July 1993 – Hampstead Garden Suburb, London
Beneath the unassuming white-brick house, the underground stretched far wider and grander than the exterior suggested. Golden light shimmered off countless shelves, each lined with glass bottles, jars, and vials. Some contained dried herbs and flowers, others glimmering powders, vibrant liquids, or tiny crystals that seemed to hum faintly with magical energy. There were feathers, beads, and even strange, arcane ingredients in jars of liquid that any ordinary visitor would have found unsettling. Funnels, pipettes, mortars and pestles, and carefully labeled test tubes were arranged in neat, precise rows.
It was a potion master's paradise, yet anything resembling care or restraint had long been abandoned. To a trained professional, the chaotic use of rare and priceless ingredients would have caused fainting spells. But the practitioner before the cauldron was no ordinary wizard.
Cela, a girl of thirteen with blond hair and crystalline blue eyes, stood in the center of the lab, her hands stained with potion ingredients. She gazed into the cauldron before her, where a light golden liquid bubbled and shimmered. Her wand moved with precise gestures, and after a few more careful strokes, the liquid finally turned colorless.
A triumphant smile lit her face.
"Finally! It's done," she whispered in her clear, crisp voice. "Thank Merlin—I've spent an entire week on this."
She picked up a spoon and carefully poured the potion into tiny corked bottles, each barely larger than her palm. After sealing them, she extinguished the cauldron's fire and swept the underground with a practiced eye, checking for anything flammable. Memories of last year's disaster—the loss of nearly fifty thousand Galleons' worth of ingredients—still stung. She would not make the same mistake twice.
Potion bottles safely in hand, Cela climbed the stairs, emerging into the small, elegant atrium above. Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling, highlighting the clean lines of the living space. The faint hum of a television drew her toward the living room, where her great-uncle, Horace Slughorn, lay dozing on a velvet armchair.
The legendary Potions Master, former Head of Slytherin House, and founder of the renowned Slug Club had spent decades teaching at Hogwarts before finally retiring. Though he appeared to be in his sixties, he was in truth well past ninety. Now, he seemed almost ordinary, snoring softly as a British television program murmured in the background.
Horace sat with his eyes closed, an almost smug smile curling his lips. Without warning, he blurted, "Boo!" in an overly dramatic tone, clearly hoping to startle her.
Cela didn't even flinch. "Come on, Grandpa, these tricks stopped working on me years ago."
He cracked one eye open, letting out a long, theatrical sigh. "Ah, now that my dear granddaughter has grown up, she won't even pretend to be scared just to humor her poor old grandpa."
Ignoring him, Cela held out her bottles. "Look at this potion. I worked a full week on it."
Horace picked up a vial, studying its clarity and sniffing its faint aroma. "Not bad," he said, casually.
Cela's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not bad," she murmured—translation: nothing special. Horace's eyes twinkled when he noticed her disappointment.
"Ah, but there's an improvement here," he said. "Your Drink of Despair was emerald before. Now, colorless… clever. What did you use?"
Her face lit up. "Werewolf saliva during the full moon, and… ginger."
Horace raised an eyebrow. "Ginger? The kind used in muggle tea and food?"
She smiled primly. "Yes. Most potion masters dismiss it as mundane. They don't see its true potential."
Horace chuckled, pride evident in his eyes. "It seems the Slughorn talent runs in the family."
"Of course," Cela said, standing straighter, chin up. "I am a Slughorn."
Horace chuckled heartily. "Ah, at last! You admit it that you're a Slughorn."
Rolling her eyes, Cela pressed on, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "So… you remember our deal, right? You promised that if I could brew this potion correctly, you'd let me go to Hogwarts this year. You didn't think I could do it—but here I am, and it's perfect, isn't it?"
The laughter died in Horace's eyes, replaced by seriousness. "Unfortunately, Cela, this potion isn't yet up to standard. Perhaps next year. You must try again."
Cela's shoulders slumped. "Three years in a row… you've kept me from going every year!"
Horace waved her frustration away. "Don't worry. I'll teach you everything Hogwarts could—perhaps even more. You'll be better than their untalented professors."
Cela opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of a knock at the front door interrupted her.
"Go see who it is," Horace said, nodding toward the hallway. "Likely Mr. Smith is here for our chess game."
Cela clutched the potion bottles tightly and walked toward the door, still wearing the shadow of disappointment. But a spark of curiosity flickered in her eyes, reminding her that no matter how many obstacles her great-uncle placed, her world—both magical and mundane—was hers to explore.