Couple Of Days Later.
The summer sun was already high when Cela descended into the cool, stone-lined study where her grandfather spent his mornings after breakfast. A stack of letters sat unopened on the side table near his velvet armchair, and on top—glimmering slightly with the thick seal of green wax—was a copy of The Practical Potioneer, accompanied by a second bound journal: Potions Masters Monthly.
Cela held her breath, her heart racing with anticipation for her article, research, and her potion—this was the moment.
Horace Slughorn noticed her the instant she peeked into the room. He was already lounging, teacup in hand, a plate of sugared ginger biscuits by his elbow. His eyes, however, were fixed firmly on the unopened journals.
"Ah, Cela, there you are," he said, beckoning her with his plump fingers. "I thought you'd still be scratching away in that little laboratory of yours. But I see you couldn't resist, eh?"
"Of course not," Cela said, trying not to grin. Her palms were damp, her stomach knotted. "Did it—did they publish it?"
Her grandfather gave a little hum, like a cat satisfied with cream. "Publish it? My dear girl, they published it in both. Both! That almost never happens. One of them must have gotten wind the other was considering your work, and neither wanted to be left behind." He gave a booming laugh. "Ha! You've managed to stir up competition between journals, Cela. That, in itself, is an achievement."
Cela nearly dropped into the chair opposite him. "So—so that means—"
"That means it's official," Horace said, patting the journals. "You, my dear, are no longer just my little pupil dabbling in this and that. You are a published inventor."
Cela covered her face with her hands for a moment, giggling nervously. "Oh Merlin. I—I can't believe it."
Horace chuckled warmly, but then leaned forward, his fingers stroking the wax seal. "But of course, publication is only half the fun. Reviews, feedback, letters to the editor—that's where the knives come out."
Cela swallowed. "Knives?"
"Mm," Horace said, his eyes twinkling. "Sometimes praise, sometimes daggers. Potioneers are a proud bunch, Cela. Some will be generous. Others will be green with envy. And others still will be downright cruel."
"Do we… read them now?"
Horace raised his eyebrows. "Oh, we read them now. Tea in hand, courage in heart. Let's begin."
As a future Potioneer, you must learn to accept criticism when your work is published and avoid becoming overly proud of praise, as there will always be someone in the world who can surpass your achievements many times over. To thrive, you must steel yourself against both arrogance and discouragement.
************
The first letter he opened was from an elderly potioneer named Belinda Marchbanks. Horace's face softened as he read aloud:
"To Miss Celestia Slughorn,
I have long lamented the absence of practical, hygienic solutions in our potioneering field. Your development of a flavored, long-lasting oral rinse potion is nothing short of delightful. You have shown admirable creativity in adapting from mundane—what Muggles call toothpaste—and elevating it to magical standards. I predict wide usage in both schools and households. My congratulations."
Cela's mouth dropped open. "She liked it!"
"Of course she liked it," Horace said proudly. "Marchbanks has always had good sense."
The second review came from a St. Mungo's Healer, who wrote:
"This potion has potential. I can see its use for patients with long-term treatment where breath odor is an issue. The application of flavors may improve morale. Still, I encourage the young inventor to consider long-term side effects of daily consumption, as mint may dull appetite."
Cela nodded, scribbling notes. "That's fair. I'll test that."
Horace beamed. "Excellent! Constructive, but kind. This is what we like."
But then came the third review. And Horace's smile soured.
"This so-called invention by Miss Celestia Slughorn is, I suspect, the handiwork of her grandfather, Horace Slughorn. The recipe lacks true sophistication, and the choice of flavors is childishly derivative. It is beneath the dignity of The Practical Potioneer to print what is essentially a glorified mouthwash potion. Nepotism at its finest. Shameful."
Horace's face turned beet red. "Beneath the dignity—! Childishly—! Nepotism? Nepotism?!" His lips quivered like a storm cloud. "I didn't lift a finger! I expressly forbade myself from helping her except to keep her cauldron from exploding! The sheer—the gall—of this man!"
Cela laughed nervously, her voice tinged with unease. "Grandpa, it's not that bad. They just don't believe me. And what about your speech on accepting criticism and staying humble?"
"Not that bad?" Horace slammed the paper down. "This—this is from Maximilian Borage. That pompous peacock has held a grudge against me since I turned down his invitation to some ridiculous little 'exclusive club' back in '56. He's been sharpening his quills against me ever since. Hah! He wouldn't know true innovation if it smacked him in the face with a sugar quill."
"Grandpa," Cela said gently, "it doesn't matter. Let them think you helped me. I know I did this. You know I did this."
Horace fumed, muttering names under his breath. "How dare that bastard speak ill of my dear granddaughter? I'll make him pay! The next time he publishes, I'll tear it apart until he begs for forgiveness. These little shits have forgotten who I am!" Still, he grudgingly opened the next review.
The fourth review was glowing, from a Hogwarts alumna now working in Germany:
"I find the potion both practical and charming. Miss Slughorn has proven that not every potion must be grandiose or complex to be valuable. Sometimes it is the simple, daily-use potions that revolutionize our habits."
Cela smiled. "See? That's nice."
"Yes, yes," Horace said, his good humor returning. "A wise girl, clearly."
But then came another dagger:
"It's utterly ridiculous to think a twelve (or so I could care less)-year-old girl could whip up a potion like that on her own. Slughorn's stench is all over this sham. The journals make fools of themselves by publishing such infantile drivel."
Horace let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. "Blast it all, Cela! Why must every half-wit in the country assume I wrote this for you? Do they think me so vain I'd waste my reputation on mouthwash?"
Cela couldn't help but laugh again. "You sort of just admitted it sounds silly, Grandpa."
"Not silly!" Horace barked. "Practical! And practical potions change the world more than flashy ones, mark my words."
He stuffed another biscuit into his mouth, grumbling.
For the next hour, they went through review after review. Some were glowing, praising Cela's creativity. Some were cautious, pointing out areas to refine. And yes—some were downright insulting, sneering that she was riding on her grandfather's coattails.
Horace reacted to each with thunderous passion—roaring with delight at the good, snarling at the bad, lecturing Cela about the egos and petty rivalries of the potioneering world. Cela, in turn, tried to stay calm, taking notes, and laughing when her grandfather grew too dramatic.
At one point, when Horace slammed down a particularly nasty review calling her potion "an amateur's vanity project," Cela simply said:
"Grandpa, don't you see? They're mad because I actually did it. They didn't. That's why they're angry."
Horace paused, then slowly smiled. "My dear girl… you're right. They're jealous. Jealous of a thirteen-year-old." He puffed out his chest. "Oh, how delicious."
By the time they finished the pile, Cela felt both exhausted and exhilarated.
"See?" Horace said at last, softer now, looking at her over his spectacles. "This is the world of potioneering. Praise, jealousy, insults—it all comes together. You've had your baptism by fire, Cela. And you handled it marvelously."
Cela grinned, leaning back in her chair. "Thanks, Grandpa. Though honestly—I think you took it harder than I did."
Horace gave a booming laugh, slapping his knee. "Perhaps I did, perhaps I did. But no matter. They can sneer all they like. We know the truth. And mark my words, Cela—your name will not be forgotten in these circles. Today, they scoff. Tomorrow, they'll be begging for your recipes."
Cela smiled, warmth swelling in her chest. She loved how protective he was when it came to her.