The sun shone bright over the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, a rare blessing for Scotland's unpredictable spring weather. The stands were packed with students eager to watch the last match of the season—Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. Artemis and her friends sat together in the Ravenclaw stands, decked in blue and bronze scarves, their excitement palpable as they cheered for their house team.
Eliza Dawson, bouncing in her seat with uncontained enthusiasm, grinned at her friends. "Mark my words, I'm getting on that team next year. No way I'm letting them go another season without me."
Sol Moonfall smirked. "Oh? And which poor seventh-year are you plotting to replace?"
"Whichever one has the sense to graduate," Eliza shot back, flipping her blonde braid over her shoulder. "Besides, I've been practicing my dives. I'll be a better Chaser than half the team already."
Vivian Delacroix gave her a sidelong glance. "Are you sure it's safe for you to practice those dives? You have already been to the Hospital wing once this year."
Artemis chuckled. "I'd say Eliza's fearless—though some might call it reckless."
Eliza rolled her eyes but grinned, turning back to the game as the match began. The players soared high, streaks of blue and yellow weaving through the sky. Ravenclaw's Chasers played with sharp precision, dodging Hufflepuff's sturdy defenses. The match was fast-paced, and the crowd was on edge as the Snitch finally appeared. The Seekers dove—Ravenclaw's side held their breath.
Then a loud cheer erupted from their stands. "YES!" Eliza screamed as Ravenclaw's Seeker caught the Snitch, securing their victory with 340-170 points.
The crowd of Ravenclaws stormed down to congratulate the team, and soon enough, word spread—there was going to be a celebration in the common room.
For the first years, this was their first real house party. Artemis and her friends found themselves swept up in the excited throng of students heading back to Ravenclaw Tower. The atmosphere inside was jubilant. The fire roared, and enchanted decorations flickered in house colors. Tables were laden with sweets, Butterbeer bottles clinked, and the chatter filled the air with energy.
Upper-year students, usually engrossed in their own circles, greeted the younger ones. "You first-years did good this year," an older student named Atticus Fawcett said, clapping Eliza on the shoulder. "Heard you're aiming for the team next year?"
Eliza beamed. "Absolutely."
"Good luck—hope you're not all talk!" another student teased before heading off to the butterbeer table.
Even as they laughed and cheered, Artemis couldn't help but catch glimpses of older students huddled in quieter corners of the common room, their eyes darting toward the latest edition of the Prophet pinned to the notice board.
Meanwhile, Artemis found herself deep in conversation with a group of older students, discussing Charms. One of them, a seventh-year Prefect, had heard about her recent research and was genuinely impressed. "Professor Flitwick doesn't hand out praise lightly," he noted. "Publishing a paper at your age? That's something."
"Just an extra credit project," Artemis said modestly, though she couldn't help but feel pleased.
As the party wound down, and the excitement of victory settled into contented exhaustion, Artemis and her friends made their way back to their dorms. Soon, exams awaited. But for now, they allowed themselves to savor the moment, young and victorious in their own way, as the Hogwarts Quidditch season of 1979-80 closed.
The Easter break had passed in a whirlwind of research and dedication, and now Artemis found herself standing in Professor McGonagall's office, her hands folded neatly in front of her as the Transfiguration professor perused the parchment she had submitted. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional tapping of Professor McGonagall's fingers against the desk, a sure sign that she was deep in thought.
"Miss Lovelace," McGonagall finally said, setting the parchment down and peering at Artemis over the rims of her square spectacles, "this is a remarkable piece of work. The depth of your understanding of transfigurative theory—particularly at your age—is beyond impressive."
Artemis, ever composed, merely nodded, though inside, she brimmed with pride.
"I would like to submit this for publication in Transfiguration Today," McGonagall continued, "with your permission, of course. If accepted, it would be quite the achievement for a first-year student."
Artemis hesitated only for a moment before nodding. "I'd be honored, Professor."
McGonagall's lips twitched upward slightly, a rare smile of approval. "I shall take care of the arrangements."
Word spread quickly among the Ravenclaws, and by the next week, Artemis found herself the subject of hushed whispers and open admiration. Older students stopped her in the common room to express their congratulations, and her name seemed to float through the halls like an incantation. Even some of the Fifth to seventh-years, usually too wrapped up in their own studies to pay much attention to younger students, had taken notice.
"I heard you're getting published, Again!," said Octavia Boon, a sixth-year Prefect, as she passed Artemis in the common room one evening. "That's impressive. You'll have to let me read it once it's out."
"She's going to outshine all of us by her third year at this rate," laughed another fifth year student, drawing a few chuckles from the group.
Artemis took the praise in stride, but it was her friends who were the most excited.
"You're practically famous now," said Iris Lawrence as they worked on their Herbology group project. "You might even end up in The Daily Prophet before long."
"I'd rather not," Artemis murmured, carefully trimming the leaves of their Screechsnap plant.
"I think it's brilliant," said Rosaline Dawson, grinning, her prior jealousy long forgotten. "You should take all the credit you're due."
Her sister nodded in agreement. "And anyway, you're not the only ones doing well. Professor Sprout was incredibly impressed with our Herbology project, you know. I overheard her talking to Professor Flitwick."
The praise was nice—flattering, even—but in the back of her mind, Artemis couldn't help but wonder what good any of it did. For all her knowledge, she couldn't bring Sol's father back. She couldn't protect Vivian's parents from fear. What was the point of brilliance in a world that was falling apart?
Sure enough, in their next class, Professor Sprout announced that their group had earned a hundred points for Ravenclaw, citing their detailed research and excellent teamwork. The entire year erupted into cheers.
"Not only have we won the Quidditch cup, but now we've secured an extra hundred points!" declared Magnus Kane, clapping Artemis on the back. "At this rate, we'll have the House Cup in the bag."
Sol Moonfall grinned, but there was a shadow behind his usual lighthearted expression. "Yeah, we're the dream team."
The end-of-year exams loomed closer, and the common room transformed into a den of frantic note-taking and whispered revision. Even Artemis, who rarely panicked, found herself absorbed in studying late into the night with her friends.
"I swear, if I forget even one of these goblin rebellions, I'm going to set my History of Magic textbook on fire," Iris groaned one evening, flopping onto the couch.
"You'd best not," said Vivian Delacroix dryly. "You'll just have to buy another one."
Artemis glanced up from her parchment. "At least it's almost over."
The atmosphere should have been light, but there was a distinct heaviness in the air. The war was pressing down on them, even within the castle walls. The news coming from outside was the main reason behind this.
The Great Hall was quieter than usual, the scent of fried eggs and toast mingling with the slightly damp air from an overnight rain. Most of the Ravenclaws were bent over their plates or textbooks, revising even as they ate, but Artemis noticed a knot of older students clustered at the far end of the table. They were hunched over a single copy of the Daily Prophet, speaking in low, urgent tones.
Iris Lawrence slid into the seat beside her, setting down her own copy with a frown. "Have you seen today's paper?"
Artemis shook her head. Iris flipped it open to the front page and pushed it toward her.
THE DAILY PROPHET
Britain's Premier Wizarding Newspaper – Established 1743
April 14, 1980
BONES FAMILY MASSACRED – MINISTRY STILL 'INVESTIGATING'
By Daniel S.
Tragedy struck last night as the Bones family was found slaughtered in their Nottinghamshire estate. The attack, which took place under the cover of darkness, left no survivors. Among the dead is Edgar Bones (39), a respected Auror and known advocate against the rising influence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. His wife, their two older children, his elderly parents, and his younger brother's family were not spared the brutality.
The Bones Family is survived only by his younger sister, rising Auror Amelia Bones (33), and his infant niece Susan Bones (1), both of whom were away for the night.
The Ministry has refused to confirm whether the Dark Mark was found hovering over the ruins, though sources within Magical Law Enforcement confirm that the scene was "one of the worst massacres in recent memory."
Minister Bagnold addressed the press, promising that "the perpetrators will be brought to justice," though confidence in the Ministry's ability to protect wizarding families continues to wane.
Artemis read it twice. The words didn't sink in at first—not until she noticed the slight tremble in Iris' fingers.
"They killed everyone," Iris whispered, voice barely audible over the scrape of cutlery. "Even the grandparents."
Artemis folded the paper neatly, as though that could contain the horror within its pages. "We have to get to class," she said quietly.
Neither of them moved for a long moment.
The Ravenclaw study group had taken over a corner of the library, spreading their books, notes, and half-eaten Chocolate Frogs across the wide oak table. Sol was uncharacteristically quiet, his usual mischief dulled. Artemis kept stealing glances at him, worried.
Vivian Delacroix returned from the shelves with a thick tome, a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet tucked under her arm. She dropped it onto the table with a sigh.
"More news?" Magnus asked, looking up from his Ancient Runes chart.
Vivian hesitated, then opened the paper to a small headline halfway down the page.
April 23, 1980
DISAPPEARANCE OF REGULUS BLACK – PUREBLOOD HEIR MISSING
By Livia G.
The youngest son of the esteemed Black family, Regulus Arcturus Black, has reportedly been missing for several months. Despite their reputation for unwavering family pride, the Blacks have refused to file a formal report with the Ministry, instead conducting their own private search.
Sources close to the family suggest that Regulus was last seen leaving the family's London townhouse on October 15th. While some believe his disappearance is linked to his involvement with certain underground organizations, others whisper that the young heir may have deserted altogether.
With no official statement from the Black family, the truth remains uncertain.
"Why would the Blacks hide it?" Rosaline asked, brow furrowing.
"Because the truth would be even worse," Artemis murmured, her fingers tracing the edges of her parchment. "Whether he ran, or whether they… took care of him."
The silence around the table thickened, the weight of the war pressing in from all sides.
The morning post had barely settled when Sol's hands clenched around a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet. Artemis had never seen him pale like that—his usual humor stripped away, leaving something raw in its place.
He didn't speak, didn't share the paper, but Artemis spotted the headline over his shoulder.
May 2, 1980
PREWETT TWINS FALL IN DEADLY AMBUSH
By Barnabas C.
The wizarding world mourns today as Gideon and Fabian Prewett, beloved members of an unnamed resistance movement, were slain in a brutal ambush by Death Eaters.
Reports indicate that five of You-Know-Who's followers cornered the brothers outside Summerhill. The battle raged for nearly an hour, spells lighting the sky like fireworks. Witnesses say the Prewetts fought valiantly, taking down at least four attackers before succumbing to their wounds.
"They went down like heroes," said one Auror at the scene. "They never stopped fighting."
Their sister, Molly Weasley, has made no public statement.
Artemis reached out, gently touching Sol's arm. "I'm sorry."
Sol shook his head, eyes fixed on nothing. "They're not going to stop, are they?"
Artemis couldn't lie. "No."
It was nearly midnight when Artemis found herself alone in the Ravenclaw common room, the crackling fire offering a rare comfort. On the table beside her lay the latest Daily Prophet, brought up by one of the Prefects who'd forgotten to take it back.
She knew she shouldn't read it—she was already too tired—but curiosity gnawed at her.
May 15, 1980
MUGGLEBORN HOMES SET ABLAZE – MINISTRY POWERLESS
By Beatrice F.
Three Muggleborn families perished last night in a coordinated string of arson attacks.
The homes of Elliot Chambers (36), Marius and Margot Bell (42), and the Turner family—including their four-year-old daughter—were reduced to ash. The Dark Mark hovered over each site.
Neighbors report that pleas for Auror assistance went unanswered. The Ministry insists investigations are ongoing.
"This isn't just war anymore," said one anonymous source. "This is extermination."
Artemis folded the paper with careful hands, setting it aside as though physical distance could stop it from settling in her bones.
The war was no longer a distant storm. It was creeping inside Hogwarts' walls, into their friendships, their futures, their very sense of safety.
The article arrived by owl just before breakfast. Artemis hadn't even opened her books when Magnus slid the Prophet across the table. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to.
June 2, 1980
DEATH EATERS IN THE MINISTRY? – OFFICIALS UNDER INVESTIGATION
By Marius S.
New evidence suggests multiple Ministry officials may be working directly with You-Know-Who's forces.
Among the suspected are Rabastan Lestrange, a rising star in the Department of Magical Sports and Games, and several senior Wizengamot members. Whispers also implicate Dolores Umbridge, an undersecretary known for her anti-Muggleborn rhetoric.
Despite Minister Bagnold's reassurances, the wizarding public grows increasingly convinced the Ministry is compromised. An anonymous DMLE source warned, "Ask too many questions, and you disappear."
In a time of war, trust is becoming the rarest commodity of all.
Artemis' fingers curled into fists beneath the table, knuckles white against her knees.
Even the Ministry was no sanctuary.
There was nowhere left to hide.
Sol had grown quieter over the past weeks, after taking a sudden leave from the school for over a week, his usual laughter replaced with a tense silence. Then, the news arrived in hushed whispers: his father, an Auror, had been killed in a death eater raid gone wrong.
"I heard it was an ambush," Iris murmured one evening. "No survivors."
Sol himself had spoken little about it, but Artemis had seen the way his hands clenched whenever his father was mentioned. He didn't want sympathy—he wanted justice.
"I'll be fine," he muttered when she tried to offer comfort. "I just... need time."
Meanwhile, Vivian had received news of a different sort.
"My parents want me to transfer to Beauxbatons," she admitted one night as they sat by the fireplace. "They think it's safer there."
Silence fell over the group.
"Will you go?" Rosaline asked quietly.
Vivian hesitated. "I don't know yet."
I used to feel safe here," Vivian murmured. "But after what happened to Sol's dad... it's like there's no safe place left. And my parents—" She broke off, twisting her bracelet around her wrist. "They think Beauxbatons will be better. But I'm not sure running away would feel better either.
"Stay," Artemis said, surprising even herself with the force of her words. "Hogwarts is your home, and it's stronger than this war."
Vivian gave her a small, appreciative smile. "I'll think about it."
The end of the year arrived sooner than they expected, and as the Hogwarts Express prepared to leave the station, they all stood together, taking in the sight of the castle one last time before summer.
"Next year will be different," Eliza said.
Artemis nodded. "Yes. But we'll face it together."
As the train pulled away, Artemis traced the fogging windowpane with her fingertip, leaving fleeting patterns that faded the moment the glass cleared. It felt fitting, somehow—these moments of safety, here then gone, leaving nothing behind but memory.