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"Harry Potter!" bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it.
"Yes, indeed," cried Slughorn a little thickly, "Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who — well — something of that sort," he mumbled, and drained his mug too.
; Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, "To friendship! To generosity! To ten Galleons a hair!" And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.
"Aaargh, the good die young," muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. "Me dad was no age ter go ... nor were yer mum' an' dad, Harry . . ." Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid's crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it "Bes' wiz and witchard o' their age … I never knew.. . terrible thing . . . terrible thing ..." “And Odo the hero, they bore him back home To the place that he'd known as a lad," sang Slughorn plaintively.
“They laid him to rest with his hat inside out.
And his wand snapped in two, which was sad." ". . . terrible," Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply.
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