The soft creak of floorboards followed Dumbledore as he stepped out of the living room and into the hall. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement—Cela, balancing a tray of tea and sweets, heading toward him with the unhurried grace of someone who enjoyed the small rituals of hospitality.
He paused.
There was something in her expression that rooted him in place. Her eyes—bright, unguarded—held a sincerity that cut straight through the layers of memory and time. It was a kindness untouched by cynicism, the same kind he had once seen in the gaze of a little girl long gone. Ariana. His sister. The child he had failed to protect.
Even after all these decades, her absence pressed against him like a cold stone in his chest.
"Why are you going out, Mr. Dumbledore?" Cela's voice pulled him back to the present. "I brought sweets and tea. You can stay a little longer. I'll even cook you a very nice dinner." The way she said it—bright, unfiltered—was almost disarming.
A smile touched his lips, the corners of his eyes softening. "No, Miss Slughorn, I'm afraid I must go. I have a meeting with an old friend. I'm hoping to persuade him to take the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor next school year."
At the mention of "school," her cheer faltered just a fraction. It was subtle—most would have missed it—but Dumbledore caught the faint dimming in her eyes. Still, she lifted her chin, keeping her voice even.
"If you're friends with my grandpa, you can call me Cela. Everyone who's friends with him does."
His smile deepened, the old twinkle returning. "Very well, Cela. But then you must call me 'Professor.' All my students do."
Cela smirked faintly. "I'll call you Professor… but I'm not a Hogwarts student."
"Yet," he said, leaning in just enough for the word to carry a playful weight. "I've spoken with your grandfather. He's still convinced he can teach you himself. Stubborn man. But I have a feeling he'll soften after I send you a dozen Hogwarts acceptance letters. I know him well."
Her eyes widened in delighted disbelief. "Really, Professor? You'd do that for me?"
"Of course. How could I let a talented young witch miss the chance to walk those halls?" His voice warmed, his words deliberate. "No one should be denied the opportunity to learn and grow in such a place."
Cela giggled at the thought, and the sound—light and unrestrained—made something inside him ease. She was already imagining herself there, in the towering stone corridors and candlelit great hall, the dream of every young witch and wizard in Britain.
Dumbledore, watching her, found himself more resolved than ever.
He reached out, taking one of the neatly arranged sweets from her tray. "Well, Cela, I must be on my way. Wouldn't do to keep my friend waiting."
"Of course," she said, though a hint of reluctance colored her tone. "I hope you visit us again, Professor Dumbledore."
"If you keep making these sweets, I might come every week," he teased.
Her face lit again. "Then I'll send some of my homemade sweets to Hogwarts."
"That's very kind of you, Cela," he said sincerely. "I'll be waiting for the owl." He adjusted his cloak and nodded toward the door. "See you at school."
"Yes, Professor. See you at school."
She walked him to the front door, the air between them unhurried and warm. He stepped outside, and the fading evening light caught the silver in his beard. His stride was calm, measured, until the turn of the street swallowed him from view.
Cela stayed at the doorway, watching until there was nothing left to see, then let out a long, quiet sigh.
"Why are you sighing?"
She jumped, her heart lurching. "Merlin, Grandpa, you scared me!"
Horace Slughorn stood a few paces away, eyes crinkled with amusement. "Yes! Finally managed to make you jump. Ha!" His laugh was rich and self-satisfied.
Cela pressed a hand to her chest, glaring half-heartedly. "Ha ha, very funny. Go read your lover's letter—it's in your room."
Horace's lips twitched in irritation. "Stop with that ridiculous story. You've made the neighbors believe it, and now I can't walk down the street without enduring their winks and whispers."
Cela only smirked, unrepentant. "So… why was Professor Dumbledore here?"
Horace's amusement faded. "Nothing much. He came to tell me I should teach Defence Against the Dark Arts this year."
"You didn't accept?" she asked, frowning. "I know you complain about him sometimes, but you also respect him. So why not?"
Horace's eyes dimmed with a heaviness she had seen before. "Things are complicated, little Cela. You don't need to concern yourself with it."
She muttered just loud enough for him to hear, "You always say that. Whenever it's important, you tell me it's 'complicated' or 'adult business' and treat me like a child."
Aloud, she sighed. "Well, I'm going to bed. I didn't sleep last night—spent it brewing that potion—so I'm exhausted."
As she started up the stairs, Horace called after her, "Don't you want to visit your father?"
Her steps halted. For a moment she stood there, her back to him, the silence stretching. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm.
"No. I don't think he'd appreciate seeing me… in his family."
Without looking back, she climbed the remaining steps and disappeared down the upper hall.
Horace remained at the foot of the stairs, staring after her. His shoulders slumped. "No… he won't. It's complicated," he murmured, almost to himself.
Turning away, his eyes landed on the tray of sweets Cela had left behind. He picked one up, took a slow bite, and chewed thoughtfully.
"She really is talented," he said under his breath, "in more than just cooking."