The air remembered something the morning had not yet learned —

that even the safest places are only safe until they aren’t.

August 15, 1974

The Lovelace cottage stood proudly on the outskirts of Sheffield, a three-story home weathered by time yet brimming with warmth. Its ivy-covered stone walls had soaked up generations of laughter, grief, and whispered magic, holding onto every story as if the house itself were a living memory.

Inside, morning light spilled across the worn wooden floors, catching in floating dust motes and glinting off enchanted copper pans that scrubbed themselves in the sink. A teapot hummed softly on the stove, and a silver spoon stirred it in gentle, lazy circles. Near the window, a clothesline strung with fluttering laundry flapped in the warm breeze, watched closely by a small, humming house-elf named Fenny.

At the kitchen table, Lysander Lovelace sat with one leg stretched across a second chair, the Daily Prophet held in one hand, a cooling cup of tea in the other. His dark hair, streaked at the temples with silver, was rumpled from sleep, and his wand lay within easy reach beside his plate — an old habit, one he’d picked up long before becoming a defense attorney for the Ministry of Magic.

He glanced up, smiling faintly as Eleanor Lovelace, her apron dusted with flour, stood at the counter shaping dough with practiced hands. A strand of auburn hair slipped free from her bun, and she blew it aside with an impatient huff.

"You’re staring," she said without turning around.

Lysander’s grin was immediate. "Admiring, actually. It’s important to get the distinction right."

"Mm-hmm," she replied, though the curve of her mouth softened. "If you’re so charmed, you could help instead of lounging like a lord."

He leaned back in his chair, arms stretched overhead. "I’m performing my vital household role: reading the news and maintaining my devastating good looks."

Eleanor snorted softly, her fingers deftly folding the dough into perfect rounds. "One of these days, that charm’s going to run out."

"Married me anyway," he said, the warmth in his voice softening the tease.

The gentle rhythm of their banter had been years in the making, forged in the quiet spaces between war and rebuilding, grief and new beginnings. Both of them had ghosts — Lysander’s parents, lost to Grindelwald’s war, his father a decorated Auror killed on the blood-soaked fields of France, his mother following not long after, unable to bear the weight of her loss. The house had come to him then, old and creaking but full of memories, and now those memories mingled with new ones — children’s laughter, flour fights in the kitchen, quiet evenings by the fire.

Eleanor had her own ghosts, though hers belonged to a different war. Her parents — a wealthy Muggle family who had fled their own war-torn homeland only to be lost to a bombing over London during her final year at Hogwarts — lived only in the flickering edges of her memory. She’d inherited their fortune at eighteen, old enough to manage it, too young to feel anything but hollow. It had been enough to keep her afloat as she pursued her dream of becoming a Healer, and in time, enough to help Lysander when they were just starting out.

"You ever think about them?" she asked quietly, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Every day." His voice had none of the usual humor, only a quiet honesty that sat comfortably between them. "I still hear my mum humming when the house gets too quiet."

Eleanor smiled faintly. "I sometimes wonder if your parents would’ve liked me."

Lysander stood, crossing to her side, hands settling gently on her waist. "They would’ve adored you. My mother would’ve dragged you into the garden to help her plan some elaborate garden party, and my father—" His lips twitched. "He’d have found a way to ‘accidentally’ test your dueling skills before giving his approval."

"Sounds familiar," she teased, leaning back against him. "Your dueling obsession was not subtle when we were at Hogwarts."

"It impressed you enough to copy my Transfiguration notes," he pointed out.

She laughed, and for a moment, the air lightened.

"What about yours?" he asked, fingers tracing lazy circles at her waist. "Do you think your parents would’ve liked me?"

"My mother would’ve had you planning Christmas dinner within minutes of meeting you," Eleanor said fondly. "My father would’ve grilled you about every law he could think of — wizarding or Muggle — but he’d have liked you. You’ve got the kind of heart he trusted."

Lysander’s hand found hers, fingers warm and familiar as they laced together. "We turned out alright, didn’t we?"

"We did." Her thumb traced a small circle against his knuckle. "Despite everything."

The back stairs creaked, followed by the unmistakable sound of Edward’s thundering footsteps, and then the lighter, faster patter of Artemis trying to catch up.

Lysander sighed dramatically. "Here come the dragons."

Eleanor lifted her wand, flicking it toward the door, which swung open just as Edward’s voice rang out.

"I’m going to eat you, little maiden!"

Eleanor shook her head, laughter bubbling up as Artemis shrieked in delight, her giggles echoing through the hall. Lysander let go of Eleanor just long enough to retrieve his tea and return to his chair.

"Breakfast first, mischief later!" Eleanor called, brushing a hand down her apron.

"I’m just making sure she knows how to handle dragons," Edward’s voice floated back, full of cheek.

Lysander turned a page of the Prophet, shaking his head fondly. "Should I be concerned our son starts his day by terrorizing his sister?"

Eleanor only smiled, sliding the tray of dough into the oven. "They’ve got to practice for Hogwarts somehow."

As sunlight spilled into the kitchen and the familiar chaos of the morning unfolded, the weight of old ghosts faded into the background, replaced — for now — by the simple, fleeting magic of an ordinary day.

Edward grinned cheekily. “I’d never hurt her, Dad. I’m just making sure she knows how to handle dragons.”

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“Very noble of you,” Lysander mused, flipping a page of his newspaper. “Though I’d rather you focus on handling your schoolbooks.”

Edward groaned, shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth before his father could lecture him further. Meanwhile, Artemis, determined to be part of the conversation, sat up straighter in her chair.

“Are you sure you want to come with us today, Artemis?” Lysander asked, amusement lacing his voice. “Diagon Alley can be quite the adventure, but a tiring one.”

Artemis puffed out her chest, her stormy blue eyes gleaming with determination. “I have to see Eddie’s wand!”

Edward ruffled her dark curls affectionately. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else there when I pick it.”

Eleanor chuckled, sliding plates of toast and eggs onto the table. “You two act as if today is some great quest.”

“It is,” Edward insisted. “The wand chooses the wizard, you know.”

Lysander snorted. “Yes, yes, Garrick Ollivander will be delighted by your theatrics, I’m sure.” He then turned to his wife, his expression turning more serious. “Are you certain you don’t need to head into St. Mungo’s today? I know they’ve been short-staffed.”

Eleanor hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking her head. “I told Miriam I wouldn’t be in today. Besides, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

She didn’t voice what she truly felt—that moments like these, quiet and filled with laughter, were fleeting. That the world beyond their doorstep was growing darker by the day. That the war they had survived in their youth was beginning to stir again, this time under a new, more insidious shadow.

Instead, she simply smiled and poured herself a cup of tea, savoring the warmth of the morning, of her family, of the fragile peace that still remained.

The rest of the morning passed in a happy blur of last-minute preparations, until at last, they stepped into the bustle of Diagon Alley, unaware that their world was about to change forever.

The late summer sun cast golden hues over Diagon Alley, illuminating the bustling thoroughfare with its crooked shopfronts and lively chatter. The scent of parchment, ink, and fresh bread from a nearby bakery mingled with the sharper aroma of brewed potions, creating a heady cocktail of magic and life. Children laughed, their excited voices rising above the clinking of coins exchanging hands, the hoots of owls protesting their cages, and the occasional explosion from a shop experimenting with new wares.

For the Lovelace family, this was a long-awaited day of celebration. Their eldest, Edward, was finally going to Hogwarts. He had been dreaming of this moment for years, ever since he was old enough to grasp the grandness of magic and the legacy that came with it.

Lysander Lovelace walked at the head of the small group, his tailored navy-blue robes billowing slightly as he turned to smile at his family. Despite being a formidable defense attorney for the Ministry, today he was simply a father brimming with pride. His wife, Eleanor, walked beside him, her soft auburn curls pinned back elegantly, though a few strands had escaped in the warm breeze. A renowned Healer at St. Mungo’s. They were well-known in the community, and every few steps, someone stopped to greet them with a smile or a brief conversation.

Behind them, Edward practically vibrated with excitement, his Hogwarts letter still tucked safely in his pocket, though he had read it at least a hundred times after Receiving it last month. His younger sister, six-year-old Artemis, trailed beside him, wide-eyed as she took in the magical world with a mixture of curiosity and joy. She clung to her brother’s hand, her dark curls bouncing as she tried to match his steps.

“I still think you’ll be in Gryffindor,” Artemis said decisively, swinging their joined hands as they passed by a small group of older students in their house robes.

Edward scoffed playfully. “You just want me to be in the same house as Grandfather.”

“Well, it’s only fair! Besides, Hufflepuff would be just as good. Mama was a Hufflepuff, and she’s amazing.”

“Ravenclaw might be the right fit for you, Edward,” Eleanor said, advocating her husband’s old house, squeezing his shoulder. “You’ve always had your nose buried in books.”

“Or Slytherin,” Lysander added with an amused glint in his eyes. “You’ve got the wit and cunning for it.”

Edward huffed. “I just want to be in Hogwarts already.” He turned to his sister, tapping her nose. “When it’s your turn, you’ll probably be in Gryffindor, Artemis.”

Artemis grinned, but before she could reply, her mother gently pulled her into a firm hug. “That’s years away yet, little one. Let’s focus on getting your brother ready first.”

The first stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The shop was crowded with first-years being fitted into school robes, their mothers fussing over lengths and hems. Edward was ushered onto a small platform as enchanted measuring tapes flitted around him. Artemis, meanwhile, found a bolt of shimmering silver fabric and held it up dramatically.

“When I go to Hogwarts, I want robes made of this,” she declared.

Lysander chuckled. “You’ll have to convince Professor Dumbledore to change the uniform code first.”

With robes purchased, they ventured to Flourish and Blotts, where the weight of knowledge surrounded them. Edward eagerly stacked books into his arms, debating whether he could convince his parents to let him buy a few advanced texts.

“You can read ahead, but let’s focus on first-year essentials,” Eleanor reminded him.

“Besides,” Lysander added, “we have to leave room in your luggage for a pet, don’t we?”

Edward’s eyes widened with glee, and even Artemis let out an excited squeal.

Their next stop was the Apothecary, where the pungent smell of crushed herbs and bubbling liquids filled the air. Artemis wrinkled her nose as Edward examined the jars of powdered bicorn horn and dried billywig stingers. Eleanor showed him how to measure ingredients properly, her experience as a Healer shining through in her careful explanations.

And then, the highlight of the trip—Ollivanders.

The tiny, dust-laden shop was quieter than the rest of the alley, its atmosphere reverent. An old man with silvery eyes appeared from the shadows, peering at Edward with interest.

“Ah, another Lovelace,” he murmured. “Let’s see…”

The process was meticulous. Wands were tested, shelves rattled, and Artemis clapped each time sparks flew. Finally, a wand of willow and dragon heartstring chose Edward, sending a warm hum through his fingers.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered, tucking it into his pocket as they stepped back into the sunlit alley.

And then the screaming began.

It happened so fast.

The sky darkened as black-robed figures apparated into the alley, their wands raised. Explosions shook the cobblestones. A woman collapsed near the entrance of Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop, her scream cut off by a flash of green light. A shopkeeper tried to flee, only for a purple curse to hit him square in the chest, sending him flying into a display of cauldrons.

“Lysander!” Eleanor gasped, grabbing Artemis instinctively and pressing her to her side.

“Edward, stay behind me!” Lysander ordered, drawing his wand with practiced efficiency.

A jet of green light streaked through the air. Lysander turned to deflect it, his wand moving faster than Artemis could register. He pushed them toward the cover of Flourish and Blotts, shielding them from another curse.

But there were too many. The Death Eaters had planned this attack. The war was no longer fought in the shadows—it was here, in broad daylight, in front of children and shopkeepers and innocent families.

A hex struck Lysander in the shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Eleanor spun, her wand raised, casting defensive spells with furious precision.

And then—

Green light. A sickly, inescapable glow.

Lysander fell.

“No!” Eleanor cried, her grip on Artemis tightening. She shoved her Children behind her, blocking another curse with a desperate flick of her wand.

Edward had drawn his own wand now, his hands trembling but his stance firm. “Run, Artemis!” he shouted, voice breaking.

But she couldn’t move. Not when her father lay unmoving. Not when her mother was fighting with everything she had. Not when—

A jet of green light hit Eleanor square in the chest.

Artemis screamed. A raw, soul-shattering sound.

Edward turned on the Death Eaters, raised the wand Ollivander had placed in his hand just hours ago, fingers trembling, unsure if it would respond—but he had to try.

Another flash of green.

He crumpled.

Artemis reached for him, but her small hands found only his wand where it had rolled across the stone floor. Her fingers closed around the smooth wood just as the world tilted. The air was thick with magic, screams, and burning parchment. A curse struck near her, sending her tumbling backward into the shadows of the bookstore. She hit the floor hard, the wand clutched tightly in her hand.

Darkness swallowed her whole.