Cela woke to a silence so deep, she almost thought the house was empty. The usual sounds—Horace humming to himself in the kitchen, the clink of teacups—were absent.
She rolled out of bed, hair in a wild halo, and padded downstairs. The sunlight spilling through the windows was far too bright for this hour to still be "early."
The kitchen was quiet.
"Grandpa?" she called.
No answer.
With a smirk already forming, Cela tiptoed to his bedroom door. She pushed it open just enough to peek inside—there he was, sprawled on his bed, snoring softly, one hand draped dramatically over his chest like an actor in a tragic play. On the bedside table sat an empty glass vial.
Cela bit her lip to keep from laughing. Dreamless Sleep Potion. Quality tested a bit too thoroughly.
She slipped inside and stood at the foot of the bed. "Grandpa?" she called sweetly.
No response.
She leaned in. "Professor Slughorn?"
Still nothing.
Finally, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think I saw Dumbledore in the kitchen."
Horace jolted upright so fast he nearly toppled out of bed. "What? Where—?"
Cela burst out laughing, clutching her sides. "Oh, Merlin, your face! You should see yourself right now!"
Horace groaned and sank back onto the pillows. "You wicked child. That potion worked too well."
"That's what you get for chugging half a dose instead of a sip," she said, arms crossed. "Weren't you supervising me yesterday? What happened to all those warnings you drilled into me about not gulping it like water or using it every night so it doesn't wreck your sleep?"
He waved a hand. "Consider it… a long-term stability test. Very scientific."
Cela snorted. "Very lazy."
*************
By the time Horace finally dragged himself to the kitchen, Cela had already made tea and toast.
"Careful," she warned, sliding the teapot toward him. "I don't want you falling asleep in your cup."
Horace took it with a glare that was only half serious. "For your information, my dear, I haven't overslept like that in years. Clearly your potion was a masterpiece."
Cela grinned, smug. "So I'm better than you at this one?"
Horace sniffed. "Don't get too cocky, my little potion mistress—you've still got plenty to learn."
They ate in comfortable quiet, the air between them still flavored with the previous day's success.
**********
After breakfast, Cela started toward the stairs to change, but Horace stopped her with a sudden thought.
"You know," he said, leaning back in his chair, "yesterday was all about brewing. Today, I think we'll stretch a different set of magical muscles."
Cela perked up. "What do you mean?"
"Transfiguration. Object shape-changing, to be precise. You've got steady hands from potion work—let's see if that steadiness extends to your wand."
Cela grinned. "Finally! You've been putting this off for ages."
They returned to the underground room, but instead of the cauldron and ingredients, the central worktable now held an odd assortment: a teacup, a quill, a tin soldier, a candlestick, and a rather sad-looking wool sock.
Cela eyed them. "We're not… brewing with these, are we?"
Horace chuckled. "No, no. Today, we turn them into something else entirely. Transfiguration is about precision, focus, and intent—just like potions, but with a wand instead of a ladle."
He picked up the sock. "Watch closely."
With a flick and a quiet "Mutatio!" the sock rippled and stiffened, transforming into a small, perfectly folded handkerchief embroidered with a gold "S."
Cela's eyes widened. "That's… brilliant."
"Your turn," Horace said, handing her the teacup. "If you remember and learned well the Transfigurations lessons I taught you, this should be a breeze to learn and perform."
*************
Cela placed the cup on the table, took a breath, and raised her wand. "Mutatio."
The cup wobbled, shimmered… and became a rather lopsided clay bowl.
Horace tilted his head. "Not bad. It's still a vessel. You need to think further away from the original form. Imagine something unrelated—like a pincushion or a lemon."
Cela nodded, tried again. The cup morphed into a lemon… sort of. It was lemon-shaped, but still porcelain, with painted flowers.
Horace chuckled. "Ah, the hybrid stage. Happens to everyone. Again."
***********
They worked through object after object. The quill became a carrot. The candlestick became a wooden spoon. The tin soldier turned into a chocolate frog that immediately tried to hop off the table, forcing Cela to catch it mid-leap.
Horace laughed so hard he had to steady himself on the back of a chair. "Merlin's beard, you nearly unleashed a transfigured army on my pantry."
Cela grinned. "At least it's edible."
"That depends on whether it stays chocolate," Horace said. "Wouldn't want it turning back into a tin soldier mid-bite."
They paused for tea halfway through. Horace poured them both a cup, then leaned back in his chair.
"You know," he said, "potions and transfiguration might seem like opposites, but they're really cousins. Both require the same three things—precision, patience, and imagination. Get any one of those wrong, and the whole thing collapses."
Cela sipped thoughtfully. "So… they're not really separate subjects?"
"They are," Horace said, "but mastery of one will make you better at the other. Which is why I'm teaching you both. If your grandfather's going to be your only professor, he ought to make himself worth the tuition."
Cela smirked. "Tuition? You're charging me?"
"Of course," he said gravely. "One slice of your lemon cake per lesson."
************
By the afternoon, Horace decided Cela was ready for a proper test. He placed the sad wool sock back on the table.
"Your goal," he said, "is to turn this into a bouquet of tulips. You've got one try."
Cela narrowed her eyes, focused, and raised her wand. She pictured the tulips in her mind—soft petals, green stems, the gentle sway of flowers in a vase. She whispered, "Mutatio."
The sock shimmered, stretched, and burst into a neat bouquet of tulips, their petals a cheerful pink.
Horace's smile was genuine and wide. "Perfect. You're getting it."
Cela beamed. "So I'm… officially a Transfiguration student now?"
"Indeed," he said. "And at this rate, you'll be better than I am before long."
She grinned. "Better than you at potions and transfiguration? I like the sound of that."