The first morning of August broke with a golden light that streamed across the curtains of the Slughorn home, warm and bright in its cheerful insistence. Cela was already awake, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back as she stood in the kitchen. The air was alive with the sounds of breakfast cooking: the gentle crackle of sausages as their casings sizzled in the pan, the popping of rashers of bacon curling in their own fat, and the soft bubbling of tomatoes that she had sliced and left to roast gently with herbs. The smell filled the air, rich and savory, promising comfort before the day had even truly begun.
On another pan, eggs were frying with patient precision—one yolk sunny and untouched, another being folded carefully into a soft scramble. A kettle sang faintly on the stove, steam puffing against the window. She hummed softly as she worked, arranging the first finished pieces on a platter: grilled mushrooms, crisp-edged toast, black pudding browned to perfection.
Just as she laid the final sausage down, a soft thump at the window made her pause. An owl, feathers mottled and weary from the long night's flight, tapped insistently against the glass. Cela hurried over, opening it. The bird extended its leg, the Daily Prophet tied neatly to it with twine. She gave it a small piece of bacon rind as thanks; the owl took it with a brisk snap and swooped away into the brightening morning.
Cela smoothed the newspaper and set it on the table, between the polished cutlery and the steaming tea set she had laid out earlier. She did not open it yet—she knew her grandfather would want the honor himself.
Upstairs, the pipes groaned faintly as the bathwater drained. She heard the creak of floorboards, the careful, unhurried tread of someone taking his time with dignity. A few minutes later, Horace Slughorn descended the staircase, every bit the man who insisted upon appearances even within his own home. His robe was of rich burgundy velvet, his hair—though thinning—was oiled neatly back, and a faint trace of cologne clung to him.
"Ahh, Cela, my dear," he said, his voice genial, warm in its usual rumbling tone. He beamed at her as he entered the dining room, settling heavily into his chair with a satisfied sigh. "You've outdone yourself again. It smells positively divine."
Cela smiled faintly as she brought the last plate forward, arranging the eggs. "Just a proper breakfast, Grandfather."
He reached for the teapot at once, pouring himself a generous cup. His eyes fell on the folded Daily Prophet at his place. With a grunt of approval, he unfolded it and began to scan the front page. His brow, so often soft and jovial, furrowed almost instantly.
The cup of tea paused halfway to his lips. His eyes widened. Then, with a sudden booming voice, he exclaimed:
"I knew it! I knew it!"
Cela nearly dropped the pan she was holding. "What is it?"
Slughorn slapped the paper down upon the table, jabbing a thick finger at the bold black headline:
SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES FROM AZKABAN.
The notorious mass murderer, once trusted friend of James and Lily Potter, is believed to be on the run. Ministry officials warn he is armed and dangerous…
Horace leaned back in his chair with a huff. "That's why, Cela. That's precisely why I never allowed you to set foot in that wretched school. Hogwarts! A nest of danger, unruly elements, chaos under the thin veil of education. And now this. A fugitive on the loose—Merlin's beard, I tell you, it was only a matter of time."
Cela, unsettled but curious, wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped closer. She plucked the newspaper from the table, eyes scanning the article.
It painted Sirius Black as a devoted servant of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the very wizard responsible for the fall of the Potters. Black was described as having betrayed James and Lily, luring them into the Dark Lord's hands, and then—mad with triumph—murdering Peter Pettigrew and a street full of Muggles in cold blood. He had been locked away in Azkaban without trial, the most infamous prisoner of the age. And now he was free.
Horace sneezed sharply, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, and snorted with disdain. "Hah! I never liked those people. Especially that Potter boy and his gang of ruffians. Sirius Black, James Potter—thugs, Cela, common thugs dressed in school robes. Bullies who prowled the corridors of Hogwarts as if they owned them."
His face darkened as old bitterness bubbled to the surface. "I saw it with my own eyes, year after year. They thought themselves clever, untouchable. Always tormenting the Slytherin students. Always stealing from my stores—the cheek of it! Do you know how many times ingredients went missing from my cupboard? Picked clean of rare roots, powdered herbs, boomslang skin… And who was at the center of it? Always them. Potter, Black, that insufferable Lupin—Merlin help me, even Pettigrew, who followed them like a rat at the heel."
Cela slipped into her seat, quiet, listening.
"They extorted, hexed, and humiliated Slytherins—ah, and always with the crowd cheering them on. Do you know what the staff did? Nothing! Nothing at all. They looked the other way, laughed it off as harmless pranks. Harmless! Tell that to the poor students hexed in the corridors. Tell that to the boy who had to go to the Hospital Wing because Potter thought it funny to hang him upside down in front of everyone."
He slammed his teacup down, rattling the saucer.
"Unruly. Dangerous. Lawless. And to think the Ministry still let him alive!"
Horace rubbed his temples, breathing hard. His voice lowered, touched by something heavier. "And Lily… Lily Evans."
His tone softened with the name, full of sorrow. "Brightest witch of her year. Sharp mind, quick wit. She was talented in potions, Cela, gifted. I had plans for her, dreams. I wanted her as my apprentice. She had the discipline, the brilliance. But she refused me, chose instead to waste her life fighting alongside her husband's nonsense crusade. Chose to tie herself to James Potter, of all people. I will never understand it. How could such a clever witch throw herself away on a man who spent his school years tormenting others?"
He sighed heavily, staring down at his hands. "It broke my heart when she died. Truly. She could have changed the future of potion-brewing. But she followed that man into battle and paid with her life."
Cela watched him in silence. She rarely saw her grandfather so raw, so bitterly honest.
Horace sniffed, regaining his bluster. "And the Potters—bah! Their family was built on scandal. Did you know, Cela, that James Potter's grandfather, old Fleamont, made his fortune off a hair product? A shampoo, of all things. He stole the recipe, bribed the Ministry to grant him a Merlin Second Class, and then flooded the market. To this day, every wizarding household uses it—and the Potters still collect their gold like clockwork. All built on deceit."
He chuckled bitterly, taking another swallow of tea. "A family of cheats and opportunists, dressed up as heroes. That's the truth, though no one likes to hear it."
His voice trailed into more grumblings, memories pouring out like a dam broken. He spoke of Quidditch matches where James strutted like a peacock, of Sirius's sharp tongue and cruel laughter, of stolen nights where potions bubbled in secret under their hands. Again and again, he returned to the refrain: They were bullies. They were thugs. And yet the world remembers them as noble.
Cela sat very still, her fork untouched, only listening as his words filled the room, a strange mixture of anger, sorrow, and resignation weaving through them. She thought, not for the first time, that her grandfather carried an entire era's worth of secrets and disappointments behind his jovial exterior.
And when, at last, he fell quiet, only the ticking of the clock and the faint hiss of the cooling stove remained. Horace dabbed his mouth once more, cleared his throat, and said, almost wistfully:
"If Lily had lived, Cela… if she had lived, the world might have been different."
He picked up the Daily Prophet again, eyes hardening once more. "But Sirius Black is free. And mark my words, nothing good will come of it."
Cela reached for her tea, her thoughts whirling, but she said nothing. She simply sat, listening, as her grandfather muttered to himself, the morning sunlight slanting across the table where the plates of bacon and eggs lay steaming, half-forgotten.