolishedbuttonsonthemaroonvelvetjackethewaswearingoverapairoflilacsilkpajamas.ThetopofhisheadbarelyreachedDumbledore’schin.
"Whatgaveitaway?"hegruntedashestaggeredtohisfeet,stillrubbinghislowerbelly.
