The summer Holidays of 1982 had arrived like a balm over the wizarding world, smoothing the jagged edges left by years of war with the slow, steady promise of normalcy. The air itself felt lighter, as if the world had exhaled a breath it hadn't realized it had been holding. The Daily Prophet, once filled with obituaries and whispered warnings, now carried headlines of Quidditch upsets, Ministry reforms, and wizarding innovation rather than disappearances and dark magic. Diagon Alley was bustling again, its cobbled streets filled with families preparing for the school year without the shadow of constant fear. Shops that had boarded their windows were open again, their owners no longer glancing over their shoulders at every passing figure.
For The WIX, it had been a season of well-earned respite after a year of relentless ambition. Their little newspaper, once an experiment born from spite, had become a force of its own. The Wixen Chronicles was no longer just a school paper; it was a fully operational publication with a dedicated office in Hogsmeade, professional reporters under contract, and a steadily growing readership that extended far beyond Hogwarts. Adults—seasoned witches and wizards—were now subscribing, some even preferring their sharp, investigative reporting to the often-slanted narratives of The Daily Prophet.
Elizabeth Bell, a force of nature in legal robes, had stepped into her role as the official face of the operation with the precision of a seasoned businesswoman. Under her management, The Wixen Chronicles had expanded its reach with owl-order subscriptions, sponsorship deals, and a robust strategy that ensured it would remain independent. The students themselves still operated behind the scenes, masked by the clever illusion that Madam Pince—strict, unyielding, and conveniently uninterested in the spotlight—was its true editor-in-chief.
Their plan had worked. Far better than any of them had anticipated.
But even with their success, the summer had been… different.
A subtle, undefinable shift had settled between them, creeping in like a change in the air before a storm. Perhaps it was the way time had stretched and folded around them, making them feel older than their years. Or maybe it was the unspoken realization that they were no longer just students playing at being reporters and revolutionaries.
They were growing up.
And with that came unexpected complications.
For the first time, the long, lazy afternoons at Lovelace Manor, the impromptu debates over tea, and even the late-night planning sessions at the Dawsons' study felt charged with something unspoken. Conversations that had once been filled with plans and schemes now carried occasional pauses—hesitations that hadn't existed before. A look that lingered too long, a laugh that felt warmer than it should, a realization that certain friends had become… different.
It wasn't just about ambition anymore.
It was about identity. About who they were becoming.
The annual Dawson End-of-Summer Garden Party was a decades-old tradition, originating from a time when their family entertained Ministry officials, high-ranking Aurors, and esteemed academics under the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. It had once been a night of quiet political maneuvering, hushed discussions of policy changes, and calculated alliances sealed with glasses of aged elf-made wine.
These days, with the war barely in the rearview mirror and society still finding its footing, the event had become more relaxed. The guest list now included old friends, trusted colleagues, and, most notably, a certain group of ambitious Ravenclaws who had somehow managed to shape the future of wizarding journalism before even getting their OWLs.
Not that this made the occasion any less formal.
"Honestly, Rosaline, I think mother just likes an excuse to force people into formal robes," Eliza muttered, tugging irritably at the collar of her light-blue dress robes. "This entire thing is just an opportunity for her to showcase her 'elegant social hosting skills.'"
Rosaline, standing beside her in robes of soft lavender that complimented her dark curls, smirked. "And yet, you still show up every year."
Eliza scoffed. "Because if I don't, she'll hunt me down and personally drag me here. Don't think I've forgotten the year I tried to hide in my room."
Before Rosaline could reply, a loud and exasperated voice cut through the pleasant hum of conversation.
"Lovelace! Kane! Moonfall! Tell me I don't look ridiculous!"
All heads turned toward the entrance just as Gwenog Jones strode onto the lawn, looking about as comfortable as a dragon in a dollhouse. Clad in uncharacteristically elegant silver-and-black robes, the infamous tomboy of the group had abandoned her usual Quidditch gear for something that cinched at the waist and flowed down to her ankles. She tugged at the stiff fabric, scowling.
"You look lovely, Gwenog," Artemis said diplomatically, suppressing a smile.
Gwenog groaned. "I feel like I should be in a historical portrait. And why is the waist so tight? Who invented these bloody things?"
Sol Moonfall, who never missed an opportunity for theatrical flair, smirked. "I believe they were originally designed by old pureblood families for the sole purpose of making people suffer."
Gwenog muttered something under her breath about setting the entire 'pureblood fashion industry' on fire.
Vivian Delacroix arrived next, draped in midnight-blue robes that shimmered under the garden's fairy lights. She plucked a drink from one of the floating trays enchanted to weave gracefully through the crowd. "I swear, every year this feels more like a Ministry function," she mused, taking a delicate sip. "Are we sure your mother isn't secretly trying to set up arranged marriages?"
Rosaline rolled her eyes. "Please don't give her ideas."
Artemis, who had been surveying the growing crowd with quiet amusement, arched an eyebrow. "Where's Henry?"
"Probably trying to impress someone's older sister," Magnus said dryly, sipping his own drink.
As if summoned by sheer mockery, Henry Bell emerged from the crowd, looking surprisingly put-together in deep green robes that actually seemed to fit him properly. His usually unruly hair had been tamed—somewhat—and his expression was one of unmistakable satisfaction. He made a beeline toward them, hands casually tucked behind his back, clearly enjoying the attention.
"I was not trying to impress anyone," Henry huffed.
Artemis tilted her head, unimpressed. "Then why are you walking like you just delivered the most charming speech of your life?"
Henry's smirk widened. "Because I was talking to people about our paper, obviously."
Rosaline snickered. "Henry, you're thirteen. You are not running a business empire."
Henry shrugged, the picture of insufferable confidence. "Give me two years."
Vivian clinked her glass against his in mock support. "I, for one, respect the hustle."
Before anyone could respond, a sudden flurry of music filled the air as a small string quartet began playing near the terrace. Guests started migrating toward the dance floor, some pairing off with ease while others exchanged hesitant glances.
Artemis folded her arms, watching the scene unfold. It was strange, this in-between stage of their lives. The war had hardened them in ways they didn't always realize, but nights like this reminded them that they were still young. That they could still enjoy a summer evening, still laugh, still feel awkward about something as mundane as a dance.
Sol, ever the social instigator, clapped his hands together. "Alright, we can't just stand here like statues. Let's at least pretend we're capable of socializing."
"Or," Gwenog countered, "we could raid the dessert table and sit in a corner making snide comments about everyone."
Magnus, amused, nodded. "A compelling argument."
But before Gwenog could make good on her escape, Artemis grinned and took a step forward. "Gwenog, would you like to dance?"
Gwenog blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
The Quidditch player eyed the dance floor warily. "Is this some sort of trap?"
Artemis rolled her eyes. "It's one dance, Jones. I promise I won't curse your shoes to glue you to the spot."
Gwenog hesitated before sighing dramatically. "Fine. But if I step on your feet, you're not allowed to complain."
It should have felt like any other year. They had attended this party before—gathered together under the fairy lights, laughed over stolen desserts, plotted future mischief, and made quiet trouble in ways only Ravenclaws could.
And yet, Artemis couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
Maybe it was the way Sol's usual lazy charm had taken on a sharper edge, his quiet confidence settling into something more self-assured. He was still Sol, still effortlessly clever and just detached enough to make it seem like he didn't care—but there was an awareness in his posture now, an ease that hadn't quite been there before.
Or maybe it was Vivian, who had spent more time watching people than teasing them, her keen observations no longer just for the sake of amusement but for something deeper. It was as though she had started seeing people differently, calculating their reactions, their truths, in a way that went beyond just playful curiosity.
Perhaps it was Henry, no longer just the enthusiastic younger one in their group but someone who had grown into his ambitions. His excitement for the newspaper had always been infectious, but now there was confidence behind it. He believed in himself.
But most of all, Artemis noticed her.
Iris Lawrence stood near the trellis, the warm glow of fairy lights reflecting off her dark hair, her expression unreadable. She was usually composed, always steady—never one to let emotions dictate her actions. But tonight, there was something hesitant in the way she stood, something uncertain in her gaze.
Artemis followed her line of sight.
Her eyes landed on a pretty Seventh-year Ravenclaw across the lawn, the soft golden-brown curls unmistakable. Their prefect.
Iris wasn't just staring.
She was realizing.
Understanding settled in Artemis's chest like a weight—not heavy, but present. The kind of knowledge that, once seen, couldn't be ignored.
She took a slow sip of her drink and leaned toward Iris, keeping her voice low. "She's pretty."
Iris nearly choked on her own breath. "What?"
Artemis raised an eyebrow, expression knowing.
Iris flushed a deep shade of red, looking anywhere but at Artemis. "I— I wasn't— That's not—"
"Right," Artemis said lightly, smirking behind her glass.
Iris groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Merlin, I hate you."
"No, you don't."
There was a long pause before Iris exhaled and muttered, "Is it that obvious?"
Artemis shrugged, keeping her tone casual. "No. But I know you. And you looked entranced."
Iris's hands dragged down her face. "This is awful."
Artemis smirked. "It's really not."
Iris said nothing, but her fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, her mind clearly a thousand miles away. Artemis didn't press her further—some things needed to settle before they could be spoken aloud.
But as the music played on and the night continued, Iris's gaze still found its way back across the garden.
And Artemis let her have that moment.
As the night carried on, the party settled into an easy rhythm of laughter, whispered conversations, and stolen moments under the twinkling fairy lights. The future loomed ahead, uncertain yet full of possibility.
The party had wound down, the last of the guests had left, and the fairy lights dimmed to a soft glow across the garden. But inside the Dawsons' sitting room, the WIX were still awake.
The nine of them were sprawled across various armchairs, couches, and rugs, half-full glasses of pumpkin juice and remnants of dessert scattered across the low table. Their formal robes had been loosened, sleeves pushed up, shoes discarded—comfort taking precedence now that the evening's obligations had ended.
Magnus Kane lay on the floor, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "This is the last summer where we don't have serious OWL prep hanging over us."
"Depressing," Sol muttered, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.
Rosaline, curled up in an armchair, exhaled slowly. "Do you ever think about how much has changed? A year ago, we were just second-years. And now we're—"
"Business moguls?" Henry supplied smugly, shooting her a grin.
Eliza snorted. "Don't push it."
Artemis stretched, feeling the weight of a year well spent settle in her bones. "We built something out of nothing. That's not nothing."
Vivian tilted her head, watching Artemis with something unreadable in her gaze. "And what now?"
Artemis considered the question, then leaned back, resting her hands behind her head. "Now? We enjoy what we've built. And we prepare for what comes next."
A silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came with knowing there was nothing more to be said—only things to be felt.
Sol, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "You know, I used to think that after the war ended, things would go back to normal. But I don't think they ever will."
No one responded right away, because there was no easy answer to that.
The war had touched everything. Some scars were visible—empty chairs at family tables, names etched onto plaques that hadn't been there before. Others were less obvious—the way people hesitated before speaking of the past, the way celebrations still carried an undercurrent of mourning.
But then Henry, in the way only Henry could, grinned and said, "Then we make a new normal."
Rosaline chuckled. "That was almost profound, Bell."
"Give me a break, I'm thirteen."
The laughter that followed was light, easy, real.
For all the weight of their thoughts, for all the change on the horizon, they were still here. They were still them.
And in a few short weeks, they would be back at Hogwarts.
Back to deadlines and spellwork, to long nights in the library and ambitious plans that would likely get them detention.
Back to friendships, ambitions, and, maybe, the beginnings of something more.
But for now, they let themselves rest.
For the first time in years, the future stretched before them, unwritten and full of possibility.
For now, though, they were just teenagers enjoying the last golden hours of summer—before Hogwarts, before responsibilities, before the weight of adulthood.
And for tonight, that was enough.