“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes… but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!”
Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.
“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond… you were there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe… this fabled prophecy, for instance—”
“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.
“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”
“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clam-like before his encouraging smile.
“Yes… well… it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course…” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies)—”
He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny.
The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn’t see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.
“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise… any time you’re passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go, off you go!”