Cela had slept little the night after she and her grandfather read the reviews. Her parchment-strewn desk still bore the scrawls of furious quills, margins packed with her own furious annotations to the more spiteful critics. A single lamp guttered low, giving her laboratory the half-shadowed air of a conspirator's den. She had fallen asleep on the desk and woken with ink stains on her cheek.
Yet through the grogginess, one thought had taken root—firm and unyielding.
If my potion can make life better for people, why should it be locked away?
The idea haunted her through breakfast, through the tapping sound of the Daily Prophet's owl pecking at the window, even through the cheery humming of her grandfather preparing tea. Horace was uncharacteristically silent this morning, still nursing the sting of the negative reviews. For a man who prided himself on reputation and respect, rival potion masters' sneers had cut deep.
Cela, however, was not sulking. She was burning with resolve.
When the last of the toast vanished and the tea grew tepid, she finally lifted her head and spoke.
"Grandpa… I've made a decision about the potion."
Horace glanced up, his spectacles catching the morning light. "Mm? A decision? Already? You mean about marketing, about brewing scale? You're quick, child, too quick—these things require careful thought."
"No," she said firmly. "I want to make the recipe public. Free. For everyone."
The teacup paused halfway to his lips. A long silence followed. Then Horace placed the cup down with a deliberation that felt heavier than any crash.
"Free," he repeated. His voice was soft, almost disbelieving. "You wish to give away a recipe you've spent five years developing, one which potion masters across Europe now debate with passion, one which—whether they admit it or not—they envy? Free?"
"Yes," Cela said, her voice unwavering. "Because this potion is simple. It's not dangerous, it's not complicated. It can help everyone. Children, students, tired old wizards with dreadful breath after too much Firewhisky. Why should it sit in a shop window with a price tag when it could be taught in every household?"
Horace leaned back, folding his hands over his rounded belly, studying her. His eyes, usually twinkling, were grave now, as if he looked not at his granddaughter but at a young apprentice who must be guided.
"Cela," he began, "do you know the greatest mistake a potion master can make?"
"Miscalculating ingredients?" she guessed.
"Ha!" He waved that aside. "That's a blunder, not a mistake. The greatest mistake is to misunderstand value. Not the recipe's value to you, but its value to the world. Tell me—if every witch and wizard can copy your formula from a free pamphlet, what happens?"
"They can brew it," Cela replied quickly. "They can use it."
"Yes. But what else?" His eyes sharpened.
She hesitated.
Horace leaned forward. "They will take it for granted. They will assume it was trivial to make. They will say, 'Oh, this is just a child's mouthwash potion—anyone could have thought of it.' They will use it a week, then forget it. Free things breed neglect, child."
Cela's brow furrowed. "That's… that's cynical."
"It's human." He snapped his fingers, summoning an old leather-bound volume from the nearby shelf. With a thump it landed on the table, spilling a cloud of dust. "See here—'The History of Domestic Elixirs.' Did you know, fifty years ago, a young potioneer made a draught that eased heartburn instantly? Brilliant work. He gave the recipe away in good faith. Within months it was forgotten, until another wizard bottled it and sold it under a clever name—'Stomach-Soother.' That man became rich. The original creator? Lost to history."
Cela bit her lip.
Horace's voice gentled, but his eyes stayed firm. "You think you are being noble by giving your work away. But nobility without wisdom can turn into folly. I am proud of you, child—prouder than words can say. But I will not let you throw away your future because of youthful idealism."
"I don't care about money," Cela muttered.
"Ah, but you should care about respect. About recognition. About ensuring that when people drink this potion, they know it was Celestia Slughorn who gave it to them—not some shop peddler claiming credit." He gestured broadly. "That is why we brand. That is why we license. It is not greed, child—it is protection. Protection of your name, your craft, your legacy."
Cela fell silent. She wanted to argue, but deep down, his words stirred unease. She imagined another potion master bottling her creation, slapping on a silly label like 'Minty-Fresh Elixir' and raking in galleons while everyone forgot her.
Horace, sensing her hesitation, pressed on.
"Our family has potion shops in Diagon Alley, in Paris on Allée des Merveilles, in New York on Ninth Wand Street. Each one carries the Slughorn seal. Wizards trust that seal. They know it means quality, safety, mastery. If your potion is sold there, under your name, at a fair price affordable to all households, then it will spread—and it will endure. Wizards will cherish it, because they paid for it, because they trust it, because it comes from you."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And if you want to do good for the world—then let the profits fund scholarships, charities, hospitals. That way, your potion heals more than just bad breath—it heals lives."
Cela's chest tightened. She had never thought of it like that. To her, money was crass, a distraction from the purity of craft. But her grandfather was painting a larger picture, one where value and generosity were not enemies but allies.
Still, she whispered, "It feels selfish."
"No," Horace said gently, reaching out to clasp her hand. "It feels human. And if you truly wish to be generous, then remember this: generosity without respect becomes waste. Put value on your work, Cela. Make the world respect it. Then you can give back tenfold."
She looked down at his hand, warm and reassuring on hers. For the first time, she understood why the Slughorn family's shops had thrived for generations. It wasn't vanity. It was this balance—craft and commerce, respect and generosity.
Finally, she nodded slowly. "Alright, Grandpa. We'll sell it. But—promise me the price will be fair. Not just for the rich."
His face softened into a proud smile. "Fair and affordable. I give you my word."
He raised his teacup in salute, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "To the Celestia Breath-Freshening Draught. Soon to be the pride of every Slughorn shop from London to New York."
She laughed despite herself, though her cheeks flushed pink.