The flickering candlelight in the study room cast long shadows against the ancient stone walls, the only sounds the soft scratching of Artemis Lovelace's quill and the rhythmic clink-clink of her enchanted time tracker counting down seconds. The room smelled faintly of old parchment, melted wax, and the faintest trace of Sleekeazy's lingering in her hair.
She was alone — by design. Her notes were spread chaotically across the table, diagrams interspersed with rough equations and experimental spell sequences written in three different colors of ink. There were sketches too, half-finished, showing enchanted hand mirrors with carved runes around their edges, pairs of matching diaries with intricate runic circuitry along the binding, and enchanted pendants with tiny inlaid communication gems.
None of it worked. Not yet.
It was infuriating.
Artemis tapped the end of her quill against her chin, frowning at the floating diagram she'd conjured midair. The theory was sound — blending long-distance magical pathways with synchronized enchantments, a self-contained system that wouldn't rely on the Floo Network or Ministry interference. Something private, personal, instantaneous.
Like mobiles, she thought bitterly. Like FaceTime and WhatsApp and all the things she used to take for granted before she found herself here — stranded in the 1980s with nothing but letters and the occasional slow, cumbersome Floo call.
She missed the future like a phantom limb. She missed Aunt Aurelia, her only tether to the life she'd built here, the only person whose wisdom she craved in moments like these. But Aurelia was aging — painfully so — and letters were agonizingly slow. Every time Artemis sealed one with wax and sent it off with Fenny, she felt that small, clawing ache. Would this letter reach her in time? Would the next visit find Aurelia thinner, more tired, closer to…
No.
Artemis shook her head fiercely and stared down at her sketches again. She could do this. She had to do this.
Because the world didn't just need better communication. She needed it.
Magnus Kane was not particularly proud of stalking his best friend.
But after weeks of Artemis dodging their study sessions, skipping casual lunches, and disappearing into the library like a ghost at every possible opportunity, Magnus decided subtlety was overrated.
He waited until she didn't show up for dinner — again — before dragging Sol and Rosaline into the WIX study room to confront her. Except she wasn't there. Her notes were — Artemis never traveled light — but the girl herself was missing, likely tucked into some forgotten corner of the castle where no one would think to look.
Except Magnus.
It was a habit, at this point, for him to know her hiding spots better than she did.
He found her in the abandoned classroom near the south tower — one of her private workspaces, where the desks were already shoved against the walls and the windows had been layered with silencing charms. There were no accidental discoveries here.
She sat on the floor, surrounded by half-completed prototypes — a cracked mirror that flickered faint reflections of herself, two journals humming faintly with unstable magic, and a delicate silver pendant that was pulsing like a heartbeat.
Magnus didn't say anything at first. He just stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, taking in the sight of her — her hair hastily tied back, ink on her fingers, and a distinct unraveling at the edges that made his chest ache.
"Is this what's been eating you alive?" he finally said, voice soft.
Artemis startled, nearly dropping the mirror in her hands. "What— Magnus? What are you—"
"I followed the trail of frayed nerves and skipped meals," he said with a forced smile, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "You've been driving yourself mad over this. Whatever it is."
She sighed, setting the mirror down with excessive care. "It's not—"
"Don't say it's nothing," Magnus interrupted, gentler now. "Because this? This is a lot of something."
Artemis stared at the flickering pendant, its light casting faint patterns across her palm. "It's just a project."
"Bullshit."
Her head snapped up, surprised at the rare bluntness. Magnus Kane, soft-spoken peacemaker Magnus, didn't usually curse.
"I know you, Artemis," he said, crouching across from her. "This isn't just you being ambitious. This is you obsessing over something way too big to handle on your own."
Artemis exhaled sharply, tipping her head back against the cold stone wall. "It's— I wanted to make something."
"You always want to make something." He nudged the cracked mirror with his foot. "What's so different about this?"
She didn't want to tell him. Couldn't. The real truth — that she was desperately trying to bridge two lifetimes, two versions of herself, past and future — would never cross her lips. That secret stayed buried.
But some truths — the ache, the fear, the longing — could be translated.
"I miss talking to people," she said softly. "Instantly. No waiting for letters. No lag between needing someone and reaching them."
Magnus's brow furrowed. "You miss Floo calls? We have Floo calls."
"Floo is clunky and public. I want something that's just… mine." She gestured to the projects scattered around her. "A direct connection. Something private. Something I can hold in my hand."
Magnus's stomach twisted. "For Aunt Aurelia?"
Artemis's smile was thin, but real. "For everyone. But mostly… yeah."
He sat back, letting that sink in. It wasn't crazy — not by Artemis standards, anyway. But the desperation in her voice, the way her fingers trembled slightly around the pendant, told him this was about more than innovation.
This was about control. About holding onto the people she loved before time took them away.
"You should've told us," Magnus said after a long pause. "We could've helped."
She shook her head stubbornly. "It's my project."
"Artemis—"
"I have to do it myself."
"Why?" Magnus asked, frustration bubbling under the surface. "You've never done anything alone before. Not really. Not since you dragged all of us into this WIX nonsense."
"This is different." Her voice cracked slightly. "This is personal."
Magnus didn't press — not directly. But his voice softened again. "You're not alone, you know."
She looked away. "Sometimes I feel like I am."
Magnus hated how honest that sounded. "You're not."
The silence between them stretched long and thin, until Magnus reached across the space between them, resting his hand over hers — warm, grounding, solid.
"Let us help," he said quietly. "Even if it's just small things. Testing runes, balancing charms. You don't have to carry everything."
Artemis swallowed hard, fingers tightening beneath his. "I'm not used to… needing help."
Magnus's smile was crooked. "Yeah, no kidding."
Something fragile unspooled in her chest — the weight of holding onto every secret, every fear, easing just slightly under the warmth of Magnus's hand.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
"Great." He stood, pulling her up with him. "Now, you're coming back to the Tower and eating something before Rosaline launches a full-scale search party."
Artemis huffed a laugh, but let him guide her toward the door.
As they left the room — the pendant still pulsing softly behind them — Magnus knew this was only the beginning.
But at least, this time, she wouldn't be facing it alone.
The following afternoon, Artemis sat cross-legged on the floor of the WIX study room, her usually tidy workspace reduced to absolute chaos.
Scraps of enchanted parchment with half-written runic sequences floated haphazardly through the air. Several cracked mirrors, one smoking faintly at the edges, were propped against books and teacups. A stack of journals hummed faintly, vibrating every few minutes, and a locket suspended from a hovering quill spun lazily, occasionally releasing tiny sparks.
Rosaline stared at the mess, eyebrows raised so high they nearly vanished into her hairline. "This is a crime scene."
"It's innovation," Artemis muttered, rifling through her notes.
"This is why you've been skipping meals?" Eliza asked, flopping into a chair. "I thought you were secretly dating a vampire or something."
Magnus snorted from across the room. "Trust me, she's been dating this mess."
"Which explains the lack of flirting," Sol said, dramatically inspecting his nails. "Not that anyone's noticed my charms lately."
"You keep saying that like you have any," Rosaline deadpanned.
"Wounded," Sol said, clutching his chest.
Artemis barely registered the exchange, her fingers tracing a series of symbols on the nearest mirror. "Alright, I need you all to just… hold something."
"Hold what?" Vivian asked warily.
Artemis gestured to the collection of prototypes. "I've been working on a new communication method—something more personal, more immediate than Floo or letters. These are all different versions of a two-way system."
Rosaline picked up a black diary, turning the pages. "Like… magical facebook?"
Artemis froze. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Moving on," Artemis said quickly. "It's supposed to work by linking pairs—diaries, mirrors, lockets—so they act as magical conduits, sort of like… a magical wireless connection."
"That's bloody brilliant," Magnus said, and there was no teasing in his voice.
Artemis felt her cheeks warm. "It's not finished."
"It's brilliant anyway," he insisted.
Henry, who had been suspiciously quiet, raised a hand. "Does anything explode? Because if something explodes, I'd like to be warned."
"No explosions," Artemis promised. "Probably."
"Probably?" Eliza repeated, already backing toward the door.
"Can we just test them?" Artemis huffed, handing Iris a diary, Gwenog a locket, and Henry one of the mirrors. She kept a matching set for herself.
The WIX exchanged wary glances.
"Alright," Artemis said, opening her diary and running her wand along the spine. "We're going to try the written link first. When I write something here, it should appear in yours."
Iris, ever the responsible one, braced herself and flipped open the linked diary.
Artemis wrote, Testing, one two three.
The letters shimmered across the page in Iris's journal, only they were upside down and back to front.
Sol, peering over Iris's shoulder, cackled. "Brilliant. The ghosts will love it."
"Bugger," Artemis muttered, flipping her own book over. "Okay, recalibrate…"
Magnus, trying to be helpful, reached for one of the mirrors. "What does this one do?"
"Voice connection," Artemis said absently, still rewriting her runes.
Magnus lifted the mirror, tilting it to catch his reflection. "Hello?"
The mirror emitted a screech so high-pitched that Gwenog, across the room, winced and nearly dropped her locket.
"Bloody hell, Artemis!" Eliza yelped, covering her ears. "What is this, magical sonar?"
"Too much feedback," Artemis said quickly, snatching the mirror away. "I'll fix that."
Vivian picked up the locket, watching the tiny runes glow faintly. "This one's pretty."
"It's supposed to allow real-time voice communication," Artemis explained. "Sort of like a magical walkie-talkie."
"Walkie-what?" Magnus asked, brow furrowed.
"Never mind."
Vivian tapped the locket. "Can you hear me, over?"
The matching locket in Artemis's hand crackled to life, emitting Vivian's voice—but it also included what sounded suspiciously like a cat being strangled in the background.
"I swear to Merlin," Artemis groaned, burying her face in her hands.
"Work in progress," Magnus said cheerfully, though his grin was soft. "We'll get there."
The others, despite their teasing, seemed oddly invested in her success. Henry, still sulking over being the youngest and mostly ignored, was the first to grab a quill and offer suggestions. Sol suggested that they enchant the devices with personality traits—like mirrors that gossiped about nearby people or journals that corrected your spelling.
"Absolutely not," Artemis said firmly.
But despite the chaos, it felt good to share it. It felt like old times.
Which made the letter waiting in her dormitory later that night all the harder to read.
Fenny had left it on her pillow—a soft parchment envelope sealed with the Lovelace crest, the wax slightly smudged. Artemis slid her finger beneath the seal, unfolding the letter with hands that shook slightly.
My Dearest Artemis,
I know you worry when I'm slow to write, and I am sorry for that. You've inherited your stubbornness from me, and I see it most in how you bury your fears under work. I'm afraid I've done the same, and perhaps I've been keeping too much from you.
I am well enough, my darling, though the healers insist I slow down. Nothing drastic, nothing alarming — just the slow, inevitable weight of years catching up with me. My bones creak a bit more, my hands tremble a touch, and sometimes my mind wanders where I can't quite follow.
But I am not afraid. I have lived a long, full life, and my greatest joy has been watching you grow into the extraordinary young woman you are. You have your mother's fierce intellect, your father's wicked humor, your brother's innocence and something all your own — a brightness, a relentless curiosity that lights up every room you enter.
I know you worry, my little star. But there's still time yet. Time for letters, time for visits, and time for all the things you want to show me.
I am proud of you, Artemis. More than you will ever know.
With all my love,
Aunt Aurelia
Artemis pressed the letter against her chest, eyes burning. There was no urgency in the words, no catastrophic warning — but she could read between the lines. Her aunt was tired. Aging. Slipping away, day by day, the way all people do.
And Artemis — brilliant, stubborn, helpless Artemis — could do nothing to stop it.
But maybe, if she could finish something, the mirrors, the journals, the lockets — maybe they could talk more. Maybe there wouldn't be so much distance between them. Maybe magic could close the gap that time had opened.
A knock at her door startled her out of her thoughts.
Sol.
He didn't say anything when she opened the door, just held out a piece of her prototype — the cracked mirror, now cleaned and polished.
"We'll make it work," he said simply. "Whatever this is — we'll help."
Artemis swallowed hard, unable to speak, so she just nodded and let him in.
It wasn't the future she came from — but it was a future she could build.
With them.