Chapter Thirty Nine: The Pieces We Choose

The castle at night during OWL week was a battlefield, and Artemis Lovelace and Magnus Kane — as Ravenclaw prefects — were stuck patrolling the front lines.

The corridors were thick with tension, the air practically vibrating with the stress of a thousand over-caffeinated students. There were fifth years whispering spells to each other in frantic tones, desperate to remember the sequence for advanced shielding charms, and sixth years whispering even darker spells — the kind that promised enhanced memory recall and temporary photographic sight at the risk of partial blindness or spontaneous nosebleeds.

"Do you hear that?" Magnus asked, pausing at the top of the marble staircase.

Artemis tilted her head, catching the faint, metallic clink of a cauldron lid somewhere down the hall.

"Illegal potions," she muttered. "Again."

They found a trio of fifth years crammed into an unused classroom, huddled over a sputtering cauldron with a copy of Potion Enhancements for the Overachieving Mind propped open beside them. One of them, a terrified-looking Slytherin, knocked over a vial of powdered moonstone the moment the door creaked open.

"We are so doomed," the girl whispered.

Artemis stepped inside, folding her arms. "You do realize that whatever you're brewing is not only illegal, but highly unstable? There's a reason we don't let desperate teenagers modify Draught of the Living Death."

"It's just a mild cognitive enhancer," one of the boys argued, though his hands were shaking so badly his wand jittered in his grip. "Everyone's doing it!"

Magnus raised an eyebrow. "If everyone jumped off the Astronomy Tower, would you follow?"

"That depends," the boy said weakly. "Are they jumping because of OWLs?"

Artemis sighed, confiscating the book and the cauldron with a flick of her wand. "Five points from each of you. Go to bed before you lose more brain cells."

As the students slunk off, defeated, Magnus leaned against the doorframe, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. "You're very intimidating."

Artemis rolled her eyes. "Someone has to be."

But they didn't head back to the common room. Not yet. They veered left — past the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, down the narrow, half-hidden corridor that led to the Wixen Chronicles headquarters. Technically, they were supposed to enforce curfew. Practically, they'd long since stopped caring about rules they didn't feel applied to themselves.

The headquarters was a glorious mess — a paper-cluttered sanctuary, walls plastered with article drafts, rejected headlines, and chaotic string maps tracking everything from Ministry corruption to Quidditch politics. Enchanted lanterns cast soft, flickering light over battered desks, ink-stained chairs, and a crumbling sofa that had hosted more midnight brainstorming sessions than either of them could count.

The quiet hum of the castle settled into the walls, broken only by the scratch of Artemis' quill as she hunched over her notes, cross-referencing old articles against new tips. Her braid was loose, the hair at her temples curling in damp wisps from the long day, and there was a faint smudge of ink along her wrist where her sleeve had dragged through wet parchment.

Magnus leaned in the doorway, his hair damp from a late shower, curling slightly at the ends. His robes were unfastened, shirt rumpled — comfortable, in a way he only ever was around her.

"Long night?" he asked, his voice soft enough to not break the delicate quiet.

"Always." Artemis didn't look up.

Without asking, he crossed the room and slid into the chair beside her, his knee bumping hers — a touch so familiar it almost went unnoticed. Almost.

They'd been a team for so long that the closeness was second nature — but tonight, something in the air shifted, the familiar laced with something heavier.

Magnus' fingers traced the worn edge of the desk, sketching idle patterns — constellations, or maybe just nonsense — the tip of his index finger trailing over ink-stained wood.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly.

Artemis' quill paused, mid-sentence.

"About us."

Her stomach tightened.

"I like working with you," Magnus said, each word slow, careful, placed deliberately in the silence between them. "But I think — I'd like to be more than your partner."

The air in the room grew impossibly still.

The words shouldn't have hit her so hard, shouldn't have knocked her so completely off balance — but they did. Her mind twisted and tripped over itself, thoughts colliding like a dozen selves crashing into each other, past and present memories tangling like frayed thread.

She was Artemis Lovelace — reincarnated, brilliant, too old for her bones and too young for her life. Magnus was just… Magnus. A boy. A steady, kind, infuriatingly teenage boy.

But then, Magnus was also the one who had stood beside her through everything — through the secrets and conspiracies, through the long nights and shorter days, through the quiet moments after prefect rounds when neither of them spoke, but neither of them left. Magnus, whose steady calm had been her anchor long before she'd even realized she was drifting.

"I…" Her throat felt tight, her pulse a too-quick stutter against her ribs. "I'm not good at this."

"Neither am I," Magnus said, his smile small but warm, the kind of smile that had always made her feel safer than she deserved. "We'll figure it out."

Artemis' fingers hovered uncertainly in the space between them, trembling slightly before they curled around his palm — tentative, hesitant, but real.

Magnus' thumb brushed gentle circles over the back of her hand, tracing the soft skin like she might shatter if he pressed too hard. "I've known for a long time," he said softly.

Artemis' breath caught. "Known what?"

"That you're… complicated." His smile turned rueful. "You think I didn't notice? You're the smartest person I know, but half the time you look like you're haunted by a ghost only you can see."

Her heart stumbled, her vision going blurry around the edges. "That doesn't scare you?"

"It should." She meant it — meant it in ways Magnus couldn't possibly understand, because how could she explain the weight of memory, of lives unlived and mistakes unforgotten?

"It doesn't," Magnus said simply. "Because whoever you were — whoever you are — you're still you."

She blinked hard, her grip on his hand tightening, her body torn between the instinct to pull away and the longing to hold on. "I'm not normal."

"Good." Magnus' smile softened into something almost teasing. "Normal's boring."

The laugh that escaped her was shaky and brief, but it was real.

They sat there for a long moment — his hand warm around hers, the lantern light catching in the strands of her hair, the gentle hum of the castle settling into silence around them. It was terrifying, that warmth — because warmth meant comfort, and comfort meant letting her guard slip, and Artemis Lovelace wasn't built for vulnerability.

But Magnus wasn't asking for everything. He was just offering his hand.

For tonight, she took it.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Magnus' smile widened — not triumphant, not smug, just quietly, impossibly happy. "Okay."

The night stretched out ahead of them, full of uncertainty and far too many secrets — but here, in the heart of their kingdom, ink-stained and half-wild, they had each other.

And for now, that was enough.

The lawn sloped gently down toward the Black Lake, the sky overhead washed in watercolor streaks of lilac, rose, and soft gold. It was the kind of evening that belonged in a painting — almost too perfect to be real — and for the first time in weeks, none of them had a textbook or practice exam within arm's reach.

The WIX sprawled in a loose, chaotic circle, limbs tangled, robes crumpled, butterbeer bottles littered like trophies in the grass. Sol lay flat on his back, balancing a mostly-empty bottle on his forehead, his tongue poking out in fierce concentration. Gwenog was sitting cross-legged beside Iris, her hands buried in Iris' hair, trying to braid it into something respectable — and failing spectacularly.

Iris winced as another knot caught in the half-hearted plait. "Gwen, either you're trying to style my hair or hex it. Please pick one."

"It's a multi-tasking masterpiece," Gwenog said, scowling at the knot like it had personally offended her. "Hold still."

A beat later, Sol's bottle slipped, tumbling down his face and bouncing into Henry's lap. Henry, who'd been juggling three Bertie Bott's Beans with alarming ease, missed the catch entirely and one of the Beans sailed into Sol's open mouth.

"Blimey," Sol sat up, gagging. "Soap. Why is it always soap?"

"Because you deserve it," Artemis said serenely, not looking up from where she was methodically transfiguring daisies into quills just for something to do with her hands.

"You survived OWLs," Henry announced, stretching dramatically and nearly kicking Magnus in the head. "I survived all of you surviving OWLs."

"That's the real achievement," Iris said, leaning back against Gwenog's chest, content despite her disastrous braid.

"And I still have a whole year before I have to suffer," Henry continued, rolling onto his stomach, his chin propped in his hands. "Which means I deserve a medal."

"You deserve detention," Rosaline said dryly, flicking a grass blade at him.

"No, you know who deserves detention?" Sol waved his arms wildly, narrowly avoiding smacking Eliza with his sleeve. "The genius who thought we should study in the library. Hogwarts' most haunted, stress-riddled room. I saw at least three breakdowns and one kid eating an entire pumpkin pasty while crying into his notes."

"I still say the ghost who recited the twelve uses of dragon's blood at us at three in the morning was my favorite," Magnus said mildly.

"I nearly hexed him," Artemis muttered.

"I would've helped," Gwenog added.

Despite the teasing, there was something softer beneath it — the weight of a year survived. Not just OWLs, but everything else they'd carried. From Eliza's shadows to Rosaline's silent vigil, from Artemis' quiet unraveling to Gwenog's guilt-ridden success — they'd come out the other side, a little frayed, a little bruised, but together.

Sol accidentally knocked over the butterbeer bottle as he shifted, sending it cascading into the grass. "RIP to that bottle."

"To the WIX," Artemis said softly, raising an invisible toast.

"To us," Magnus echoed, his shoulder brushing hers — steady, quiet, always there.

The breeze rippled across the lake, and for a moment, there was nothing but laughter curling into the air, mingling with the scent of damp grass and distant wildflowers. They weren't perfect. They never would be. But they were here.

Whole, in the only way that mattered.

Later that evening, with the stars fully dusted across the sky and the castle settling into sleepy silence, Gwenog sat on the same lawn with Erika Rath, their brooms lying beside them in the grass. Their bludger bats — worn smooth from hours of play — rested between them like relics of a battle they'd fought and won together.

"Three teams," Erika said, still sounding half-stunned. "That's insane."

"Terrifying," Gwenog corrected. "We're terrifying."

"We are." Erika grinned, bumping her shoulder against Gwenog's. "I wouldn't want to face us."

Gwenog's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her gaze drifting toward the castle. Toward the dorm where Eliza was.

"You're thinking about her again," Erika said softly. It wasn't a question.

"I can't help it," Gwenog admitted. "I worked so hard for this. We both did. But every time I let myself feel proud, it feels like I'm stepping on her."

"You're not," Erika said firmly. "You're her friend. And you and I both know — Eliza Dawson doesn't want anyone's pity."

"Yeah," Gwenog whispered. "I know."

continue

Upstairs, in the dormitory they'd called home for five years, Rosaline lay awake, her back pressed against Eliza's side, the soft rise and fall of her twin's breathing the only anchor keeping her grounded. The room was bathed in shadows, the faint silvery glow of moonlight seeping in through the window, casting long, soft-edged streaks across the floor.

It had been months since Eliza's nightmares first started — months since Rosaline began waking at every shift, every sharp inhale, every muffled cry. Sometimes Eliza would drift back into sleep before Rosaline could say anything, and other times Rosaline would just reach out, curling her fingers around her sister's wrist, a silent reminder: I'm here.

Tonight was one of the quiet nights. Eliza wasn't trembling, wasn't whispering "just a weird dream" into the darkness. But Rosaline could feel the weight of everything pressing against her sister's back, so heavy it seemed to bleed into the space between them.

"You awake?" Rosaline whispered, her voice barely more than breath.

Eliza hummed in acknowledgment, her fingers twitching in the blanket's folds.

"Do you ever…" Rosaline trailed off, the words catching awkwardly in her throat. "Do you ever feel like we're getting too good at pretending we're fine?"

Eliza was quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," she said softly. "All the time."

Rosaline shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow so she could see Eliza's face. "You know you don't have to do that with me, right?"

Eliza's smile was small, a little sad, but real. "I know."

"I mean it," Rosaline said fiercely, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from Eliza's face. "Even if you feel broken, you're still you. You're still my sister."

Eliza's breath hitched, and for a moment, Rosaline thought she might cry. But instead, Eliza reached up, gripping Rosaline's hand in her own, holding on like it was the only thing keeping her steady.

"I'm trying," Eliza whispered.

"I know." Rosaline's voice softened. "I've got you."

They stayed like that, hands clasped between them, until Eliza's breathing evened out and sleep claimed her again. Rosaline stayed awake a little longer, her fingers curled protectively around her twin's, as if sheer will could guard her from anything lurking in the dark.

Somewhere near the lake, the night was just as soft — the rippling water reflecting scattered stars. Gwenog and Iris had moved to the edge of the grass, where the castle's lights couldn't reach. They lay stretched out side by side, hands linked between them, the breeze stirring the hair at Iris' temple where Gwenog had pressed a kiss earlier.

"Did I ever tell you why I tried out for Beater?" Gwenog asked suddenly, her voice quieter than usual, like the stillness of the lake had mellowed even her.

Iris glanced over, eyes warm. "No. Tell me."

"I was terrible at Chaser," Gwenog admitted, grinning at the memory. "Couldn't aim to save my life. But I had… anger. Like, a lot of it."

Iris gave her hand a soft squeeze. "Still do."

"True," Gwenog said. "But back then, I didn't have anything to aim it at. Then I picked up a Beater's bat, and suddenly, there was this perfect thing I could hit, over and over, and it actually helped my team."

Iris' thumb traced slow circles over the back of Gwenog's hand. "You're more than just your bat."

"Yeah," Gwenog whispered. "But sometimes, it's easier to pretend I'm not."

"Even monsters need soft spots," Iris said again, her voice a gentle echo of earlier.

Gwenog turned, propped herself up on her elbow, and kissed Iris — slow and sure, without any of the desperation that had once colored their early, clumsy kisses. It wasn't perfect. Nothing was. But it was real.

And for tonight, real was enough.

At the same time, in the Wixen Chronicles office, Artemis sat on the edge of a desk, her fingers twisted together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Across from her, Magnus leaned against the wall, watching her with that calm, steady expression he always wore when he knew she was overthinking.

"We're going to be late for rounds," Artemis said, her voice brittle.

"Let them survive without us for a bit," Magnus said mildly.

The silence stretched, and Artemis could feel her skin crawling with the weight of it. Magnus was always so steady — so calm — and she felt like a live wire whenever they were alone like this, her pulse skipping and her thoughts racing in too many directions at once.

Magnus' hand drifted toward hers, brushing her pinky with his own. It was nothing — just skin against skin — but Artemis felt it like a spark, lighting up all the tangled, conflicting feelings she'd been burying since the moment he'd told her he wanted to be more than her partner.

Magnus wasn't just some schoolboy. He was her anchor, her balance, the person who never asked for explanations or reassurances. He just was. And that made it both infinitely easier — and infinitely harder — to let herself reach back.

Her fingers curled around his, trembling slightly. "I'm not good at this," she whispered.

Magnus' thumb brushed light circles over her knuckles. "Neither am I."

Artemis swallowed hard, old memories flickering like ghosts at the edge of her mind — old lives, old regrets, old loves she could barely remember but still felt in her bones. She was older than him. She was ancient, in a way no one would ever understand. But here, with Magnus' hand warm in hers, it felt like none of that mattered.

"I'm scared," she admitted.

Magnus' grip didn't falter. "Me too."

And somehow, that was enough.

When they finally stumbled back into the common room well after curfew, Sol was half-asleep, draped dramatically over an armchair like a collapsed marionette.

"Where have you lot been?" he mumbled.

"Patrolling," Magnus said smoothly.

"Planning my tragic backstory," Artemis added.

Sol squinted at them. "As long as I'm involved in the backstory, I'm fine with it."

Gwenog snorted from where she'd flopped on the rug beside Iris, one foot kicking aimlessly at Sol's leg. "You're the comic relief."

"Rude," Sol muttered, though his grin was visible even with his eyes shut.

Eliza was curled up between Rosaline and Henry on the couch, her head resting on Rosaline's shoulder, her fingers absently tugging on Henry's sleeve. Rosaline was reading aloud from one of Eliza's old Sharpwing articles — her voice soft, her pride in her sister glowing in every word.

They were tired. They were battered. They had been through hell, each in their own way.

But they were here.

Whole, in the only way that mattered.

"Capes this summer," Sol mumbled sleepily. "I mean it."

"No capes," Magnus said firmly.

"Matching boots," Gwenog added, just to be difficult.

Artemis' smile was small and private, her hand still loosely twined with Magnus' beneath the table.

"To the WIX," Iris said softly.

"To us," they echoed — and for the first time all year, it felt like enough.