Horace Slughorn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jointheclub) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2015-06-11 12:53 pm
jointheclub) wrote in undergrounds2015-06-11 12:53 pm
Entry tags:
Man About Town [Open]
A. Wandsworth
Tucked away down an unassuming little street, an innocent dilapidated building sat as it always had, and probably always would, as far as mortal eyes were concerned. They would never see the sign over the door, which itself looked as if it had seen better days: an S crossed with two bars. Spells sat on this sign and this building, an illusion that shielded it from mundane view and revealed itself to the supernatural.
This, then, was the Apothecarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn, now open for business.
Inside, the portly old witch puttered about a dozen or so cauldrons, humming quietly to himself as he added a pinch of this or a dash of that. While a younger and less-experienced brewer would hew closely to a written recipe, carefully measuring out each ingredient and confirming each step twice before proceeding, Slughorn had long passed that step. Like any skill, potionmaking became more instinctive with practice. Just as a skilled driver did not need to consciously think about stepping on the accelerator, or a skilled marksman did not need to consciously order his muscles to squeeze a trigger, so too did Slughorn not need a recipe or a cup to tell him when seven pinches of basil or six counterclockwise stirs would suffice.
So curious colors and fantastic smells filled the air, all different but never quite in painful opposition, as Slughorn prepared the first of his stock for his new business.
Now Open.
B. A Well-Earned Rest.
Evening found Slughorn quite comfortable enshrined in a comfortable corner of a tavern, a pint on the table by his side and fingers digging through a tin of crystallized pineapple for the finest pieces. Not an unusual sight, unless one were other than human. The same spells that protected his sign also protected the chair he had casually smuggled in earlier in the day. The ordinary patrons, the bartender, the passers-by all saw it as just another wooden affair that seemed lucky it could bear the witch's weight -- never suspecting the true form that keener eyes could see, a comfortable armchair well-suited for a man of his age and girth.
Part of Slughorn's good cheer, then, came from getting one over on the mundanes. But to those who could see the truth, well, it was hard to ask for a more incongruous sight.
Tucked away down an unassuming little street, an innocent dilapidated building sat as it always had, and probably always would, as far as mortal eyes were concerned. They would never see the sign over the door, which itself looked as if it had seen better days: an S crossed with two bars. Spells sat on this sign and this building, an illusion that shielded it from mundane view and revealed itself to the supernatural.
This, then, was the Apothecarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn, now open for business.
Inside, the portly old witch puttered about a dozen or so cauldrons, humming quietly to himself as he added a pinch of this or a dash of that. While a younger and less-experienced brewer would hew closely to a written recipe, carefully measuring out each ingredient and confirming each step twice before proceeding, Slughorn had long passed that step. Like any skill, potionmaking became more instinctive with practice. Just as a skilled driver did not need to consciously think about stepping on the accelerator, or a skilled marksman did not need to consciously order his muscles to squeeze a trigger, so too did Slughorn not need a recipe or a cup to tell him when seven pinches of basil or six counterclockwise stirs would suffice.
So curious colors and fantastic smells filled the air, all different but never quite in painful opposition, as Slughorn prepared the first of his stock for his new business.
Now Open.
B. A Well-Earned Rest.
Evening found Slughorn quite comfortable enshrined in a comfortable corner of a tavern, a pint on the table by his side and fingers digging through a tin of crystallized pineapple for the finest pieces. Not an unusual sight, unless one were other than human. The same spells that protected his sign also protected the chair he had casually smuggled in earlier in the day. The ordinary patrons, the bartender, the passers-by all saw it as just another wooden affair that seemed lucky it could bear the witch's weight -- never suspecting the true form that keener eyes could see, a comfortable armchair well-suited for a man of his age and girth.
Part of Slughorn's good cheer, then, came from getting one over on the mundanes. But to those who could see the truth, well, it was hard to ask for a more incongruous sight.
no subject
"And I suppose you're not one to be tempted, either?" Balem said, knowing that that particular tactic usually worked best on the young and naive, "The Lord of Stars can grant much prosperity."
The Lord of Stars was also notoriously ruthless when it came time to collect payment, so much so that his true name was often blotted out or torn away in the few old magical texts in which it was written.
no subject
Slughorn waved a hand in idle dismissal. "Really now. I'm sure you've lost all perspective on mortal fragility and stuff, but I'm far too old and tired to go prancing about the other realms in the lands of the eternally pretty. I'd be a laughingstock. Or set on fire as an eyesore. Or depress the entire court by explaining the concepts of rheumatism, gout, sciatica, varicose veins, shall I go on?"
Of course, to what degree Slughorn truly suffered from any of these ailments was a fairly open guess -- because whatever he might have, he certainly must hide very well. The witch could simply see the hook in the bait. After all, even setting aside his history and experience, he did much the same, albeit in a harmless and actually beneficial fashion.
"Now trading like businessmen, that's reasonable." He tapped the side of a bubbling cauldron. "You have needs, I have needs, we keep it professional, we both benefit. No dark magic and you don't go using it against the Circle or the Institute, of course, but that still leaves plenty of options for you." He tried to sound like he was bargaining from a position of strength.. but he really wanted the fae to accept the deal. Business relationships were a much better protection from mischief or hostility than tense balances of power, after all. No sense trading solely on Sylvia's protection if he could ensure better.
no subject
He was angry now; his eyes glowed brightly and the room began to feel warmer.
"No dark magic?" he hissed, "All of my magic is dark! I've been called 'demon' throughout history. I will take my leave now, but consider your allies carefully, potion-maker. I'm not certain they know who they've crossed."