Гарри Поттер и Принц-полукровка

Horace Slughorn

           Dumbledoremovedcarefullyintothemiddleoftheroom,scrutinizingthewreckageathisfeet.Harryfollowed,gazingaround,half-scaredofwhathemightseehiddenbehindthewreckofthepianoortheoverturnedsofa,buttherewasnosignofabody.

           "Maybetherewasafightandandtheydraggedhimoff,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.

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