Horace Slughorn

Gentlemen,

You may well wonder why I am communicating via journal when we are about to take breakfast and have a staff meeting this afternoon, all splendid methods of consulting fellow colleagues on many a matter of academic discipline. However, when I explain to you the circumstances under which I write, you may understand why I did not wish our conversation to wait, nor to be potentially overheard by prying ears.

This morning I had barely risen when Miss Lestrange presented herself at my door, in some distress. You see, last night, Mr Montague took it upon himself to entangle me in what I suspect must have been the most recent of Our Lord's tests of loyalty in our elite students, for he gave me to believe that if I waited with him at a particular spot in the dungeons near the entrance to Slytherin, I should find sometime shortly before midnight that Mr Finch-Fletchley would be returning from his 'nightly tryst' (his words, not mine). Mr Finch-Fletchley, to his credit, made no protestations and no fuss over the detention he deserved for breaking curfew and, of course, for loitering in areas of the castle where he could have no legitimate purpose. Mr Montague may feel himself rather smug at this entrapment but to my thinking, the more egregious issue was, in fact, the impropriety which he meant to expose, rather than his blatant manipulation of the situation.

Simply put: I cannot think how long this has been going on but it is certain that Miss Lestrange's esteemed parents ought to be informed of the children's conduct. Mr Finch-Fletchley is now of age; nonetheless the Jugsons would, I am sure, be appalled were they to realise the extent to which he has overstepped himself.

Enter Miss Lestrange this morning, urging me not to report back to her august mother and father. She spilled out a rather breathless explanation, attesting that her father already knew of their 'engagement' as she called it--and indeed, once she mentioned the word, I confess I noticed a ring on her finger--and assured me that her father had given his consent. Naturally, consent to a match is one thing; I pointed out that this surely does not mean her father approves of their liaisons. She swore they were nothing like as frequent as Mr Montague may have presented them, which only convinces me they are every bit as indiscreet as one might imagine.

I asked her how I might know that she wasn't embellishing the truth of this supposed betrothal. (I discount the ring; as I said, I had certainly not seen it before this morning and it is entirely possible it was a glamour put on for the occasion.) Miss Lestrange immediately offered your testimony, both of yours. Were you aware? What, if any, expectations does Mr Lestrange have for those of us charged with his daughter's proper care while she remains a student? Most importantly, can you conceive of any reason we should not inform him forthwith, despite the child's obvious affection for her, let us call him her fiancé?

Antoshenka, my boy:

Do forgive my not writing to you sooner. I've been quite remiss in reading my journal over the summer holidays. But I confess I'm much the more relaxed for having neglected it these weeks. Thus, imagine my surprise when I returned from my country cottage to learn that you are crossing the line to join our happy family of professors.

I don't doubt that others have already made the offer but do not hesitate to ask, should you have any questions about protocols or process. I'm delighted to welcome another of my House and one of my better pupils back to our hallowed halls. I daresay I can show you a trick or two that will make marking your students' work go a great deal faster, as well!

There are a growing number of us who appreciate a quiet evening's drink; I really must have a salon or two once school returns to session. But whether I am hosting a group or alone, my door is always open to you, Antonin Nikolaevich.