"Good evening, Horace," Dumbledore said, straightening up again.
A moment ago, he had been an armchair; in the blink of an eye, he had turned into a bald, fat old man squatting there.
Rubbing his belly, he peered at Dumbledore through one pained, tear-filled eye.
"You didn't have to jab me so hard with your wand," he said indignantly, struggling to his feet. "That hurt like hell."
The wandlight illuminated his gleaming bald head, his bulging eyes, his walrus-like silver beard, and the glittering buttons on the brownish-purple velvet robe over his pale purple pajamas.
He was very short, reaching only Dumbledore's chin.
Once Horace had gotten to his feet, he stretched and asked gruffly:
"How did you see through it?"
Dumbledore wore his usual gentle yet all-knowing smile.
"Horace, although your Transfiguration was marvelous, it did not conceal your magical power, so naturally I was able to find you. How have you been lately? Keeping well?"
"Not very well," Slughorn said at once. "I can barely breathe. Asthma, rheumatism—my legs aren't as nimble as they used to be. Well, it was to be expected. I'm old now, useless."
"Still, you managed to prepare such a welcoming scene in so little time. You must be quite nimble," Dumbledore said. "You cannot have had more than three minutes' warning that someone was coming, can you?"
Half annoyed and half proud, Slughorn said:
"Two minutes. I was taking a bath and didn't hear the alarm when my Intruder Charm was lifted. But," he seemed to regain his composure and said sternly, "the fact remains that I am an old man, Albus—a tired old man, entitled to a quiet life and a few material comforts."
He certainly did not lack material comforts, Harry thought as he looked around the room.
The room was