The air in the kitchen smelled of sizzling butter and fresh herbs long before the sun had finished rising over the quiet London street. Cela stood at the old wooden counter, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied loosely at her waist. The week's plan had finally arrived—the Saturday party her grandfather had insisted upon—and that meant hours of cooking ahead. The moment her feet touched the floor that morning, she'd known it was going to be a day full of clattering pans and laughter.
Outside, the garden glistened faintly with dew. Beyond the hedges, she could see a few early risers already watering their flowers or walking dogs. The neighborhood was a mix of tidy brick houses and blooming gardens, the sort of place where everyone waved to one another, whether they knew each other or not.
Her grandfather, Horace Slughorn, had already been out and about, leaning on his cane, greeting passersby. He was in his element—talking, laughing, and extending invitations to the weekend gathering. The party was to be entirely Muggle-friendly: no flicks of the wand to speed things along, no self-stirring pots or enchanted cutlery. Horace had insisted on doing it "the Muggle way," claiming it was "good for the character." Cela suspected it was mostly so he could show off to her how effortlessly he could adapt to their customs.
"Celestia, my dear!" his voice boomed through the open window. "I've just run into Mrs. Patmore—she's absolutely delighted to come. She's bringing her famous sponge cake!"
Cela poked her head out, hair tied back in a messy bun. "That's wonderful, Grandpa. I'll make sure there's room for it on the table."
Horace waved, then turned to chat with an older man passing by. Cela smiled faintly, returning to the potatoes she was peeling. The kitchen table was already lined with bowls and trays—roast chicken ready for seasoning, dough for bread rising under a tea towel, and jars of homemade chutney she'd prepared two nights before.
By mid-morning, the whole house was filled with the smell of roasting meat, frying onions, and warm bread. Horace returned, cheeks pink from the mild breeze, reporting each successful invitation.
"I've secured the attendance of Mr. and Mrs. Henley from across the street, the Donovans from number 14, and—ah, here's the exciting bit—the new neighbor, Granger family from number 7. Lovely people, both dentists. Their daughter, Hermione, is about your age."
Cela arched an eyebrow. "And you've invited twenty people now? Or more?"
"Twenty-three," Horace said proudly, hanging up his coat. "And they'll all be here this afternoon. I've told them to come hungry."
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Cela worked steadily, her hands moving with quiet precision. She prepared roasted root vegetables—parsnips, carrots, and potatoes tossed in rosemary and olive oil. She marinated lamb with garlic and mint, arranged smoked salmon on platters with lemon wedges, and rolled out pastry for mini beef pies. For dessert, she made sticky toffee pudding and treacle tart, because if there was one thing Muggles and wizards could agree on, it was dessert.
Horace helped in his own way—peeling apples for crumble, setting up folding chairs in the back garden, and occasionally taste-testing dishes "for quality control."
"Hmm… excellent seasoning on the lamb, Celestia," he said, licking his lips. "You've inherited my palate."
Cela smirked. "Or maybe I just know how to cook."
By midday, the table in the dining room was covered in an embroidered cloth and lined with mismatched china plates, polished silverware, and glass tumblers for lemonade and wine. Horace brought in flowers from the garden—lavender and roses in small vases—to place along the table.
************
It began with a knock at the door. Mrs. Patmore, a short, cheerful woman in her late sixties, stood there holding a cake tin.
"Good afternoon, dear!" she said warmly to Cela. "Oh, my word, something smells divine in here."
Cela ushered her in, taking the cake to the kitchen. Behind her came Mr. and Mrs. Henley, a polite, quiet couple who lived directly opposite. Then the Donovans arrived—tall, boisterous, and full of stories about their recent holiday to Cornwall. The Keatings brought a salad. The Marches brought wine. The Whitakers arrived with a basket of fresh bread, and the Madam Smith the one who demanded this whole party thing.
Horace greeted every single one as if they were royalty, ushering them into the back garden where chairs and tables were set up under strings of fairy lights (purely decorative, battery-powered). Cela served glasses of elderflower cordial and trays of appetizers: cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls, and cheese with oatcakes.
***********
The last to arrive, just as the clock neared three, were the Grangers. Mr. Granger was tall and friendly, with a dentist's polished smile; Mrs. Granger had a warm, elegant air, with kind eyes. Between them stood Hermione—a girl with a halo of bushy brown hair, wearing a light summer dress looking like she didn't want to come here.
"Mr. Slughorn, thank you for inviting us," Mrs. Granger said as Horace shook her hand.
"Oh, please, Horace will do," he replied. "And this must be your daughter—Cela, come here, dear!"
Cela emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello," she said politely, extending her hand.
Hermione shook it firmly. "Hi. You're Cela?"
"That's me Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, my name is Hermione Granger." Hermione said, her gaze flicking to the platters of food being carried past. "Did you make all of this?"
Cela nodded. "Every bit."
"That's… impressive," Hermione admitted. "I can barely make toast without burning it."
Cela smiled faintly. "It's just practice."
Horace beamed, "Come in, come in! Since you're new to town, let's get you introduced to the neighbors."
Mrs. Granger smiled warmly. "Yes, of course, we'd love to meet our new neighbors!" She turned to her husband. "Right, dear?"
Mr. Granger nodded eagerly. "Oh, absolutely, we're looking forward to it!"
************
Once everyone had arrived, Horace stood at the head of the long garden table. "Friends, neighbors—thank you for joining us today! Celestia has prepared a proper feast for you all, and I daresay you won't leave hungry."
They dined on roast lamb, chicken with lemon and thyme, buttered vegetables, salmon, and pies. The air was filled with the sound of clinking cutlery, laughter, and the occasional murmur of appreciation for the food.
"This lamb is perfectly cooked," Mrs. Henley told Cela.
"The treacle tart is heavenly," added Mr. Donovan.
Even Hermione, who spent much of the meal in quiet conversation with her parents, leaned over at one point to say, "This is amazing. Do you cook often?"
Cela shrugged modestly. "Pretty much every day."
Horace beamed, raising his glass. "My granddaughter is a marvel, isn't she?"
Cela rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her pride.
Madam Smith sighed, glancing at Horace. "You're truly lucky to have Cela as your granddaughter, Mr. Slughorn. My daughter won't even step foot in the kitchen or touch anything related to cooking. All day, she's glued to the telephone, chatting with her boyfriend or who knows what. I wish she were half as capable as Cela, tsk."
Horace smiled warmly. "It's alright, Madam Smith. They're still young. When they grow older and responsibilities settle in, they'll mature and learn what's right and wrong."
The other neighbors nodded in agreement, chiming in with their own thoughts. "He's right," one said. "Kids need time to find their way." Another added, "My son was the same, but now he's starting to take things more seriously. Just give her time."
*************
The sun dipped lower, fairy lights beginning to glow in the garden. Neighbors chatted in little groups, children chased each other on the lawn, and the table was littered with empty plates and crumbs. It was, Cela thought, exactly the sort of party her grandfather loved—full of stories, good food, and the pleasant buzz of a shared evening.