The underground chamber smelled faintly of damp stone and lavender. Rows of shelves lined the curved walls, packed with glass jars and clay pots labeled in Horace Slughorn's neat, looping handwriting. Here, deep below their modest house, was the potions room—a place Cela had grown to love as much as her own bedroom.
It was two days since Dumbledore's visit, and the early morning sunlight upstairs had barely touched the curtains when Horace had poked his head into Cela's room.
"Up, up, my little cauldron-stirrer," he'd called. "Today, we brew something special."
Cela, still tangled in blankets, had groaned. "Special like breakfast special… or special like 'this will take half the day' special?"
"The latter," Horace replied cheerfully.
Now, Cela stood in the center of the underground room tying her hair back with a ribbon. She wore an oversized brewing robe—one of Horace's old ones—which hung on her like a curtain, the sleeves rolled so many times they looked like coiled snakes.
"So," she said, tugging the knot in place, "what are we making? Don't tell me it's another Strengthening Solution. I'm still tired from chopping all those Mandrake leaves last week."
Horace, bustling about between shelves, raised a hand in mock offense. "Please. Do you think I'd waste such a promising morning on Mandrakes? No, no. Today we brew the Dreamless Sleep Potion."
Cela's brows rose. "The one that knocks you out without nightmares?"
"The very same. A complicated but rewarding brew. Very useful in the right circumstances. And yes," he added with a smirk, "before you ask, I will be supervising, but you, my dear, will be doing the work."
"That's new," she said, pulling the heavy cauldron toward the work table. "Usually you fuss over every stir."
"I'll still fuss," he assured her, pulling a recipe scroll from a drawer. "I'll simply do it from a comfortable chair with a cup of tea in my hand."
Cela grinned. "So… same as always."
************
Horace read aloud from the parchment as Cela fetched jars and pouches from the shelves.
"Two sprigs of valerian root, finely chopped. One measure of powdered asphodel. Half a vial of peppermint oil—don't overdo it, unless you want the drinker waking up with minty breath and a headache."
Cela returned with an armful of ingredients, nearly dropping the powdered asphodel when Horace suddenly barked, "Careful with that! Asphodel dust gets everywhere and you'll smell like a funeral for a week."
She set everything down in neat rows. "You're very dramatic, you know that?"
"I'm a teacher," he replied solemnly. "Drama is half the job."
As she organized the workspace, Horace poured water into the cauldron from a copper kettle. The liquid hissed faintly as it touched the metal, and a curl of steam rose.
*************
Cela took a long spoon and began stirring clockwise. Horace leaned over her shoulder.
"Seven turns, not eight. And gentle, gentle—don't whip it like cake batter."
"I know," Cela muttered, counting under her breath. "One… two… three…"
"Your third stir was too fast," Horace interrupted.
She shot him a look. "You said you'd supervise from your chair."
"I'm supervising from… slightly behind your shoulder," he said innocently.
With the water warmed to a gentle simmer, Cela sprinkled in the valerian root. The air filled with a faint, earthy aroma. She stirred slowly, watching the pieces swirl and soften in the heat.
Horace finally retreated to his cushioned chair in the corner, settling with a sigh and a teacup. "Valerian is key," he said between sips. "Calms the mind. Without it, the potion would simply knock you unconscious, and you'd wake feeling worse."
Cela tilted her head, curious. "Have you ever taken it?"
"Dreamless Sleep? Of course. After particularly… tiring Ministry galas." He sipped again, smirking. "It's also excellent after evenings with Dumbledore. That man can talk for hours without a single pause."
Cela laughed, nearly splashing the potion. "You like him, though."
"I tolerate him fondly," Horace corrected, but there was a softness in his tone.
**************
"Right," Horace said, setting down his cup. "Time for the tricky part. Asphodel powder. Sprinkle slowly, no clumps, and keep stirring clockwise. If it starts to thicken too soon, you've ruined it."
Cela opened the small jar with exaggerated caution. "This is starting to sound like cooking with you in the kitchen," she said. "'Do this, don't do that, and for Merlin's sake, don't touch the roast.'"
Horace chuckled. "And yet, my roasts are perfection."
Cela shot Horace a mocking glance. He threw up his hands and said, "Alright, alright, I admit you're the better cook." Cela smirked, "That's what I thought."
Grains of asphodel drifted into the cauldron, dissolving into the pale brew. The color deepened slightly to a soft lilac.
"Good," Horace said approvingly. "Now, peppermint oil. Exactly six drops. No more, no less."
Cela counted aloud, leaning close. "One… two… three… four… five… six."
"Perfect. That's for freshness—it keeps the taste tolerable."
Cela wrinkled her nose. "So… without it, it tastes awful?"
"Like boiled socks," Horace said without hesitation.
The potion needed to simmer for half an hour. Cela set her spoon aside and wiped her brow with her sleeve.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Now we wait. And watch. Brewing is as much patience as it is precision."
Cela leaned on the table. "You sound like one of those fortune-cookie sayings."
Horace smirked. "A fortune-cookie that can brew Veritaserum, perhaps."
For a while, they sat in companionable quiet, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the cauldron and the occasional clink of Horace's teacup.
Cela broke the silence. "Do you think I'll ever be as good as you?"
Horace glanced at her over the rim of his cup. "Better. If I do my job right."
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. She smiled, turning her eyes back to the potion so he wouldn't see the faint blush on her cheeks.
*************
"Alright," Horace said at last, rising from his chair. "The last ingredient—honeywater. Just enough to sweeten, and pour in a figure-eight motion."
Cela dipped a ladle into the honeywater jar, its golden liquid catching the light from the enchanted lanterns. Carefully, she poured it in the looping pattern, watching the lilac brew shimmer into a soft, milky hue.
Horace nodded. "Beautiful. Now, one final stir—counter-clockwise, slow and steady."
She obeyed, and the potion settled into a calm, velvety consistency.
"That," Horace declared, "is a perfect Dreamless Sleep Potion. Well done, Cela."
She grinned, proud. "You mean… you didn't have to fix anything while I wasn't looking?"
"I was tempted," he admitted, "but no. This one's all yours."
They ladled the potion into slender glass bottles, sealing them with soft wax. Horace labeled each one with the date and contents, then arranged them neatly in a padded crate.
Cela picked up one bottle, holding it to the light. "It looks… peaceful."
"That's the idea," Horace said with a smile. "Some potions roar, some sting. This one whispers."
As they cleaned up the work table, Horace said casually, "You did well today. Better than I did my first time brewing this."
Cela blinked at him. "You? Mess up?"
"Oh, I curdled the whole thing," he said cheerfully. "Put in the asphodel too quickly. Smelled like boiled socks for days. My mother wouldn't stop teasing me."
Cela chuckled, shaking her head. "Good thing I didn't try that today, or you'd have pulled the same stunt your mom did on you."
They carried the empty cauldron to the wash basin, the faint scent of valerian still lingering in the air. Cela felt pleasantly tired, the kind of fatigue that came from focus and quiet accomplishment.
"Grandpa?" she asked as she scrubbed the ladle.
"Yes?"
"I like learning from you. Even if you fuss too much."
Horace gave a small, fond smile. "And I like teaching you. Even if you roll your eyes or complain too much."
By the time they returned upstairs, the day was slipping toward evening. The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon from the tea they'd drunk earlier, and the windows glowed gold in the setting sun.
Cela poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice and sat at the table. Horace, across from her, poured a thimble of the Dreamless Sleep Potion into a small cup.
"For quality testing," he explained. "Not that I don't trust your brewing… but I don't trust your brewing."
Cela smirked. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He downed it in one smooth gulp, sighed in satisfaction, and said, "Perfect. I'll sleep like a baby tonight."
Cela raised her juice in a mock toast. "To peaceful dreams, then."
Horace clinked his empty cup against hers, his eyes warm. "And to you, my little cauldron-stirrer. You're coming along nicely."