The August afternoon was strangely still. Outside, the summer air shimmered lazily over the hedges of the Slughorn house, but inside the parlor, the air felt heavy — as though it carried years of unsaid words. Horace Slughorn sat in his large green-upholstered armchair, a blanket half-slipped from one knee, staring at two parchment envelopes lying atop the tea table. The golden Hogwarts crest gleamed in the sunlight that filtered through the lace curtains.
Cela lingered in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back. She had spent the last two days watching her grandfather sit with the letters, not speaking, not throwing them away, not answering. Just… staring. At first, she had stayed silent too, because silence was what she always offered him when his moods grew dark. But today something inside her stirred differently. A small voice whispered, enough silence, enough waiting.
Taking a quiet breath, she crossed the room and pulled a little chair from the corner. She sat directly opposite him, folding her hands in her lap. Her grandfather did not look up at once. Only after several minutes of shared silence did Horace Slughorn finally raise his tired eyes to her.
"You know," he began, his voice low and almost trembling, "I haven't talked much about your mother, have I?"
Cela's heart skipped. She shook her head gently, eyes wide.
Slughorn exhaled, and for a long moment he seemed to drift away into memory. His broad face softened, as if he was seeing someone in the air between them.
"I never told you, not really. Even though… even though you have every right to know about her," he murmured. "She was a very bright witch, Cela. My pride. My heart. She was like a daughter to me, you know. She was my little brother's granddaughter, so yes, she was kin. But more than that — she was joy in the shape of a child."
Cela's fingers curled in her lap, her chest tightening.
Slughorn gave a heavy chuckle, though there was sadness behind it. "I remember the day my brother brought her to me. A little bundle of laughter, only a few months old. He held her up, so proud, and I—" He raised his hand slightly, almost instinctively, as if to reenact the memory. "I poked her tiny cheeks with one fat finger, and she giggled. Grabbed hold of my little finger with surprising strength, as if she would never let go. That day I swore to Merlin himself that I would protect her with my life if it ever came to it."
He fell quiet, lost in the recollection.
"She grew up so quickly," he continued after a pause. "Always curious. Always running to my study to pull potion jars she had no business touching. I taught her potions, just as I've taught you. She loved learning. She spent time in my office when she was barely eleven. And when she went to Hogwarts, I made sure she was sorted into Slytherin — my House." His lips curled faintly. "But she was… different. Even though she was pure-blood, she never cared for the silly prejudice between Slytherin and Gryffindor. She was kind. Kind to a fault, perhaps. Bright, and ambitious in her own way. But soft-hearted."
Slughorn's eyes softened, his voice catching. "Oh, she was the brightest star in the dungeons. Always ahead of the class. Though I'll admit this to you — she was not as naturally gifted at potions as you are, Cela. No, her talent was transfiguration. She made wands sing in her hands. Even Minerva McGonagall once admitted she was impressed."
Cela's lips parted slightly in awe. This was more than she had ever been told before.
Slughorn smiled faintly, then let it fade. "Of course… Hogwarts in those days was already a place of division. Gryffindor boys strutting about, bullying Slytherins. Potter and his gang." He spat James Potter's name with quiet disgust. "But your mother… she refused to let herself be drawn into hatred. She befriended them — Lily Evans especially. She was close to her. That brilliant red-haired girl. They studied together, laughed together."
The smile on his lips quivered, then fell away altogether.
"And then," he muttered bitterly, "there was your father. A Muggle-born boy in the Slug Club. Clever, charming enough. She… saw something in him. Something I did not. And she married him straight after graduation."
Cela blinked. She had known her father was Muggle-born, but hearing it spoken aloud — hearing the edge of disapproval in her grandfather's voice — made her stomach twist.
Slughorn leaned back heavily, his eyes dark. "It was the year the war grew fiercest. The Dark Lord gathering followers, the Ministry floundering, terror in every home. And what did Dumbledore do? He gathered children. Barely out of school. Formed his precious Order of the Phoenix." His voice hardened, venom curling around every syllable. "Children, Cela. Eighteen, nineteen years old. Sent to duel grown Death Eaters."
Cela's breath caught.
"Yes," Slughorn said flatly, reading her shock. "Your mother was swayed by his grand words — 'resistance,' 'justice,' 'light against dark.' Foolishness. She had just married, just begun a new life. But those Potters, that Dumbledore, they filled her head with stories of heroism. And so she joined them."
He rubbed a hand across his face, eyes shining faintly in the dim light. "I begged her not to. I fought with her. I even fought with Dumbledore himself. Told him he had no right to take her. She was my girl. My family. She had a future. But she would not listen."
His voice broke for the first time. "She told me it was her choice. That she had a duty. Even when she was pregnant with you, Cela. Even then. A month after you were born, she was still out there, wand in hand, chasing Death Eaters through the dark."
Cela's vision blurred; her throat ached.
"And then… then came the day." Slughorn's hands trembled as he tried to straighten the blanket across his knees. "They went on a mission — your mother, Lily Potter, James Potter. They were ambushed. I wasn't there. I only heard afterward. She… she took the curse meant for Potter. A Killing Curse. Died on the spot." His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and broken. "She died… protecting those Potters."
The silence in the parlor thickened, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock.
Cela's heart throbbed painfully. The words sank into her chest like stones. She had always known her mother was gone, but now — to know how, to know why — it was like the wound was opened fresh.
Slughorn's eyes brimmed with unspoken grief. "I tried to stop her, Cela. I told her again and again, 'You have a daughter. What if something happens to you? What then?' But she only smiled, that stubborn, foolish girl, and said, 'My daughter will understand.'"
He slammed his hand weakly against the armrest, voice suddenly sharp. "Understand? Understand? How could you expect a child to understand being left alone?" His chest heaved. "So now you know. That is the truth. That is why I am scared to send you to Hogwarts. That castle took her from me. Dumbledore and his ideals took her from me. The Potters, their arrogance — they cost me my only family. And I will not lose you the same way."
Tears stung Cela's eyes. She reached out, taking his trembling hand in both of hers. His fingers were warm, heavy, but they clutched hers fiercely, as though afraid she too might vanish.
"I'm sorry, Grandfather," she whispered.
"No," Slughorn croaked, shaking his head. "I am the one who is sorry. Sorry that you must grow up in my shadow, sorry that you carry the burden of her choices. But I will not let you walk into the same fire. I will protect you, Cela. Even if you hate me for it."