The air was crisp with winter's chill as Artemis Lovelace stepped gracefully into Professor Slughorn's warmly lit office, transformed for the evening into a splendid winter soirée. Frosted ivy curled along the enchanted windowpanes, catching the flicker of floating silver candles overhead. The faint scent of mulled cider and polished wood drifted through the room, mingling with the sharper bite of snow magic dissolving into the air.
Artemis wore a deep blue velvet dress trimmed with silver, the fabric catching the candlelight in a soft shimmer. Her dark curls were swept into an elegant twist, a single sapphire pin glinting like a star against midnight. At her side, Aurelia Lovelace walked with effortless grace, every inch the legend she was, her gown a river of midnight silk and her silver hair arranged in a chignon so intricate it seemed more spell than style.
Artemis could feel the shift the moment they crossed the threshold — the weight of attention snapping toward them like a collective held breath. Curious gazes, awed whispers, the rustle of parchment as at least one overeager student began scribbling in their notes. Slughorn's office might have been expanded to comfortably hold the cluster of professors, alumni, and Ministry officials, but with Aurelia Lovelace in the room, the space felt suddenly too small.
"Merlin's beard! Is that—? No! It cannot be—Aurelia Lovelace!" Slughorn's voice rang out, a touch too loud in his excitement, drawing every eye in the room.
Aurelia's smile was subtle, poised at that perfect edge between indulgent and unimpressed. "Horace Slughorn, is it?" Her voice carried effortlessly, with the precision of someone used to controlling rooms far larger than this. "You have aged respectably. I trust you are well?"
Slughorn, whose mouth was still ajar, fumbled to snap it shut, his walrus mustache twitching with the effort. "My dear lady, what an honor! I must confess, I had no idea that young Miss Lovelace here was your relation! What a surprise — a marvelous surprise!"
He was already sweating. Artemis could see the gleam along his temple, could practically hear the frantic mental scrambling as Slughorn tried to recalibrate his party's significance.
"I have studied your works extensively!" Slughorn gushed. "A true inspiration! Your analysis of war-time wizarding politics in Shadow and Flame—brilliant, simply brilliant!"
Aurelia's eyes flicked to Artemis for just a heartbeat — a shared glance of dry amusement — before she replied. "How flattering. I had no notion my works were of such interest to potioneers."
"Oh, indeed! Indeed!" Slughorn's enthusiasm was bubbling over now. "There is such nuance in your examinations! And—oh my!—to have you here, at my little gathering, what a tremendous stroke of fortune!"
Artemis sipped her pumpkin fizz, her grip delicate but her mind already tallying the room. The head of the Department of Magical Accidents was standing too close to the punch bowl, likely waiting for an opening to speak to Aurelia. An undersecretary from the Department of International Magical Cooperation was pretending not to eavesdrop, his goblet perpetually half-raised. These were useful faces, even if their immediate value wasn't clear.
"Come, come!" Slughorn said, gesturing with both arms. "Let me introduce you both to some of my other guests!"
Aurelia, with the faintest breath of a sigh, allowed herself to be paraded. Artemis followed, her steps light and careful, cataloguing every name, every smile, every glance.
They drifted from conversation to conversation, the murmur of interest swelling around them. Aurelia held court with her usual effortless grace, deflecting clumsy flattery with precision so sharp it might have drawn blood had anyone realized. She spoke briefly of her latest research, offered vague encouragement to overeager academics, and — to Artemis' mild horror — praised her niece's 'formidable potential' at every turn.
"My Artemis," Aurelia said more than once, with that rare note of pride softening her voice. "A sharp mind, excellent instincts. You will all do well to remember her name."
Artemis smiled politely through it, torn between embarrassment and something warmer — something that felt suspiciously like belonging. She wasn't just the school's Artemis Lovelace. Tonight, she was Aurelia's Artemis.
Across the room, Alan Bell sidled up beside her, his tumbler of something amber swirling lazily in his hand. "Slughorn's going to sprain something if he doesn't calm down," he muttered.
Artemis smirked. "He's in rare form."
Alan's humor gentled slightly, his sharp eyes softening. "How's the head, kiddo? All this — the name, the expectations — it doesn't get any lighter."
"I'm fine," Artemis said automatically.
Alan just looked at her, too knowing for her comfort. "You're always fine," he said. "That's what worries me."
Before Artemis could reply, they were intercepted by an overeager young wizard, his cravat askew and his confidence clearly bolstered by too much mead.
"Miss Lovelace!" he said, far too loudly. "Your chapter on, er, the resistance of political alchemy in the modern era — just brilliant!"
Aurelia's brow arched. "I have never written a chapter by that name."
The poor boy turned an alarming shade of red and fled. Alan snorted into his drink.
"Charmed, I'm sure," Artemis murmured.
The evening continued, a surreal blend of amusement and maneuvering. Artemis accepted business cards from Ministry officials she would probably never contact, engaged in brief conversations with academics who hoped to impress her by parroting her aunt's theories back at her, and sipped her pumpkin fizz with the ease of someone who had long since learned how to smile through boredom.
Near the dessert table, she caught a glimpse of Sol Moonfall — who was very much not invited, leaning halfway out of a window, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and delight.
"I found the dessert cart!" Sol bellowed to no one in particular, before nearly falling headfirst onto the terrace below.
Slughorn's face drained of color. "Who invited that one?"
"Ancient Lovelace tradition," Artemis said smoothly. "We always bring a chaos gremlin to balance out the intellectuals."
The night drew to a close with an air of breathless success. Slughorn, puffed up like a delighted puffskein, practically floated from guest to guest, basking in the reflected glory of having hosted a Lovelace — the Lovelace — and her niece. Aurelia, her curiosity sated and her patience thinning, finally gathered Artemis with a light touch at her elbow.
As they stepped into the crisp night, the cold air shocking the warmth from their skin, Aurelia said quietly, "You handled yourself well."
"Mostly smiled and nodded," Artemis replied.
"That's half the battle," Aurelia said, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "The rest is knowing when to stop smiling."
They vanished into the dark, leaving behind the whispers, the admiration, and one particularly overwhelmed Horace Slughorn, already mentally drafting invitations for next year's soirée — though he knew, with utter certainty, that nothing could top this.
The carriage ride back to the Lovelace estate was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of Abraxan hooves on the frost-hardened path. Aurelia had arranged the carriage specifically for this evening, knowing full well how her eleven-year-old niece's imagination would light up at the idea of a carriage drawn by winged horses on a winter's night. The beasts' silvery coats glowed under the moonlight, wings tucked gracefully against their sides as their breath misted the air in soft, rhythmic puffs.
Outside the windows, the world lay wrapped in a blanket of snow, fields and forests transformed into a silver-dusted dreamscape. The sky stretched overhead in a sea of cold, sharp stars, a canopy vast enough to make Artemis feel small—but not in a bad way. In a world so wide, she didn't have to fill every inch of it.
Inside the carriage, warmth lingered—not only from the discreet heating charms woven into the seats, but from something less tangible, something that clung to them after an evening of carefully chosen words, measured smiles, and the subtle dance of influence and impression.
Aurelia sat with the unshakable poise that seemed to flow from her very bones, her hands lightly folded in her lap, the flickering lanternlight reflecting faintly in her silver hair. Across from her, Artemis had long since shed her gloves, fingers tracing idle patterns into the soft leather seat beside her, her mind still half-trapped in the elegant storm they'd just weathered.
"You handled yourself well tonight," Aurelia said at last, her voice soft but certain.
Artemis' lips twitched, her fingers pausing. "You've said that three times now," she said, half amused, half wary. "Should I be worried?"
Aurelia's brow arched just slightly. "I know how much you distrust compliments."
"I don't distrust them," Artemis murmured, her gaze drifting out the window, following the blurred trees and snowbanks. "I just… never know what they're really worth."
"Sometimes they mean exactly what they sound like," Aurelia said. "And sometimes, they're currency—traded for favor or influence."
Artemis snorted softly. "And tonight?"
Aurelia's expression didn't shift. "Tonight, they meant you carried yourself with grace. You noticed the right people. You left them wanting more."
Artemis' fingers curled against the seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath her grip. "You didn't have to do all that. The praise. The introductions. Making me sound like—like I'm already someone worth knowing."
Aurelia's gaze softened — just a flicker, the kind of shift only those who knew her well would catch. "I didn't make you into anything, Artemis. I simply let them see what's already there."
Artemis' hands stilled. Her voice dropped. "What if I don't want to be that person?"
Aurelia's head tilted ever so slightly. "Then who do you want to be?"
The only sound was the soft creak of the carriage, the faint exhale of the Abraxans' breath, and the muted rustle of trees brushing against one another in the winter breeze. Artemis didn't have an answer—not one she could say aloud, because the truth was, she didn't know.
"I want to be more than… useful," she said finally, the words so soft they almost disappeared into the warm air between them. "More than a name they remember because I could give them something."
Aurelia's face gentled, something like understanding—like memory—surfacing in her eyes. "You already are."
Artemis glanced up, doubt flickering in her expression. "Then why does it feel like all anyone sees is potential? Like I'm not even real until I prove I'm valuable?"
Aurelia leaned back, her own gaze drifting to the window. "Because that's how power works. To them, you're a name—a possibility. Until you decide to make yourself more than that." Her voice softened. "Presence and worth aren't the same thing. You'll have to choose which one matters more to you."
Artemis held her gaze, the weight of the conversation settling low in her chest. Something inside her shifted—not a revelation, not yet, but the first tug of awareness, a question she'd be chasing for a long time.
"I'm not sure I know how to do that," she admitted.
Aurelia's rare smile curved at the corner of her mouth. "You will. Because you're a Lovelace."
The carriage slowed as the sprawling silhouette of Lovelace Manor emerged through the mist, the house's tall windows glowing like beacons in the winter dark. The sight was comforting—familiar and safe—but Artemis' mind was already leaping ahead.
The New Year's party.
In just a few days, she would leave this heavy, polished world behind and step into something warmer—something bright and loud and entirely chaotic. The Dawson family's farmhouse in Germany, nestled in the snow-dusted fields, filled with laughter, mismatched socks, and Rosaline and Eliza's wild plans for midnight games and secret dares.
The Dawsons always hosted the kind of party that made Artemis feel like a child again—one without titles, expectations, or careful balancing acts. Just snowball fights, hot cocoa, and the warmth of a dozen voices speaking over each other, every one of them familiar.
"You're looking forward to it, aren't you?" Aurelia's voice cut gently through her thoughts.
Artemis blinked and glanced at her aunt. "The party?"
Aurelia's lips curved, more observation than amusement. "I haven't seen you that excited since you left for Hogwarts."
"It's different," Artemis admitted. "It's not about who you know or what you're supposed to say." Her voice turned wistful. "It's just… fun."
Aurelia's gaze turned briefly toward the window, her expression softening in a way Artemis rarely saw. "It will be good to step away," she said quietly. "Britain feels heavier these days. Even for me."
Artemis studied her aunt's profile—the elegance, the sharp edges worn smooth only in the rarest of moments. "Are you worried?" she asked softly.
Aurelia didn't answer right away. "Always," she said finally. "But that's no reason not to find moments of joy where we can. They matter, especially now."
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was gentler, a shared understanding rather than a divide. They both needed the escape—the farmhouse, the snow, the simplicity of friends gathered around a fire while the world's troubles stayed outside, if only for a night.
The carriage came to a halt, and the front doors swung open, spilling golden light into the winter night.
Aurelia stepped out first, her heels clicking softly against the stone drive. Artemis followed, and as they walked up the steps side by side, Aurelia's gloved hand settled lightly on her niece's shoulder.
"Power and humanity aren't opposites," she said softly, just before they crossed the threshold. "They're threads in the same tapestry. And you, my dear, are the weaver."