Slughorn
Despite the confidence he had exhibited in the counselor's office, Harry knew that convincing Slughorn he was worthy of his precious elite class would be no easy feat, so he came prepared.
Trying to make an appointment had proved to be nearly impossible; the man knew nothing of his own schedule and preferred to let "the fates" decide his routine (a terrible idea, in Harry’s opinion, as someone who knew Fate far better than he ever wanted to).
So, before attempting the impossible, he went into town and browsed nearly every shop he could find in search of some candied pineapple, hoping to butter him up a bit.
The treat had been confirmed as the professor’s favorite by both fifteen-year-old Tom and the memory of Slughorn himself, and honestly, Harry needed every advantage he could get.
Maybe claiming to have had a similar intuition would make someone as superstitious as Julian's counterpart believe he was fated to join the class.
And to be fair, he kind of was...
Knowing he would probably face many questions about his life, Harry dug a bit into his new persona's past and found it depressingly similar to his own: English parents who had died when he was very young, leaving him in the care of his mother’s sister.
At least he could invent an extravagant life using pieces from his own experiences.
The building where the professor’s office was located proved surprisingly underwhelming; sporting the same boring and pretentiously neoclassical architecture as the rest of the campus, coated in the exact same shade of white, a color that had proven to be dominant in Hampden.
After he knocked, Slughorn’s round and jovial face peeped out from the door, which was only slightly ajar.
In that moment, Harry fully understood how Richard had described the encounter: how the door seemed to be held almost protectively, as if to shield the mysterious wonders behind it from an unworthy world.
The professor’s lively, ageless eyes stared at him with childish curiosity, reminding him of the mischievous fae from old legends.
“How can I help you?” the kind and calm voice broke the silence.
“Good morning sir, I’m Harry Potter. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wandering if you were occupied?”
The man’s gaze sharpened, the kind gray eyes clear and focused, as if trying to assess him.
“Potter? Could you perhaps have British origins?” His curiosity had clearly been piqued.
“I am, as a matter of fact. My parents lived in England, and I studied there as well.” showing the quick and easy smile he had seen multiple time sported by 'his' Tom Riddle.
The professor’s face lit up, and he immediately opened the door.
“I thought I’d noticed an accent! Come in, come in; take a seat!”
The room was lavishly beautiful, almost baroque in style, a chamber one might expect to find in The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Parts of the windows were decorated in colorful, mosaic-like patterns, projecting a kaleidoscope of shifting shades when struck by the warm, intense light filtering through from outside; only partly blocked by gauzy white curtains that cast long, wavy shadows across the floor.
Books covered almost every available surface not already occupied by the multitude of mahogany bookcases, cream-colored plush chairs, and short tea tables cluttered with teapots and fresh flowers, as well as various expensive looking knickknacks that were likely presents from some of the many important figures he boasted connections to.
It was nothing short of extravagant, the kind of beauty one would expect from a devoted follower of Aestheticism rather than a strict classicist.
"So, I suppose you're here about the Greek class?"
Harry just nodded, keeping that easy smile.
"We're a bit late into the semester, though," he pointed out.
"I've been studying it for a while already. It would be a pity to drop it, and I really enjoy the subject."
Weirdly enough, it had been true: pushed by his love for the book and the basic Latin knowledge he had learned in magic theory, Harry had actually started studying Greek during his sixth year.
With the help of the immense school library and Hermione (the same person who, once on the run, had taken his love for the language as a free pass to try to teach him ancient runes) he had managed to develop a decent amount of skill.
At the time, he had found the ancient languages he was forced to learn boring, but presented with such an opportunity, he could only be glad about it.
"Oh, that's very good. For how long have you been studying it?" Slughorn asked, expression completely rapt.
"I've been studying Greek for two years already. I also know a bit of Latin and Celtic runes."
At the last bit of information, the professor's expression lit up.
"Oh, that's most excellent!
A rather solid foundation, if I may say!
It's always nice to see young people interested in such ancient languages.
I have another student who knows a few of them, a real genius in my opinion, but I don't believe even he studied Old Celtic," the professor laughed, as if he had just said the funniest thing ever.
"I suppose it must come with the English education...
I've also been to Britain a few times in my life, such a lovely country!
How come you've ended up here, tired of the rain?" he joked, but Harry recognized in the well-concealed question what the man really wanted to know.
The professor was subtly trying to learn about his past, his tastes and upbringing, whether he was refined enough to attend his exclusive class.
The whole spectacle was so similar to the infamous "Slug Club" he had almost laughed.
So, Harry began his tale.
Not wanting to stray too far from reality, he began to talk of an imaginary childhood spent in his parents' mansion in England. Of a lovely, rich, aristocratic father and a caring mother who, despite her humble origins, had proven herself a genius from a very young age.
He spoke of a big house in the countryside, of trips to nearby orchards and picnics in the woods.
Interwoven were the invented tales of the picture-perfect parents he had imagined, willing to shower him in love and indulge his every whim.
Then, he returned to reality: to their sudden death when he was just a child and how he had to move to California to live with his mother's relatives, who despised him.
He spoke of years spent alone, of watching his cousin being spoiled rotten.
He kept to the tamer parts of the story and avoided talking about the heavier abuses he knew would derail the romantic tale he was trying to convey.
Harry then switched to the wonder of his eleventh birthday, when he learned that his parents, before their death, had already enrolled him in a prestigious boarding school in Scotland; the same one they had also attended.
And from then on, he simply told the story of his life at Hogwarts, minus the magic.
The incredible castle, the spring afternoons spent napping by the Black Lake, the games of chess with his best friends in the common room, the days of study in the library, and the (extremely toned-down) mischief they had partaken in.
His love for the castlold school transpired through every sentence.
The professor hung on his every word, listening with rapt attention as if, instead of his own life, Harry were retelling an epic tale of old times.
"What a beautiful life! Such spectacular Gothic influences," the man said once he finished speaking, confusing Harry, so sure that he would instead provoke a more 'romantic' feeling.
"So many different experiences and perspectives. How colorful the world must be for you!
How does such an eclectic personality perceive a genre as restrained as the Classics?"
"I'm not sure about being Gothic," Harry replied with a soft chuckle, "but I'd say that having so many experiences to learn from has given me a wider range of comprehension when it comes to literature. I can identify with nobility, commoners, and academics alike."
Slughorn was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Very true words indeed! The best classicists are always the most open-minded." He clapped his hands as if to emphasize the thought.
"And what about the college, then? Many people would prefer more modern cities, no?"
"I don't know about others," Harry began, thoughtful, "but I personally prefer the countryside. I find the metropolis extremely depressing. Being surrounded by so many people, all stuck in inescapable routines, feels like a miasma."
Then, with a studied, dreamy glance out the window: "Here, the air feels clearer… purer."
The conversation continued in such a fashion, with the professor spinning beautiful and enticing webs that anyone unaware of his tactics would have happily fallen into.
Still, Harry managed to keep his bearing, avoiding the more revealing questions and steering the conversation toward safer ground.
After a while, as if only just remembering, he brought up the treat he'd brought.
"Oh, right, I almost forgot.
On my way here, I saw these in a shop and thought you might enjoy them."
The professor’s face immediately lit up with confused delight.
"Oh my! These are my favorite. How did you know?"
"I had an… intuition, you might say. I saw them and had the feeling they'd be to your liking. It felt almost like a premonition."
Internally, Harry was grinning like a madman at the opportunity to emulate one of the little manipulations he had watched his soulmate perform so many times before.
"Then this meeting must truly be the will of the Moirai!"
"I certainly hope so, professor."
But the man waved a hand, as if chasing away a fly.
"None of that ‘Professor’ business, please! All my students call me Horace."
He then winked, mischievous.
"Are you telling me you'd accept me into your class?"
"But of course! How could I refuse such an eager young man?"
Happiness bubbled inside Harry, this was finally the chance he had been waiting for!
He could finally get actually close to Tom.
"Before you transfer to my class we'll have to change your counselor though.
You see, it is my policy never to accept a pupil unless I am his counselor as well. Other members of the literature faculty disagree with my teaching methods and you will run into problems if someone else gains the power to veto my decisions. You should pick up some drop-add forms as well. I think you are going to have to drop all the classes you are currently taking as well.
I believe that having a great diversity of teachers is harmful and confusing for a young mind, in the same way I believe that it's better to know one book intimately than a hundred superficially."
He had obviously already known that Horace would insist on him dropping the rest of his classes, so he accepted immediately; clearly unsettling the professor, who had likely expected at least a hint of hesitation.
Still, he adjusted his expression rather quickly and immediately began working on the bureaucracy involved in the transfer.
Not even three days later, under the mournful gaze of his previous counselor, Harry officially moved from Hampden College to the elite Greek class he had always dreamed of.