A couple of days after her trip to the Whispering Glade, an early morning settled over Hampstead Garden beneath a heavy, grey sky. The streets were still damp from last night's rain, their cobblestones glistening faintly under the weak daylight. Cela strolled along the quiet lane, clutching two freshly baked loaves wrapped in newspaper, the steam curling out from the folds and warming her hands. The smell was divine—yeasty, comforting—and for a moment she thought only of butter melting into crisp toast.
She was halfway home when movement caught her eye. A brown owl swooped down, gliding with practiced precision toward a house further down the street—a house that had sat vacant for months. It landed neatly on the windowsill, a sealed envelope clasped in its beak.
Cela slowed her steps.
An owl delivering a letter was hardly unusual to her, but to the rest of Hampstead Garden, it was… peculiar. She knew instantly what it meant. Either the new occupants were wizards themselves, or there was a young witch or wizard inside—and Hogwarts had just sent their admission letter.
A sigh slipped from her lips before she could stop it. The sight stirred memories she hadn't thought about in a long time. She could see herself at eleven again, clutching her own letter, heart pounding so hard it hurt. She had been so overjoyed she'd nearly cried—only for her grandfather to crush that joy within the hour. He'd declared she would be homeschooled instead. The disappointment had been unbearable, and for days she'd sulked in silence, refusing to speak to him until he'd reluctantly promised she could attend Hogwarts "when she was older." Even now, the memory made her mouth tighten.
"Stupid grandpa," she muttered under her breath, quickening her pace.
Just as she rounded the corner toward her street, she nearly walked into Madam Smith, her ever-cheerful neighbor, who was returning from her morning jog.
"Oh, dear Cela! How are you?" Madam Smith greeted her with a bright smile. Her eyes dropped to the loaves in Cela's arms. "Ah, fresh bread! Perfect for breakfast."
"Good morning, Madam Smith. I'm fine," Cela replied with a polite smile. "And yes—fresh bread is the best when it's toasted and eaten with beans."
"The best breakfast ever," Madam Smith agreed enthusiastically, as if beans on toast were a gourmet delicacy. Then, with a brightness in her eye, she added, "So, how's your grandfather? Is he not inviting us over again? It's been a month since his last party."
Cela's lips twitched. The sheer shamelessness of their neighbors never ceased to amaze her. They'd grown far too accustomed to her grandfather's lavish gatherings—and, notably, had never once invited him in return. Still, she kept her tone light.
"Well, Grandpa's a little busy with his writing at the moment," she said. "I'm not sure when he'll host again. It's mostly whenever the mood takes him."
"I hope it's soon," Madam Smith replied cheerfully. "There's so much to catch up on!"
Cela nodded absently before steering the conversation elsewhere. "Who are the new neighbors down the street? I saw their car parked there just now."
"Oh!" Madam Smith's face lit up. "They moved in only yesterday. I went to say hello, of course. Lovely couple—both dentists. They have a little daughter, about your age. They bought the house just this month."
"Dentists, hmm?" Cela said thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll take Grandpa to see them. After all the lemon cake I've made for him, his teeth must be in terrible shape."
Madam Smith chuckled. "You'll have to get introduced first. Then perhaps they'll give you a discount."
"I'll keep that in mind," Cela said with a grin. "Well, I'd better get going before the bread gets cold in this weather."
"Of course, dear. Give your grandfather my warmest regards."
Cela smiled again and resumed her walk home. Her thoughts returned to the owl she'd seen. If what Madam Smith said that the new neighbor's"little daughter" was her age, then there is a good chance she is already a Hogwarts student.
************
The smell of sizzling bacon was already curling through the kitchen by the time the sun's first rays trickled in through the lace curtains. Cela hummed softly under her breath as she hovered over the stove, wearing an apron three sizes too big for her. It had once belonged to her late mother, and though it was faded from years of use, Horace insisted she wear it whenever she cooked—something about "tradition" and "kitchen dignity."
The Hampstead townhouse's kitchen was a peculiar mix of Muggle charm and subtle magic. A brass tea kettle whistled all by itself, hovering a few inches above the hob. The toast popped up without any toaster in sight, golden brown and neatly buttered before landing gently on a plate. The old clock on the wall—its hands replaced with spoons and forks—ticked in a lazy rhythm.
Cela moved with ease, carefully turning the sausages so they browned evenly. She'd already fried the eggs, sunny-side up, and arranged them on plates. Mushrooms sautéed in butter were warming on the counter, and the baked beans were just starting to bubble in a small copper pot. She had made enough food to feed at least six people, but that was part of the unspoken routine—Horace always ate "a proper breakfast," which in his mind meant "enough for a small Quidditch team."
Satisfied, she wiped her hands on the apron and tiptoed to the staircase. "Grandpa!" she called, her voice carrying up the creaky steps. "Breakfast is ready!"
No answer.
Cela sighed and rolled her eyes, but the fond smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. She knew exactly how this would go—Horace Slughorn was many things, but an early riser was not one of them.
She climbed the stairs, knocking lightly on his bedroom door. "Grandpa, you're going to be late for your breakfast," she said in her most prim, mock-stern tone. "And you know what happens when the bacon gets cold—it gets sad."
From inside came a muffled groan. "Tell the bacon I'll be there in a moment," he replied sleepily.
Cela giggled and pushed the door open. Horace was still in his green silk pajamas, the quilt pulled up to his chin. His hair was a tousled silver halo, and he blinked at her like an owl caught in the daylight.
"You'll be the death of me, girl," he grumbled, though his lips twitched. "Dragging an old man out of bed at such an ungodly hour."
"It's half past nine," Cela said, tugging at the quilt. "Up you get."
With much theatrical sighing, Horace swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Fine, fine, I suppose I must obey the tyrant who runs this house."
"That's right," she said with mock-importance. "Now hurry before the sausages start gossiping about you."
************
By the time Horace shuffled into the kitchen now dressed in a neatly pressed waistcoat and cravat, as if breakfast were a formal event—the table was set. Cela had even poured the tea into his favorite porcelain cup, the one painted with tiny golden bees.
"Ah, splendid," Horace said, settling into his chair. "A proper British breakfast, the cornerstone of civilization." He picked up his fork with ceremony. "If the French had breakfasts like this, we might have avoided a great many diplomatic disasters."
Cela smirked. "You're saying history could've been saved by bacon?"
"Bacon and good manners," Horace replied, taking a bite.
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the clink of cutlery and the crackle of the fire in the grate filling the kitchen. Eventually, Cela broke the quiet.
"So," she began cautiously, "I saw Madame Smith today while I was coming back from the bakery. She asked when your next party will be."
Horace's eyes lit up instantly. "Did she now? How very thoughtful of her to inquire!"
Cela raised a brow. "Thoughtful? Grandpa, she just wants an excuse to drink sherry and snoop around the house again. You know she spends more time inspecting the furniture than talking to people."
"That's called 'being a good conversationalist,'" Horace said lightly. "Furniture often says more about a person than their words."
Cela snorted. "She's not talking to the furniture, Grandpa, she's judging it. And the last time we had the neighbors over, Mister Fowler from across the street nearly set the curtains on fire trying to light his pipe indoors."
Horace waved a hand dismissively. "A minor mishap. Besides, it's been far too long since we had a gathering. Perhaps this weekend would do nicely."
Cela groaned. "Grandpa, no. Not another party. Especially not with Muggles. They're already far too used to you spoiling them with fancy dinners and endless drinks. And let's be honest—they never invite you back."
Horace chuckled, unfazed. "Not everyone entertains the same way, my dear. And besides, I don't host parties for the sake of being invited in return. I host them because I enjoy the company. Living among Muggles has taught me many things—chief among them, that a good party is universal currency. It builds bridges, even if those bridges are held together by nothing more than good wine and laughter."
Cela crossed her arms. "Or nosiness and small talk."
"Small talk is an art," Horace countered, pouring himself more tea. "Why, some of the most important negotiations of my life began with a meaningless remark about the weather."
"Were you negotiating the weather?" Cela deadpanned.
Horace chuckled again. "No, but it's a doorway, Cela. A way to slip into conversation without rattling the other person's guard. Muggles do it instinctively. Wizards often overlook its value."
Cela poked at her beans. "I just think… if you give too much, people take advantage."
"My dear," Horace said gently, "you're not wrong. But generosity, when given freely, can be its own reward. And it makes life far more colorful. I've dined with Ministers and war heroes, yes—but I've also shared tea with postmen and shopkeepers. Each brings a different story to the table."
Cela's gaze softened, though she tried to hide it by buttering more toast. "You're impossible, you know that?"
Horace grinned. "Yes, but you love me for it."