The last Saturday of August arrived on a breeze scented with late-blooming honeysuckle and the distant smell of grass dew. The sun hung low in the sky, warming the sprawling lawns of Dawson Manor, where decades of footsteps had worn soft paths between flowerbeds and orchards. Even now, with tables dotting the lawn, silver trays of hors d'oeuvres floating lazily between guests, there was something unmistakably personal about the Annual Dawson End-of-Summer Garden Party.
The twins had, of course, micromanaged everything. Despite the house-elves' protests, Rosaline and Eliza had been up since dawn, bickering over garland placement, debating whether the table charms should match the garden's natural hues or contrast them entirely.
"We agreed on soft silver," Rosaline insisted, standing on tiptoe to inspect a garland threaded through a rose arch.
"You agreed on silver," Eliza said, arms crossed. "I said not blinding."
"Blinding is festive."
"Blinding is obnoxious."
The front gates creaked open, and the familiar pop of Portkey ended the debate.
The WIX weren't just guests anymore — they were fixtures, the same way Rosaline and Eliza were. If there was a party or gathering at Dawson Manor, the WIX were expected, not as friends, but as family.
Magnus Kane arrived first, perfectly punctual, dressed in casual robes so effortlessly tailored that they looked accidental. He had the kind of presence that didn't announce itself — quiet, self-assured — but Rosaline caught the faint nervousness in his posture as his eyes swept the crowd forming near the garden arches.
Magnus wasn't nervous around the Dawsons anymore. No, his nerves were saved for one person.
"Think we've outgrown the kids' table?" Magnus asked, with that dry humor Artemis found so impossible to resist.
"Debatable," Rosaline replied. "I still caught Sol trying to smuggle firewhiskey under his robes."
"That's not smuggling," Sol Moonfall announced, arriving in a burst of periwinkle fabric and uncombed hair. "That's contributing to the ambiance."
Rosaline raised a brow. "You're going to charm half the Ministry with that attitude?"
"I already have," Sol said smugly. "If you think the Department of Magical Transportation is stuffy, you've never seen their break room. I'm practically a folk hero."
"Or they were so desperate for entertainment you became exotic," Rosaline countered.
But there was pride beneath her teasing. Sol stood taller these days, his jokes still razor-sharp but no longer masking the desperate need to be taken seriously. He'd had a taste of the adult world this summer — and, as it turned out, it liked him.
The next arrival was a noisy blur of color and overlapping voices. Vivian Delacroix, newly sporting a short, sharp bob ("Breakup hair," she'd declared), strolled in with her usual air of confidence, though her hand immediately reached for Rosaline's the moment she saw her.
Right behind her came Iris Lawrence, fingers twined with Gwenog Jones, the pair radiating the kind of effortless comfort that only came from weathering storms together. Henry Bell, taller than ever, was right behind them — though he still somehow managed to look like he'd just been startled out of bed. His mother, Elizabeth Bell, had spent much of the summer ensuring he didn't fall headfirst into trouble, but there was no mistaking the spark in his eye. Henry was still Henry.
Trailing a little behind was the next generation — the Wixen Chronicles' handpicked junior correspondents, clutching notebooks far too large for their arms. Their awe at being allowed onto the grounds was palpable.
The arrival of Aunt Aurelia, flanked by Fenny and Grent, temporarily stole everyone's attention. Aurelia looked better than she had in months — her health steadied, her cane less necessary than decorative. Still, Artemis hovered near her, ready to catch her if the cobblestones became too uneven.
"Twenty published papers before sixteen," Aurelia said proudly, clasping Artemis' hand. "They'll be assigning your research in classes before you've taken your OWLs."
Artemis, pink-cheeked, tried to demur. "It's nothing—"
"It's everything," Aurelia said firmly.
Rosaline caught Magnus' soft smile at the exchange. She nudged Eliza, who was adjusting the drink table.
"He's hopeless," Rosaline whispered.
"Completely," Eliza agreed.
The afternoon unfolded in fits and starts — laughter, elbow-jabbing over picnic blankets, Henry getting tackled by Katie Bell, and Iris fending off increasingly ridiculous snack-related dares from Sol. But woven through the silliness were threads of something heavier — discussions about the future, their uncertain paths after OWLs, and the strange tension between growing up and holding on.
"I've got my first signed editorial running next week," Iris said proudly, her head resting on Gwenog's shoulder. "It's just about safer Quidditch gear, nothing groundbreaking."
"It's yours," Gwenog said, fingers curling gently around Iris' wrist. "That's what matters."
Their relationship, once a tangle of jealousy and missteps, had softened into something sturdy. Not perfect — but real.
"Speaking of done," Vivian drawled, her chin propped on her hand. "I'm officially over Slytherin boys."
"Smart move," Rosaline muttered, though Marcus Fawley, her Gryffindor boyfriend, had earned his invite through sheer persistence and decent behavior. "They're exhausting."
"Not all of us," Gwenog said with mock offense.
"You're different," Rosaline said sweetly. "You're ours."
Conversations drifted in and out like the breeze, the way they always did with the WIX — serious one moment, absurd the next.
Bill Weasley had never seen so much silverware in his life.
There was fancy silverware and everyday silverware at The Burrow, and somewhere in the chaotic mix, his mum's mismatched forks and spoons had all blurred into "things to eat with." But here — at Dawson Manor, with its spotless white tablecloths and napkins folded into shapes that looked vaguely like Thestrals — there were forks just for salad, knives so thin they probably couldn't cut anything, and dessert spoons so tiny they could be used to feed pixies.
"This is mad," Bill whispered, notebook clutched to his chest like a shield. His dragonhide boots scuffed the perfectly-trimmed lawn as he and his fellow junior correspondents — Lisabet Kyle and Jayesh Singh — hovered near the rose trellis. "How do they live like this?"
"We're not here to gawk at forks," Lisabet muttered, barely looking up from the delicate notes she was jotting in precise, looping script. "We're here to observe quietly, remember?"
That was the first of Artemis Lovelace's Rules for Junior Correspondents, delivered in her signature even tone, both stern and supportive, as they'd arrived.
Observe quietly — the best stories are heard, not announced.
2. Record everything, even if it seems unimportant.
3. Guests first, correspondents second. Blend in, but don't disappear.
4. Ask better questions. Curiosity is your greatest weapon.
5. Protect your sources — even from each other if needed.
But none of that stopped Bill from staring openly at the tables piled with floating platters of roast beef, shimmering punch bowls, and what appeared to be a three-tiered cake that actually rotated.
"This is my Second garden party," Lisabet added smugly, her ink-stained fingers moving faster than the eye could follow. "They used different flowers last year. This shade of silver doesn't photograph as well under moonlight."
Jayesh, by contrast, stood slightly behind both of them, his well-worn notebook open, his handwriting smaller and less elegant — but packed with careful observations. He had documented the precise temperature of the punch, the patterns on the floating lanterns, and the guest-to-elf ratio at the food tables.
"Do you think they'll let us interview anyone?" Jayesh asked, eyes wide with hope.
"If you run at them like a hungry Hippogriff, probably not," Lisabet replied, not unkindly. "It's about timing."
"That's why you observe," came Artemis' voice, soft but firm, from directly behind them.
All three jumped, Lisabet nearly dropping her quill.
Artemis stood, her journal tucked under her arm, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "First rule?"
"Observe quietly," they chorused.
"Good." She glanced at their notebooks. "What have you learned so far?"
Lisabet, ever the overachiever, flipped her notebook open to a page titled Decor Analysis – 11th Annual Dawson Garden Party. "The theme leans more toward traditional elegance than last year's contemporary accents. The shift is likely to accommodate the influx of older Ministry guests — particularly the contingent from International Magical Cooperation."
Artemis' brow lifted. "And how do you know that?"
Lisabet's smile was all Slytherin confidence. "I snuck a look at the guest list."
Bill whistled low under his breath. "Clever."
"Be careful with that," Artemis warned, though not without approval. "Never let access outweigh ethics."
Jayesh's notes were quieter, more observational. "The house-elves are overcompensating. They keep realigning the serving trays whenever the guests leave. I think they're nervous about the Ministry people, too."
Artemis nodded approvingly. "Details like that matter."
Bill's notes, predictably, were more scattered — with doodles in the margins of floating lanterns and the overdramatic pose Sol struck when someone complimented his robes. Still, there was heart in them.
"I'm not as good at the sneaky stuff," Bill admitted. "But I reckon the way the WIX talk to each other — that's the real story. They're different when it's just them."
"Exactly," Artemis said softly. "The best stories aren't always about what's on the surface. You're all getting there."
The three relaxed a little under her praise, though Lisabet immediately started annotating her notes again.
"Before you disappear back into your notebooks," Artemis added, "there's one more rule."
The three looked up.
"Have fun. You're here to learn, but you're also here to enjoy being part of something. Trust me — the story always finds you."
"You're going to tell us what your next project is, right?" Henry asked, nudging Artemis. Turning her away from their juniors. Who wandered off to observe some more.
Artemis hesitated. She wasn't ready to name it yet, not even to herself. But Magnus, beside her as always, nudged her shoulder.
"You can't leave us in suspense forever," he said.
"I'll tell you," Artemis said slowly, "when it's ready."
It was enough — for now.
From the raised stone terrace, where the cool August breeze softened the warm glow of floating lanterns, the adults gathered — not all of them with the same ease as the children they watched below.
Aurelia Lovelace stood slightly apart, her cane resting against the balustrade, her gaze softening every time it flicked to where Artemis sat, half-listening to Sol's exaggerated story about a Ministry Floo Network disaster. Elizabeth and Alan Bell stood beside her, Alan's arm draped loosely around his wife's waist as her sharp eyes scanned the garden with a quiet, habitual alertness.
Edgar and Lavania Dawson, ever the perfect hosts, were deep in conversation with Miriam Whitmore, an older witch whose worn Healer robes were the closest she'd come to formalwear in years. Her hair, streaked liberally with silver, was pinned back in a way that suggested practicality over vanity, and the fine lines around her mouth hinted at a lifetime of delivering bad news to desperate families.
"They've already made quite a name for themselves," murmured Irma Pince , his voice clipped but not unkind. Her thin fingers tapped the stem of his wine glass as his gaze settled on the nine teenagers sprawled across the grass. "Fifteen, and they've already tangled with politics, publishing, and scandal."
"They're not ordinary teenagers," Alan Bell said softly, his gaze lingering on Henry, who was currently being tackled by Katie Bell in an argument over the last piece of treacle tart. "They've built something real."
"And they'll change things," Aurelia added, her voice quieter than the rest. "The wizarding world doesn't know it yet. But they will."
Miriam took a slow sip of her mead. "Let's hope they survive it."
That subtle shift in tone rippled outward. Even here — even at a party lit by soft lanterns and innocent laughter — the war was never far away.
It had been just under two years since Voldemort fell, but the scars ran deeper than anyone wanted to admit. Conversations had grown polite again — public grief polished into something palatable — but when people thought no one was watching, their fingers still curled around the edges of their sleeves, clutching invisible wands.
"Their generation might have a fighting chance," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, standing near the terrace rail. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his robes, and his usual easy warmth was tempered tonight by something more reflective. "If we don't make the same mistakes."
"Not all of us will be around to see it," Miriam said, her voice practical but not cold. "Too many Healers spent the war stitching up people who went right back out to die a week later. If it happens again, we won't have the hands."
"Or the hearts," Aurelia murmured, her hand tightening on the carved stone rail.
There were names no one said aloud, though they hung in the air between them like ghosts.
Lysander and Eleanor Lovelace — brilliant, reckless, fiercely in love with each other and the future they thought they could help build. Both gone now, dead in the last terrible weeks before Voldemort fell.
Edward Lovelace — their eldest son, the one who should have been a seventh year the year Artemis started at Hogwarts. Dead before he ever got to show his sister the Ravenclaw Tower.
Jonathan Moonfall, Sol's father, who had been one of the first Aurors to die when the war stopped being whispers and started being blood on cobblestones.
Jonathan's widow, Selena Moonfall, stood further down the terrace, wine glass in hand, her smile practiced but never quite reaching her eyes. She was talking to Amelia Bones, who had survived the war with her dignity and most of her limbs intact, though her brother hadn't been so lucky.
Even the Dawsons, whose wealth and neutrality had insulated them from the worst of it, hadn't escaped entirely. Lavania's cousin had vanished in '79 and was never found. Edgar had spent too many nights trying to repair curses meant to tear people apart, body and soul.
They were the generation who had survived — and the WIX were the generation who would inherit whatever was left.
"They're bright," said Miriam, her gaze drawn to where Iris and Gwenog were sitting close, heads bent together in some private conversation. "Bold, too. They write like they aren't afraid."
"They write like they know what's at stake," Elizabeth said.
Aurelia's smile was thin. "Because they do."
There was a particular kind of survivor's guilt reserved for parents — the guilt of seeing your children grow up in the shadow of what you couldn't stop. They had all felt it.
But there was pride, too.
In Artemis, standing straighter than any child who had lost so much should.
In Sol, whose grin hid both grief and a steel spine.
In Rosaline and Eliza, whose loyalty to each other and to the WIX was something unbreakable.
In Henry, whose kindness had survived both war and loss intact.
Vivian, Gwenog, and Iris, who had built themselves into something strong — together.
In Magnus, whose quiet, unshakable loyalty made him the anchor they all drifted toward.
"They'll be alright," Alan said softly, though the doubt in his voice was impossible to miss.
"They'll be more than alright," Aurelia corrected, her voice clear and certain. "They'll be better than us."
The air stilled for a moment — the weight of grief, pride, fear, and hope all layered together.
And then Sol, down on the lawn, let out an exaggerated, theatrical cry.
"WHO ATE THE LAST CHOCOLATE FROG?"
There was a scramble, Henry elbowing Katie, Gwenog dodging backwards into Magnus, Artemis snatching a second Chocolate Frog out of Eliza's hand and passing it to Sol with exaggerated innocence.
Laughter erupted — messy, real, the kind that only comes when you've survived something.
"They're going to be fine," Kingsley said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile.
"Maybe," said Miriam. "But just in case, we should teach them every dirty trick we know."
Aurelia's laugh was quiet but sharp. "Already ahead of you."
The stars brightened over the terrace, lantern light flickering against stone, and for a moment, all the losses, all the ghosts, faded into the background.
For now, the children were safe.
For now, that was enough.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, washing the sky in swirls of burnt orange, dusky lavender, and deepening blue. Long shadows stretched across Dawson Manor's lawn, the flicker of the last lanterns casting pools of golden light that shimmered off empty plates, half-full goblets, and discarded shoes left by guests who had wandered barefoot across the cool grass. The hum of conversation, so vibrant hours earlier, softened into the comfortable murmuring of guests reluctant to leave, lingering in the glow of a perfect summer evening.
On the private west patio, just beyond the manicured hedges, the WIX gathered. This was their place — a tucked-away alcove overlooking the rolling hills and orchards, where the lanterns floated lower and the air smelled of wildflowers and night-blooming jasmine. They'd claimed it years ago, back when they were smaller, louder, and slightly stickier from stolen treacle tarts and spilled pumpkin fizz. Now, they filled the space more comfortably — not quite adults, but no longer children either.
The stone patio was wide enough for the nine of them to sprawl across it in their usual uneven cluster — backs against the low garden wall, elbows bumping, legs stretched out toward the fading sunlight. Someone had charmed the lanterns here to glow softer, warm and low, casting halos around their faces. They hadn't planned to end the evening here. They'd just…gravitated.
Magnus Kane was the first to break the silence, lifting a glass of something sparkling and non-alcoholic (Rosaline had confiscated Sol's more questionable choices). His robes were slightly rumpled — uncharacteristic, but evidence of a long day well spent. His gaze swept the circle, landing for just a second longer on Artemis Lovelace, who sat cross-legged beside him, her braid slightly loosened by the breeze, fingers tracing the edge of her own glass.
"To the WIX," Magnus said, voice soft but sure.
Artemis glanced up, the corner of her mouth curling in that rare, unguarded smile that only ever appeared when she felt completely safe. "To us," she echoed, raising her glass to clink against his.
They moved around the circle after that, each adding their own small gesture, a clink of glass or a soft murmur, a hand resting briefly on a friend's knee or shoulder. No speeches were needed. Everything important had already been said — or left deliberately unsaid.
Rosaline Dawson, half-reclined with her head resting on Vivian Delacroix's shoulder, lifted her glass last, her free hand idly toying with the hem of her dress. Her smile was softer than usual, worn down by the weight of too much family scrutiny and not enough time with just her people. "To never letting this place change us," she said, though there was no real venom behind it.
"Some change is good," Vivian offered, her newly cut bob framing her face, making her look sharper, more herself. "As long as we're the ones choosing how."
Eliza Dawson, sprawled beside her sister, leaned her head back against the warm stone wall, the tips of her hair brushing the ground. She hadn't said much all night — not because she wasn't happy, but because being home always made her quieter, like she was fitting herself back into an old skin that didn't quite fit anymore.
"To surviving OWLs," Eliza said finally, raising her glass halfheartedly. "Even if we have to drag Sol through them."
"Excuse you," Sol Moonfall said, scandalized. "I have exceptional survival instincts. I'll thrive."
"You almost got lost in the same corridor twice last term," Henry Bell pointed out, nudging Sol's foot with his own.
"Details," Sol said, reclining dramatically across two floor cushions. The sunset caught in his hair, turning the unruly curls into a halo. "Besides, who needs exams when you have irresistible charm?"
Iris Lawrence, curled beside Gwenog Jones, snorted softly. "Your charm only works on people who haven't spent five years developing immunity."
"Or who are already in love with him," Gwenog added dryly, though the jab was affectionate. Her fingers were loosely laced with Iris's, thumb brushing along the back of her hand — a constant, steadying motion.
Iris flushed slightly but smiled, leaning into Gwenog's side. Their relationship was no longer fragile — no longer something hidden in sharp jokes or competitive jabs. It had settled into something solid and unspoken, a natural rhythm they both trusted now.
Henry, sitting with his legs crossed, raised his glass. "To us. To never letting anyone tell us what we're allowed to be."
It was the kind of statement Henry would make, earnest and without edges. He still believed — after everything — that they could choose their futures, that the world wasn't fully broken, even if the adults hovering on the terrace above seemed to think otherwise.
"That's cute," Gwenog said, raising her glass as well. "To terrifying the establishment in the process."
"And to ruining every Ministry gala for the rest of time," Sol added cheerfully.
They laughed — easy, warm laughter that rang against the stone, the kind that felt like old summers and endless Hogwarts corridors and late nights in the Wixen Chronicles office, papers scattered and ink-stained fingers pointing out typos in drafts read aloud with exaggerated accents.
For a moment, the war wasn't hovering at the edges, and neither were their families' expectations or their own private doubts. Here, they were just nine idiots on a patio, swatting at moths drawn to the lantern light, joking about who'd be expelled first, or whether they could charm all the Great Hall's goblets to serve upside-down pumpkin juice just to see if anyone noticed.
And yet — beneath all the silliness, they all felt it.
The pause.
The breath before the next step.
The quiet awareness that nothing would stay this easy forever, that there were new things coming — some they could predict, some they couldn't. There would be fights they didn't want, choices they wouldn't be ready to make, and moments where the future wouldn't feel like something bright and far away, but something cold and sharp curling around their ankles.
But not tonight.
Tonight was theirs.
"To the WIX," Magnus said again, softer this time, like an oath.
They raised their glasses once more, and the moment stretched — golden, perfect, suspended just long enough to remember.
And under the first glittering stars, with the night-scented air cool against their skin, they knew — no matter what came next, no matter how much they argued or drifted or doubted — they would face it together.
"Where Legends Laugh — Behind the Garden Party Glimmer"
Wildfire Quill (Bill Weasley)
When you imagine the Dawsons' famous end-of-summer garden party, you might think of glittering robes, whispered conversations, and the clink of goblets under floating lanterns. And you'd be right — sort of. But there's something else, too.
It's the way Henry Bell accidentally tripped into a dessert cart and laughed so hard he couldn't get up. It's Gwenog Jones stealing Iris Lawrence's hair clip just to see how long it would take her to notice (six minutes). It's Sol Moonfall, self-declared Minister of Mischief, handing out 'invisible snack napkins' that may or may not have actually disappeared.
The Dawsons throw a perfect party — but it's the guests who make it unforgettable.
"Elegance with a Purpose: Dissecting Dawson Aesthetics"
Obscura (Lisabet Kyle)
Nothing at a Dawson event is accidental. This year's silver-and-lavender scheme was not merely a color palette — it was a statement. Silver, traditionally associated with clarity and intellect, paired with lavender's subtle symbolism of grace under pressure, reflects the evolving role of the Dawsons themselves.
With Ministry figures in attendance, particularly from International Magical Cooperation, the choice telegraphs sophistication without intimidation. Even the floral arrangements — white moon lilies rather than last year's crimson asters — signal diplomacy over passion.
To the untrained eye, it's a party. To those watching closely, it's politics in bloom.
"The Heartbeat Beneath the Elegance"
Quiet Quill (Jayesh Singh)
Parties are often about spectacle, but at the heart of the Dawsons' gathering is something quieter — connection. Between courses and conversations, it's the smallest moments that matter.
A quiet touch on a sister's arm, a mentor whispering encouragement to a nervous intern, a house-elf pausing to smooth a tablecloth one more time after guests walk away. The beauty isn't just in the floating lights — it's in the spaces between them.
Real magic isn't what you see. It's what holds everything together.