The flickering torches along the ancient stone walls cast long, wavering shadows as Cela walked beside Professor McGonagall. At night, the castle felt different—quieter, a little eerie—its mystery pressing in around her. She had only ever heard of the castle stories from Hermione and her grandfather and here she was walking inside it. The faint creak of moving staircases echoed through the corridors, and portraits stirred lazily in their frames, blinking drowsily as the two passed.
Cela's steps were careful. Her new Gryffindor robes brushed her ankles, and she clutched her satchel close. She could still hardly believe she was here—Hogwarts, the castle she had dreamed of for years but entered only now, after two years of being kept home by her grandfather. Every shadow felt heavy with history, every echo a secret waiting to be uncovered.
Professor McGonagall said little as they ascended the stairs. Her tall, rigid figure moved with quiet authority, the swish of her emerald robes sharp against the silence. Her lips were pressed together in their usual thin line, but Cela thought she detected something softer in her eyes—perhaps the faintest spark of approval, or curiosity.
At last, they came to a halt before a peculiar statue of a great stone eagle, wings half unfurled. Its eyes glowed faintly, as though alive, and Cela blinked at it in surprise because of its beauty and majesty of it.
Professor McGonagall stopped, then leaned slightly toward the eagle.
"Sherbet Lemon," she said crisply.
The eagle stirred, its stone wings creaking open. The wall behind it split soundlessly into a spiral staircase, which began to rotate upward with a gentle whirring sound. Cela gasped softly, unable to hide her fascination.
Professor McGonagall turned to her. "Up you go, Miss Slughorn. The Headmaster is waiting for you." Her tone was softer now, though still brisk. "I will wait here until you are finished. Afterwards, I shall escort you to your common room."
Cela nodded quickly, clutching her satchel tighter. "Yes, Professor. Thank you."
She stepped onto the staircase. It carried her upward smoothly, the stone steps gliding as if alive. The motion reminded her faintly of riding a carousel, though far quieter and more dignified. With each turn, her anticipation grew.
When she reached the top, a polished oak door carved with griffins and vines stood before her. She hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.
The room beyond was warm and strange, filled with the scent of parchment, candle wax, and something faintly citrus. The Headmaster's office was exactly as she had imagined from stories—and yet far more alive. Bookshelves rose to the high ceiling, stacked with tomes so ancient they looked as though they might crumble at a touch. Curious instruments whirred and ticked, puffing smoke or emitting faintly musical notes. On the walls hung portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, many of them snoring in their frames. A few cracked open an eye to peer at her with mild curiosity before resuming their slumber.
But Cela's gaze caught on something else entirely.
On a golden perch by the desk sat a bird more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. Its feathers were a blaze of scarlet and gold, shimmering as though fire lived within them. Its long tail swept gracefully down, glowing faintly in the candlelight. The phoenix tilted its head as Cela approached, its intelligent dark eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Cela froze, awestruck. She had read of phoenixes—her grandfather had once lectured her on their tears, their blood, their rare properties in potions. But to see one alive and breathing, watching her…
She took a cautious step closer. The bird shifted on its perch, feathers ruffling, gaze still locked on her.
"It's beautiful, isn't it, Miss Slughorn?"
The voice came from behind her, gentle and warm. Cela turned quickly.
Albus Dumbledore stood by his desk, half-shadowed by candlelight. His long silver beard glimmered faintly, and his blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. Though she had seen him from afar at the Sorting Feast, meeting him again but this time in his office was entirely different. He radiated calm power, a presence that filled the room yet put her strangely at ease.
"Yes," Cela said softly, glancing back at the bird. "Yes, it's very beautiful. Though…" She hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Though I would say its feathers, blood, and tears are the truly valuable parts. In terms of potions, at least."
Dumbledore chuckled, moving toward her with an almost whimsical grace. "Ah, Horace's granddaughter indeed. Always measuring beauty by its usefulness." He tilted his head, considering her. "And yet, you still smiled at it before speaking of ingredients."
Cela flushed slightly but lifted her chin. "It is rare. I know that. Even if I never use it for potions, it's… special."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brighter. "A fair answer." He moved closer to the phoenix, who gave a soft trill, almost as if amused. "You are correct, of course. Phoenixes are difficult to find. They dwell in remote places—the deep jungles of the Amazon, the misty mountains of China. Places untouched by men. And catching one, well…" He spread his hands. "It is near impossible. They can vanish in fire and reappear elsewhere at will. No cage can hold them."
Cela leaned forward, fascinated. "But you have one."
Dumbledore's smile softened. "Not I. Fawkes chose to stay. He came to me long ago and has been my companion ever since." He reached out, and the phoenix nuzzled his hand affectionately. "A partnership, not possession."
Cela watched, a flicker of longing in her eyes. She wanted, someday, a companion like that—rare, magical and loyal. But she said nothing, only listened as Dumbledore told her the old tale of how his family, the Dumbledores, had once encountered phoenixes centuries ago in wild valleys. Cela hung on every word, her mind weaving images of flame-winged birds in hidden lands.
At last, Dumbledore gestured toward a bowl of sweets on his desk. "Sherbet Lemon? Or perhaps a cockroach cluster, if you're feeling adventurous? I do have chocolate as well."
Cela blinked, then laughed despite herself. She chose a piece of chocolate and sat opposite his desk. For a moment, the atmosphere felt less like a formal meeting and more like speaking with a kindly, eccentric relative.
But then Dumbledore grew more serious.
"I have received a letter from your grandfather," he said, folding his hands. "A strongly worded one, I might add. He… scolded me. Told me I must protect you, give you space for your studies, and ensure no harm comes to you."
Cela smiled faintly. "That sounds like him."
"Yes." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled again. "And he also asked me to provide you with a place to pursue your potion experiments. Unfortunately…" His tone grew regretful. "The classrooms here are not suitable. Potions can be dangerous, and I cannot risk students stumbling upon your work."
Cela nodded. "I understand. Some ingredients are far too expensive to leave unguarded, and I certainly don't want to cause trouble because some mischievous students stole them. For a potion maker, stealing ingredients is worse than an insult—it's almost a personal offense."
"Precisely." Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "But I do know of a place. Hidden. Few are aware of it. And I trust you to use it wisely."
Cela's eyes widened with interest. "A place? What do you mean?"
Dumbledore smiled mischievously. "Once, in great need of a bathroom—an emergency, I confess—I happened upon it. On the seventh floor, near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his unfortunate attempt at teaching trolls ballet. Walk three times before the blank wall there, thinking of what you need, and a door will appear. It is a room that provides what is asked of it. A very… resourceful chamber."
Cela's mouth fell open slightly. "Really? A place like that exists?"
"Oh yes." Dumbledore's tone was calm, almost amused. "I believe you will find it most… accommodating."
Her heart raced with excitement. A secret place, just for her experiments? She bowed her head. "Thank you, Professor. Truly."
"No, thank you," Dumbledore said warmly. "For choosing to attend Hogwarts. And for carrying your family's legacy forward. I am glad the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor, though I confess Severus was… disappointed. He was eager to see you in Slytherin."
Cela glanced toward the Sorting Hat resting on a shelf. "It said I belonged in Gryffindor. That my choices matched my courage more than my ambition."
"A wise hat, indeed." Dumbledore stood then, smoothing his robes. "But now, it grows late. Tomorrow will be your first full day of classes, and rest is as important as study." He gestured toward the door. "Go on, Miss Slughorn. Professor McGonagall is waiting outside. We shall speak again soon."
Cela rose, bowing slightly. "Goodnight, Headmaster."
"Goodnight, Cela."
She slipped out the door, her heart still racing. Professor McGonagall stood just outside the headmaster's office, her stern expression as unreadable as ever. Cela remembered Hermione's words: the professor might seem strict and far too serious, but it was only a façade. Deep down, she was kind—and fiercely protective of her students, especially those in her own house.
"Follow me, Miss Slughorn," McGonagall said.
And so Cela followed her new Head of House down the shadowed corridors, her mind still ablaze with thoughts of the phoenix. She longed to find a way to acquire some of its tears or blood—an impossible task, she knew—and the tantalizing promise of a hidden chamber, perhaps the Room of Requirement, as Dumbledore had mentioned, only fueled her curiosity further.