Cela had woken to the smell of tea and the faint, syrupy sweetness of sugar-dusted pastries. Somewhere in the kitchen, Horace Slughorn was humming an old wizarding tune — the kind that always made her think of warm armchairs and the clink of teacups in polished saucers.
She padded in, still tying the ribbon on her house robe, and found him already dressed in his trademark waistcoat and a silk cravat that shimmered faintly in the morning light. His not so much hair was perfectly brushed neat, and his cane rested against the table.
"You're dressed up," Cela remarked, rubbing her eyes. "You've got a meeting or another Slug club party?"
Horace's eyes twinkled. "Oh, far more important than a meeting, my dear. Today you'll have your monthly proper field lesson."
Cela tilted her head. "Field lesson?"
He reached for his teacup, took a slow, deliberate sip, and then said with that little dramatic flourish he always enjoyed: "We are going ingredient hunting."
Her sleepiness vanished instantly. "Where?"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the neighbours might overhear. "To the Whispering Glade — a most exquisite place I've visited throughout my life whenever I needed something truly rare. And before you ask, no, you won't find it in any Ministry map or textbook. This is… off the beaten path."
Cela's eyes brightened. "When do we go?"
Horace checked the watch on his waistcoat. "In about… half an hour. Finish that pastry, dear, before we end up Apparating with crumbs in our hair."
Cela exclaimed, "Wait, I need to shower and pick out some decent clothes—I can't go looking like this!"
Horace chuckled, "Alright, alright, hurry up. I'll wait for you."
Cela promptly turned and headed to her room to shower and change.
******************
Moments later, Horace took her arm. Cela felt the familiar, suffocating squeeze of Side-Along Apparition, the twist of her stomach, the rush of wind — and then they landed on a mossy path in the middle of a wild, green wonderland.
The Whispering Glade was exactly as magical as its name. Shafts of golden light streamed through the ancient canopy, leaves whispering in a breeze that smelled faintly of honey and rain. The air hummed faintly, as though invisible strings were vibrating. Some of the flowers swayed toward Cela as she walked past, petals brushing her sleeve, curious.
"Oh…" Cela breathed, turning in a slow circle. "It's beautiful."
Horace smiled fondly. "Nature's best-kept secret. This place has never let me down in my search for rare ingredients. It's why some of my potions have… shall we say… unmatched quality."
Cela glanced around, then asked, "Are we still in the UK?"
Horace replied matter-of-factly, "Of course we are. Do you think I'm powerful enough to Apparate you out of the country?"
As Cela gazed at the breathtaking scenery, her curiosity sparked. "How did you find this place? You said hardly anyone knows about it."
Horace smiled softly. "My mother discovered it in 1878, a couple of years before I was born. From the time I was six, she'd bring me here to play."
Cela tilted her head. "And you never told anyone about it?"
"No," Horace replied. "If someone's lucky enough to stumble upon it, fine. But I don't bring just anyone here or tell them about it. The only people I've ever brought were Slughorns—my nephew which is your grandfather, then your mother, and now you."
Cela's eyes lit up. "So it's a generational tradition?"
Horace chuckled. "Not sure I'd call it that, but I brought you here so that after I'm gone, someone will visit this place to remember my mother and me."
Cela's expression softened. "You really love your mother, Grandpa."
Horace's smile was tinged with warmth and sorrow. "Oh, I do. I loved her dearly, but I lost her too soon, like the rest of my family. Now it's just you and me."
With a confident grin, Cela said, "Don't worry, Grandpa. I'm not going anywhere until you teach me all your secret recipes."
Horace's sadness melted into a hearty laugh. "Oh, you naughty child! I've got a century of knowledge—you can't learn it all in just a few years!"
Cela turned to him, her eyes gleaming with determination. "Try me, Grandpa. I promise I'll learn it all in just a couple of years."
Horace shook his head, still chuckling. "Sure, sure."
**********
Horace began walking, his cane tapping the mossy ground. "Now, the first thing you need to know: the plants here are shy. Some won't appear unless you stand still and hum to them. Others will pretend to be something else entirely."
They stopped near a small pool of water where silver strands drifted just beneath the surface.
"Silverweed root," Horace explained. "Best harvested under morning light. See how it curls away from your hand? That means it's still sleeping. A gentle tickle with your wand wakes it."
Cela crouched, carefully nudging a root with her wand tip. The silvery strands stirred, and she felt a tiny pulse of magic — like a heartbeat. With careful hands, she cut a section and placed it into a charmed glass jar.
Next came the moondew petals, glowing faintly blue and growing at the base of an old oak. They seemed to quiver when she looked directly at them.
"Don't pluck all from one plant," Horace reminded. "Greedy hands make the petals lose their magic. Two or three will suffice."
Cela obeyed, murmuring thanks under her breath, and tucked the petals into another jar.
They wandered deeper, where the air grew thicker with magic. A cluster of sopophorous bean pods hung from a vine so high up that Cela had to climb a low branch to reach them. The pods vibrated faintly, releasing a drowsy scent.
"These," Horace said, catching one she dropped into his hand, "are key to any Dreamless Sleep potion worth its name. But remember, the juice is strong. Too much and your subject may not wake for days."
Cela wrinkled her nose. "Then how do you measure it right?"
"Experience, my dear. And a good set of brass scales."
***********
Once their baskets were half-full, Horace stopped in a small clearing where sunlight pooled like liquid gold. He set down the ingredients and pulled a small brass teapot from his bag.
"Now," he said, tapping the teapot with his wand, "we're going to practice your Transfiguration."
Cela blinked. "Here? In the middle of the jungle?"
"Of course. Distraction is the best teacher — you must learn to focus despite rustling leaves or wandering puffskeins. Watch closely."
With a flick, the teapot shimmered and reshaped itself into a plump hedgehog, which promptly sniffed Cela's shoes. Another flick and it became a polished silver goblet.
"Your turn."
Cela bit her lip, picked up a twig, and focused. She pictured a small wooden box… but the result was a misshapen spoon.
Horace chuckled. "Not bad for a first try. The trick is intent. You mustn't simply want a box — you must feel the box. Picture the grain of the wood, the hollow inside, the hinges. Transfiguration is as much imagination as skill."
She tried again. This time, the twig grew straight, flattened, and folded into a perfect little box.
Her grin was so wide Horace had to hide his own smile behind his focused face. "There you are, Cela. See? A fine start."
***********
Back in their cozy London home, Horace set the ingredients on the kitchen table. Cela washed her hands and pulled on a brewing apron while Horace arranged the cauldron.
"This, my dear, is where patience wins over talent. Potions reward those who respect timing, temperature, and the dignity of each ingredient."
Cela carefully sliced the silverweed root, stirred the petals into simmering water, and added the bean pod juice drop by drop, her eyes fixed on the mixture's colour. Horace hovered behind her, occasionally nodding, occasionally muttering, "Hm, yes, quite good" — but never interfering.
By the end, the potion glowed softly, like moonlight trapped in a bottle.
Horace swirled it, examined the clarity, then finally said, "Well done. I daresay this could put even the crankiest wizard into dreamless slumber."
Cela flushed with pride. "You think so?"
Horace smiled, eyes crinkling. "I know so. And just between you and me — I've brewed worse in my time."