The knock came again — soft, measured, and entirely unlike the impatient pounding of a neighbor.
Cela hesitated for a moment before turning the brass handle. The hinges gave a faint groan as the door swung open to reveal a tall figure standing in the fading afternoon light.
The man wore a long, sweeping robe of deep purple, trimmed with silver embroidery so fine it caught the sun in quiet flashes. His hair, long and silver-white, fell neatly over his shoulders, and his beard, equally long, was carefully groomed, reaching nearly to the middle of his chest. Half-moon spectacles perched delicately upon a long, slightly crooked nose, the lenses catching the light with an almost knowing glint. His eyes—clear, piercing blue—seemed to see far more than what was simply before him, and yet held a warmth that softened their intensity.
For a moment, Cela simply stared, her mouth parting ever so slightly.
"Are you…Dumbledore?" she blurted, her voice carrying a mix of astonishment and uncertainty. "Albus Dumbledore?"
The man's lips curved into a mild smile, and when he spoke, his voice was calm, deep, and kind.
"Oh, sure I am, Miss. Slughorn."
At the sound of that surname, Cela's expression tightened just a fraction. Her lips pressed together, and her brow creased ever so slightly—years of using it hadn't made the name feel any less odd. She didn't speak, but the subtle frustration in her eyes betrayed how strange it still felt to her.
"…Are you here to see Grandpa?" she asked finally, her tone now more measured.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied with a small nod. "I am here to see your Grandpa."
She stepped aside, holding the door open wider, the faint scent of parchment and pipe smoke drifting from the house. Without another word, she led him inside, her slippers barely making a sound against the old wooden floorboards.
The corridor was lined with framed paintings, carefully chosen for appearance rather than magic. Landscapes, family portraits, and still-life scenes hung in neat rows, each one perfectly ordinary to any Muggle eye. At the end of the hall, the door to the living room stood ajar, sunlight spilling in through wide windows and casting warm, shifting patterns across the carpet.
By the time Cela reached the door, her grandfather had already changed out of his old, worn pajamas into his usual formal attire—clothes carefully chosen to impress any guest or curious Muggle neighbor. Always impeccably dressed, he had a way of making even the simplest outfit seem grand, as if he were meant to shine. He no longer sat slouched on the couch in front of the television; now he occupied a large armchair, sitting upright and alert, his expression a blend of shrewdness and expectancy.
The two old men's eyes met.
A long silence stretched between the two men, broken only by the soft voices of the children who were playing outside in the street. Horace's eyes narrowed slightly as he finally spoke, his tone measured but carrying an edge of gravity.
"How did you find me, Albus?"
Dumbledore's lips curved into a gentle smile, his calm demeanor unwavering. "Ah, of course. I had heard the story," he said, his voice soft but warm. "The tale of the old man who sacrificed his love to go to war. One day, while walking the streets of London, it reached me. Such a touching story, isn't it, Horace?"
Horace's gaze flicked toward Cela, and for a brief moment, her face colored with a rosy blush. The story she had concocted—intended to entertain or perhaps distract the neighbors from the suspicious Owl activities —had somehow reached Dumbledore. Though her grandfather would have been found even without it, the knowledge that it was her embellishment made her squirm.
Horace let out a quiet sigh, the sound heavy with both amusement and exasperation. "Cela, my dear," he said gently, "would you give me some alone time with Albus?"
Cela arched a single eyebrow, as though to question the request, but she did not protest. With a faint, reluctant nod, she stepped aside and exited the room, the door clicking softly behind her.
Dumbledore's gaze drifted around the living room, taking in the mix of arcane clutter and mundane comfort. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly.
"You've become quite… muggle, my old friend," he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "If any of those pure-blood families were to see you here, in this house, they'd consider you a traitor at once. Hahaha. You know how they are."
Horace's face remained impassive, his tone sharp and cautious. "What do you want, Albus?"
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, a faint sigh escaping him. "Ah… old friend," he said, leaning back slightly, "you've grown impatient."