The snow had started falling early that morning, blanketing the castle grounds in a perfect, untouched layer of white. From the windows of the Ravenclaw common room, it looked like something out of a storybook — all shimmering frost and drifting flakes, the Forbidden Forest in the distance transformed into a world of silver and silence.
Inside the WIX study room, however, there was no such serenity.
"Where's the damned stabilizer rune?" Artemis muttered, rifling through the mountain of parchment beside her, hair falling in her face. She had long since given up on tying it back — a quill was shoved haphazardly into the messy bun at the top of her head, and ink smudged along her jaw where she'd leaned into her own notes.
"Here," Rosaline said, waving a scrap of parchment she'd dug out of the mess. "Although I'm ninety percent sure it's got biscuit crumbs on it."
"That's fine." Artemis snatched it, smoothing the paper over the table with the precision of someone handling priceless ancient texts. "Crumbs are neutral."
"Crumbs are gross," Eliza muttered, perched cross-legged on the windowsill, her wand twirling lazily between her fingers. "This whole room's a disaster zone."
"It's a creative space," Sol said, sprawled across two chairs, an enchanted quill hovering above his head, doodling stars in midair. "Art requires chaos."
Artemis shot him a dry look. "It requires runic alignment and functional spellwork, but sure. Chaos."
Despite the teasing, they were all there — sprawled out across every available surface, pitching in however they could. It was still Artemis's project, her brainchild and obsession, but Magnus's intervention had opened the door just enough for the rest of them to wedge their way in.
Iris had taken over testing the visual clarity charms, muttering to herself as she adjusted the reflective surface on the second linked diary. Rosaline was helping Artemis with the rune configurations, and Vivian was handling the warding layers, her natural finesse with protective spells making her the most qualified. Eliza had been tasked with "stress testing," which mostly meant she tried to break things, and Sol had taken it upon himself to document the whole process in increasingly dramatic flourishes.
The only one conspicuously absent was Henry.
They hadn't mentioned it yet — hadn't wanted to break Artemis's focus — but it was becoming impossible to ignore.
"I'm just saying," Eliza said, balancing her wand on her knuckle, "Henry's been weird lately."
"Henry's always weird," Sol said cheerfully.
"Not like this," Rosaline cut in, brow furrowed. "He barely talks to anyone except Gwenog these days, and she's always at Quidditch practice."
"He's a third year," Iris pointed out quietly. "We're older. He probably feels left out."
"Except we've always been older," Magnus said, arms crossed. "That never bothered him before."
"It's Vivian," Rosaline said bluntly.
The room fell into a brief silence.
Vivian, lying flat on her back on the floor, blew out a slow breath. "Yeah," she admitted, voice low. "It's probably me."
"No, it's Ethan," Eliza said with a grimace. "It's you dating Ethan."
Artemis, who had been quiet through all of this, finally looked up from her notes. "You mean he still hasn't gotten over the whole… thing?"
"He's thirteen, Art," Sol said. "Boys hold grudges like Goblins hold debt."
"Comforting," Artemis muttered.
Vivian sat up, propping herself on her elbows. "I thought it was just a crush," she said, frowning faintly. "I didn't think it mattered this much."
"You're his favorite person," Iris said softly. "You always have been."
That hit harder than any of them expected. Vivian's mouth twisted into something almost guilty. "I didn't mean to— I mean, I didn't even like Ethan that much at first, it was just—" She stopped herself. "I didn't think Henry would care."
"Well, he does," Magnus said. "And if we don't fix it, we're going to lose him."
Artemis leaned back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "We'll deal with Henry after," she said, voice soft but firm. "Right now… I need to finish this."
They knew better than to argue. The linked diaries were more than a project — they were Artemis's way of holding her world together. And if there was one thing The WIX knew how to do, it was helping each other hold things together, even when they were falling apart.
"Alright," Rosaline said, pushing up her sleeves. "Let's finish these bloody things."
It took another hour — a solid hour of whispered spells, adjustments to the rune sequences, and more than a few minor explosions (one of which left Sol's hair slightly green). Henry cme with cookies for them, making everyone happy. But when Artemis placed the final linking charm on both diaries, they gave off a soft, synchronised pulse of silver light.
"Moment of truth," Magnus said, his voice pitched deliberately light.
"Alright," Artemis said, sitting back on her heels, stretching her arms over her head.
"Finally," Sol groaned, flopping onto his back on the rug. "I was beginning to think this would be your legacy—a room full of slightly cursed notebooks and one very grumpy ghost."
Artemis flicked a stray quill at his head. "If you die first, you will haunt this room. And I will make sure you're stuck proofreading."
Rosaline, sitting cross-legged beside Artemis, picked up one of the diaries, running her fingers along the edges where faint silver runes glowed. "These look… expensive."
"Custom leather," Artemis admitted. "Best I could find. If I'm going to make something from scratch, it might as well look good."
"Are they safe?" Eliza asked, sprawled across one of the armchairs, wand balanced on the tip of her finger.
"Define safe," Artemis muttered.
"That's not encouraging," Henry said from his spot by the fireplace. His arms were crossed, his usual easy-going expression replaced with a slight frown. It was one of the few times he had been present in their study sessions lately, and even now, he came late, he sat slightly apart, like he was half-in, half-out.
Vivian, perched beside Iris on the sofa, gave Artemis a look. "Tell me this won't explode when I write something rude."
"I highly doubt it'll explode," Artemis said, already making adjustments to the floating runic array above the diaries. "Worst case, you end up with your own insult written backwards."
"Perfect," Vivian said. "It'll be like insulting myself. I've always wanted that."
Magnus sat down beside Artemis, close enough that their knees knocked together briefly. "How do we test them?"
Artemis took a steadying breath. The truth was, she was equal parts confident and terrified. The magic was solid—more stable than any of her earlier prototypes—but this was different. These weren't just test objects. They were personal. They were for Aunt Aurelia, and if they failed, it wasn't just a project gone wrong—it was time lost. Precious time.
"Alright," Artemis said, voice steady. "I'll write something here." She tapped the diary in front of her. "It should appear in this one." She nudged the twin diary toward Iris. "No lag, no spellwork needed after activation."
Iris, brow furrowed in concentration, placed the second diary in her lap and opened it carefully, as though it might bite.
Artemis dipped her quill in ink, the familiar scratch of nib against parchment grounding her.
Testing the link—can you read this?
The ink shimmered, glowing silver for a heartbeat before vanishing into the page. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the words appeared in Iris's diary—perfectly neat, aligned in Artemis's handwriting.
Iris let out a breath. "It works."
"HA!" Sol whooped, punching the air. "I knew you'd crack it."
Eliza leaned over, reading the message upside down. "Alright, fancy—but does it go both ways?"
"Only one way to find out," Iris said, and with careful precision, she wrote in her own clear script:
We're all watching you like hungry Hippogriffs, no pressure.
The words disappeared.
They reappeared in Artemis's diary two seconds later, and Artemis couldn't help the delighted laugh that bubbled out of her throat. "It works both ways."
Magnus grinned. "That's brilliant."
Artemis's heart raced—not with panic this time, but with the spark of something real. She held the diary tighter in her hands, her mind already spinning. It wasn't perfect, not yet, but it worked.
She could talk to her.
Aunt Aurelia wouldn't have to wait for letters anymore. They could write to each other instantly, even across the miles. No more wondering if the owl got lost, no more waiting for the next weekend visit. Just… connection.
"What about distance?" Vivian asked, always the practical one. "Does it only work in the castle?"
"Shouldn't," Artemis said. "The runes are designed to anchor to the paired diary itself, not any physical location. As long as both are active, they'll stay linked."
"So you could talk to anyone, anywhere," Rosaline said slowly, her eyes widening. "That's… revolutionary."
"No big deal," Artemis said, though her ears turned pink.
They passed the diaries around, each of them writing something ridiculous to test the link—Vivian wrote a dramatic sonnet about her own hair, Sol scrawled 'Magnus is a secret Hufflepuff' in obnoxiously large letters, and Gwenog, despite not being there at that moment, was mentioned so frequently that Artemis was certain the diary would develop a sarcastic personality out of self-defense.
It felt good, the laughter, the shared excitement, the sense that they were building something together again.
Eventually, after everyone had tested the diaries and declared them a smashing success (except Henry, who'd barely scribbled 'hi' and looked vaguely uncomfortable the entire time), they settled into their usual comfortable sprawl across the study room.
Artemis, holding both diaries in her lap, glanced at the one she intended for Aunt Aurelia. It was polished, elegant, the runes carefully woven into the leather itself.
"She's going to love it," Magnus said softly beside her, as if reading her thoughts.
Artemis swallowed hard. "I hope so."
"What are you going to write first?" Iris asked.
Artemis tapped her quill against her chin, considering. Then, with a small, secret smile, she wrote:
Merry Christmas, Aunt Aurelia. Your favorite niece built you something.
They watched as the message disappeared.
There was silence for a moment, but it was warm, expectant. Artemis didn't feel alone anymore—not with them around her, propping her up, believing in her even when she couldn't believe in herself.
Magnus gave her a gentle nudge. "You know, if you make a set for us, we'll never leave you alone."
"Threat or promise?" Artemis teased.
Magnus grinned. "Both."
It was only then that she noticed Henry, slumped in the corner, arms crossed, gaze distant even with the laughter swirling around him.
The glow of success dimmed just a little.
She would deal with Henry later, she told herself. But soon.
Because building bridges across miles was one thing.
Building bridges within your own family—your found family—that was even more important.
And then, because they were still The WIX, Eliza broke the silence.
"So… can you make one for us?" she asked, wiggling her eyebrows. "Group chat, WIX edition?"
Artemis groaned, but she was smiling. "Maybe after the holidays."
"Excellent." Sol kicked his feet up. "Because I have so many important thoughts to share."
"Like what?" Rosaline asked.
"Daily fashion critiques," Sol said grandly. "And poems about how good I look."
Eliza threw a cushion at him.
And for the first time in weeks, Artemis laughed.
It was a beginning — not just for the diaries, or her connection to Aunt Aurelia, but for something else. Something bigger. Something they were all part of.
The WIX had never been about one person, one project, or one idea.
It was about all of them, together.
And somewhere, deep down, Artemis knew that as long as she had that — them — she could figure out the rest.
Even Henry.
Christmas morning at Lovelace Manor had always been a quieter affair than the grand parties or bustling Yule Balls the family used to host in the days before war, loss, and time had whittled the family tree down to just Artemis and Aunt Aurelia. But what the manor lacked in numbers, it made up for in the warmth that filled its ancient halls — warmth spun not from roaring fires or enchanted garlands, The great hall was decked in silver and deep green, the enchanted ivy curling around the chandelier and glittering faintly with ice-blue frost. Fairy lights—actual fairies, coaxed into behaving by Grent the house-elf with bribes of sugared plums—drifted lazily through the air, giving everything a soft, magical glow. The bond between two women separated by two generations and yet somehow stitched so closely together was in the very air.
The snow had settled thick outside, blanketing the windows in a frosty haze, but inside the sitting room, the fire crackled cheerfully, bathing the room in soft golden light. Artemis sat cross-legged on the thick Persian rug, hair still a tangle from sleep, her hands smoothing the silver-wrapped box on her lap with nervous, fidgeting fingers.
Aunt Aurelia was already settled in her favorite chair by the fire, a thick shawl draped over her slender shoulders. There was something more fragile about her this year — the lines on her face were finer, her once-bright eyes a little dimmer, and the graceful hands that had once held Artemis steady now trembled slightly even when they held nothing at all.
Grent, the elder of the two Lovelace house-elves, stood proudly at attention beside Aurelia's chair, wearing a garish Christmas jumper that someone (probably Sol) had sent last year. Fenny, slightly younger and far more excitable, was balancing an entire tray of tea and biscuits on one hand, and Artemis suspected it was only a matter of time before the entire thing ended up in someone's lap.
"Alright, my darling," Aurelia said, her voice still carrying that same soft authority it always had, even if it was quieter now. "What's this mysterious gift you've been hiding for weeks?"
Artemis swallowed, shifting slightly as she set the box down on the low table between them. "It's something I've been working on for a while. For you."
Aurelia's brows lifted, curiosity flickering through the haze of fatigue. "For me? That's a first."
"Not really," Artemis said, her smile small but real. "You just usually catch me before I can be sentimental."
Aurelia's laughter was soft and warm, the kind that melted years off her face. "Go on, then."
With a flick of her wand, Artemis untied the ribbon, the silver paper folding neatly away to reveal a leather-bound journal, its cover a deep midnight blue embossed with the Lovelace crest. Tiny runic symbols were subtly etched into the leather along the spine — protection, connection, remembrance.
Aurelia ran her fingertips over the cover, eyes narrowing slightly at the faint hum of magic beneath her touch. "This is no ordinary journal."
"It's linked," Artemis said quietly. "To mine. Anything you write in it, I'll see in my copy — instantly. And anything I write, you'll see in yours."
Aurelia's hand stilled. "Instantly?"
Artemis nodded. "No owls, no waiting. It's private. Just us."
For a long moment, there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the soft clink of Grent nervously adjusting the tea tray. Then Aurelia exhaled, slow and trembling, and her smile was both radiant and heartbreaking.
"Oh, my little star," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You clever, clever girl."
Artemis swallowed hard, suddenly needing to look anywhere but at her aunt's face. "I just thought— with your health— and if I'm at school—" She trailed off, the words tangling in her throat.
Aurelia closed her eyes briefly, fingers tracing the journal's cover. "I've spent my whole life writing letters to people I loved. Waiting weeks for replies. Sometimes months. I never thought I'd live to see something like this."
"It's not perfect yet," Artemis mumbled. "The range could be better, and sometimes the ink smudges if you're writing too fast, and—"
"It's perfect," Aurelia said firmly, her voice clear despite the fragility in her body. "Because it came from you."
Artemis's throat burned, and she hated how close her voice came to cracking. "It's not enough."
"It's everything." Aurelia leaned forward, cupping Artemis's face in her cold, thin hands. "You've always carried too much on your shoulders, my darling. You can't stop time. You can't save me from being old. But you've given me something I never thought I'd have — you've given me your voice, no matter where you are."
Fenny sniffled audibly, her oversized nose quivering. "Mistress Artemis is brilliant."
Grent, in his excitement, nearly toppled the tray entirely, sending biscuits sliding under the table. "Mistress Artemis is the cleverest witch ever!"
"Dears," Aurelia said fondly, "contain yourselves."
Artemis laughed, the knot in her chest easing just slightly. "They're not wrong."
"Immodest," Aurelia teased, her hands still holding Artemis's cheeks. "But not wrong."
There was a pause, a silence heavy with all the things neither of them said — how little time might be left, how the world could be cruel and beautiful all at once. Then, with a flick of her own wand, Aurelia summoned a smaller box from the side table, the velvet worn at the edges from age and careful handling.
"Speaking of things passed down," Aurelia said softly, "I think it's time."
Artemis's brows knitted together. "Time for what?"
Aurelia set the box in her hands. It was deceptively light, but inside — Artemis already knew what it was. The Lovelace family jewelry.
With trembling fingers, Artemis lifted the lid, revealing a delicate collection of pieces — a silver necklace set with a sapphire the color of winter skies, matching earrings shaped like tiny stars, and a bracelet engraved with the family motto, Veritas et Stellas — Truth and Stars.
"These were given to me on my fifteenth Christmas," Aurelia said quietly. "My mother's hands were the ones to place them in mine. And now—" She smiled. "It's my turn."
Artemis's breath caught. "Aunt Aurelia…"
"You'll wear them however you choose," Aurelia said. "You've always been a bit of a rebel, my dear, and thank Merlin for it. But no matter how you wear them, you'll carry every Lovelace woman who came before you. And one day, when you pass them on, you'll add your story to ours."
Artemis closed the box carefully, her fingers lingering on the worn velvet. "I'm not ready."
"You're more ready than you think."
The fire crackled, and Fenny — overwhelmed with emotion — grabbed a biscuit and promptly tripped over her own feet. Grent, giggling, tried to catch her, resulting in both elves collapsing into a heap of limbs and sugar-dusted pastry.
"Some things never change," Aurelia said dryly.
Artemis smiled through the sheen of tears in her eyes. "Good."
They sat there, together, in the warm glow of the fire — a young girl on the cusp of her future, and an aging woman who had once been just the same. Between them lay the weight of family, of love, and of time that could never be fully held back — but in Artemis's hands, at least, was something new.
A gift not just of magic, but of connection.