Golden morning poured through the tall windows of the Livanthos townhouse, slipping across the marble floors and catching on brass fixtures.
The place always looked like a sunbeam had been polished into stillness — everything in quiet order, soft and lived-in, elegant without needing to say so.
The smell of fresh espresso, toast, and lavender butter drifted from the kitchen.
Mr. Livanthos sat with the Financial Times folded beside his plate, and Mrs. Livanthos — perfectly pressed in a cream silk blouse — was circling her coffee cup slowly, as if timing something invisible.
"Darling," she said without looking up, "we need to talk about your birthday."
Across the table, Talora looked up from her bowl of cereal, golden-brown hair tucked into a braid, wearing a pale blue linen dress that made her eyes seem lighter.
Pandora — now nearly the size of a cat, all white fur and blue-gray eyes — lay curled at her feet, her tail flicking idly against the marble.
"I was hoping you'd forget," Talora said, the corners of her mouth twitching.
Her father peered over his glasses. "You're turning thirteen. We'd have to lose our minds to forget."
Mrs. Livanthos smiled faintly. "Your father nearly has."
"I have not," he countered, but he was smiling too.
Talora stirred her cereal, then set the spoon down with a tiny clink.
"Actually, I think I know what I want this year."
Her parents exchanged a look — wary but curious.
Her birthday parties tended to be… elaborate. There had been violin quartets, river cruises, and one regrettable year involving ice sculptures that nearly froze the cat.
"I want to go to Disneyland Paris," Talora said finally, her voice calm but certain.
"With Shya, Cassian, Roman… and Arya and Tristan too. And maybe Luna, if she hasn't left for New Zealand yet."
Her mother blinked. "Disneyland."
"Paris," Talora added quickly, as though the second word might make it sound more sophisticated.
Her father set his paper down, a slow grin spreading. "That's… remarkably normal of you."
"Which is exactly why you should say yes," Talora said, poker-faced.
Mrs. Livanthos exhaled, then laughed softly. "Fine. We'll arrange it. But no handlers, no entourage. Just you and your friends."
Talora brightened instantly, springing up to kiss her mother's cheek. "Thank you! I'll write everyone right now."
"Letters?" her father teased. "You know, some people use telephones these days."
Talora smirked. "You're the one who said we're not normal."
Upstairs, her room smelled faintly of jasmine and warm linen.
Soft golden sunlight pooled over her desk — a clean expanse of parchment, fountain pens, and a half-finished anthropology essay she'd promised Shya she'd actually finish this summer.
Pandora padded up onto the bed and watched as Talora sat at her writing desk, pulling out her stationery: thick cream paper with gold edges.
Her handwriting — careful, slanted, practiced — spilled neatly across the page.
Dear Luna,
I hope your dad hasn't packed you off to New Zealand yet.
Because I have a plan.
Disneyland. Paris. The last week of July.
You, me, Shya, the boys, Arya, and Tristan.
It'll be loud, chaotic, and probably the best week of our lives.
Love,
–T.
She sealed it with soft blue wax, pressing her moon-shaped stamp into it, and smiled.
Pandora barked once, tail wagging.
"You approve?" Talora said, scratching her head. "Good. Let's hope everyone else does."
Where Talora's world was sunlight and symmetry, Shya's was color and movement.
Her bedroom — the top floor of the Gill family's Belgravia mansion — was a study in contradictions: modern glass walls, deep Indian teakwood furniture, a mural half-finished across one wall. Paint brushes crowded in crystal jars beside sketch pads littered with golden ink strokes.
Shya Kaur Gill woke late, sunlight pooling across her sheets.
Haneera was sprawled beside her, paws twitching, ears flicking.
"Lazy," Shya murmured fondly, stretching. "We're both lazy."
She rolled out of bed, padding barefoot across the polished wood floor.
Her hoodie — oversized and black, with faint paint smudges — hung loosely off one shoulder. Distressed light-wash jeans and white sneakers (still bearing blue streaks from last week's mural) completed the picture: messy, rich, and unconsciously cool.
Her steel kara caught the morning light as she reached for her jewelry:
the Van Cleef mother-of-pearl bracelet she always wore stacked beside it, delicate next to strength.
She added her paperclip diamond earrings and pink diamond studs, both glittering softly under the sunlight.
A thin gold chain disappeared beneath her hoodie.
At her vanity — cluttered, chaotic, brilliant — she smudged on dark eyeliner and lip balm, ran her fingers through her hair, and tied it back with a ribbon she'd painted herself.
She glanced at her reflection and smiled crookedly. "Artist chic. Genius."
Haneera barked softly, tail wagging.
"Don't sass me," Shya said, scooping her up. "We have a mission."
The Leaky Cauldron was busy as always, thick with the smell of firewhisky and honey cakes.
Cassian and Roman were waiting near the back — Cassian composed and impossibly clean-cut, Roman sprawled with the confidence of someone who never had to wait for anything.
"You're late," Cassian said, deadpan.
Shya dropped into the chair across from him, hoodie hood falling forward. "And you're judgmental."
Roman snorted. "She's consistent, I'll give her that."
Haneera peeked out from Shya's bag, blinking up at them.
Cassian's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "She grows every week."
"She's thriving," Shya said proudly. "Which is more than I can say for either of you."
Roman took a long sip of butterbeer. "What's the plan?"
"Operation Talora's Birthday," Shya said briskly. "Step one: Gladrags. Step two: Harrods. Step three: You two don't ruin anything."
Cassian smirked faintly. "Confidence inspiring as ever."
"Just follow my lead, Black," she said, standing. "I know what I'm doing."
The archway to Griffen Street bloomed open with a rush of golden light. The air beyond shimmered faintly with perfume, parchment, and money.
Gladrags Wizardwear rose like a cathedral of fashion — marble floors, gold filigree walls, and silk displays that whispered when you passed.
It was where old names shopped and new ones proved they belonged.
"Miss Gill!" called a familiar voice — Madame Rochelle, the senior couturière, gliding across the floor in storm-gray robes. "Your mother's fabrics have arrived. Firenze lace again — you have exquisite taste."
Shya grinned. "She has money. I have opinions."
Cassian hid a smirk behind his hand. Roman openly laughed.
Madame Rochelle gave them a look that managed to be both indulgent and faintly disapproving.
"Now, what brings you back so soon, my dear?"
"Birthday present," Shya said. "Something for Talora Livanthos."
"Ah," Rochelle said knowingly. "Classic, refined, with just a whisper of rebellion. I understand."
She guided them toward the atelier's private salon, where silk ribbons floated midair, measuring imaginary clients.
A wall of shimmering scarves caught the light. One — ivory with faint gold constellations that shifted slowly — made Shya stop.
"That one," she said. "It's her. She'd wear it everywhere."
Rochelle's smile deepened. "Hand-stitched by moonlight elves. The stars change with the lunar cycle. Practical magic."
Roman leaned in. "So basically, Talora in scarf form."
Shya grinned. "Exactly."
Cassian inspected it closely. "Elegant without trying."
"You get it," she said, triumphant.
Rochelle nodded approvingly. "You always choose well, Miss Gill."
Shya handed over a copy of her vault key (functions like a bank card), the motion smooth and confident.
"Wrap it beautifully, please. She'll pretend not to care but she'll notice."
Outside, the golden cobblestones glowed in the late afternoon light. Shya tucked the package into her bag, the Gladrags ribbon peeking out beside Haneera's sleepy head.
"Next stop: Harrods," she said.
Roman frowned. "The Muggle place?"
Cassian adjusted his cuffs. "The Muggle luxury place."
Shya's lips curved. "You'll fit right in."
They emerged from the brick archway into London's golden hum — taxis streaking by, laughter from café patios, the air thick with heat and perfume.
Inside, Harrods gleamed.
Marble floors reflected gold ceilings; the perfume hall glittered with light.
Every surface sparkled, and the air smelled faintly of roses and wealth.
Cassian slowed as they entered. "It's… decadent."
Roman's grin widened. "I like it already."
"Welcome to my childhood," Shya said, smirking. "Try not to look impressed."
They moved through the store — the Food Hall first, Shya insisting they sample macarons ("for energy," she said), then the glass jewelry counters where light refracted like spells.
Cartier was cool and quiet, all cream marble and crimson trim.
The saleswoman smiled, recognizing Shya at once. "Miss Gill. Welcome back."
"Hi, Grace," Shya said casually. "Picking up a gift. Two, actually."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Two?"
"One's for Talora," she said, running a finger over the glass counter until it stopped.
The Panthère de Cartier bracelet — one in rose gold, one in yellow — gleamed under the spotlights.
"She'll get the rose gold. Her parents are probably getting her the necklace."
Roman glanced at her. "And the other?"
Shya smiled faintly. "For me. It's symmetry."
"So," Roman said, ticking off fingers. "We've got the scarf, the quill, the sweets, and the bracelet. That's everything."
Shya nodded. "Operation Talora: success."
Cassian leaned back, his voice low. "You did well, Gill."
She shrugged. "She deserves it."
The city had turned honey-gold by the time they left Knightsbridge.
Harrods gleamed like a chandelier behind them, the pavement warm beneath their feet.
Shya balanced her shopping bags in one hand and Haneera's carrier in the other, the dog's head poking out like an indulgent queen surveying her subjects.
Cassian looked mildly horrified at the traffic. "You're telling me people drive themselves through this chaos?"
"Welcome to Muggle London," Shya said, grinning. "Chaos is an art form."
Roman leaned against the wall beside her, eyes still flicking over the glittering cars. "Still prefer a broom."
"Well," she said, reaching into her tote with mock drama, "you two are officially out of excuses for being unreachable."
She pulled out two slim white boxes.
Cassian's brow creased. "More trinkets?"
"Better," she said, handing one to each of them. "Phones. The real kind. Not the brick ones they show in Muggle Studies textbooks."
Roman turned the box over like it might explode. "This tiny thing is supposed to replace an owl?"
"Yes," she said patiently. "You can talk, text, and even send pictures."
Cassian arched a brow. "Of what?"
"Of anything," Shya said, trying not to laugh. "And before you panic — they'll work fine here. Electricity only fizzles near ley-lines, and London's blissfully boring."
Roman pressed the button, the screen flaring to life. "It's glowing. It's alive."
"That's called a screen," Shya said, eyes twinkling. "Now, unlock it."
Cassian frowned. "How?"
"Swipe up," she said, taking his hand and guiding it over the glass. The phone opened. "See? Magic you don't need a wand for."
Roman was already snapping pictures of the streetlights. "I'm documenting my descent into Mugglehood."
"Send them to me," Shya said, smirking. "For blackmail."
Cassian's voice was dry. "And what do you call this device again?"
"Freedom," she said, slinging her bag higher. "Or, depending on your attitude, a leash."
The sleek town car hummed through Belgravia's quiet streets, its tinted windows reflecting the gold-pink sunset.
Cassian and Roman leaned back, their new phones glowing faintly as Shya narrated like an overly patient older sister.
"Messages go here. Pictures, here. Calls… here. And if you ever say 'how do I send an emoji,' I'll disown you both."
Roman laughed. "You sound like my tutor."
"I sound like someone doing you a favour," she shot back. "Now, save my number before I change my mind."
Cassian typed, meticulous even in this. "Done."
"Good," she said. "Now, group chat."
Roman looked up. "Group what?"
"Never mind," she said, rolling her eyes. "You'll figure it out."
When they pulled up outside her house, the street was bathed in molten light. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and turned back to them.
"Don't lose them," she warned. "And for the love of Merlin, don't enchant them."
Cassian's mouth curved faintly. "You have no faith in us."
"I have experience," she said, opening the door. "Text me when you get home."
Roman grinned. "I'll send a picture of Kreacher instead."
She laughed, stepping out into the fading light. "That's basically a hate crime."
That same golden glow stretched across two other homes in London.
In the Livanthos townhouse, Talora sat at her desk again — the same cream paper before her, the air smelling faintly of roses and candlewax. Pandora snored at her feet.
Her parents were out on the terrace, the hum of conversation filtering through the open doors.
A soft tap! sounded at her window.
An owl, pale and fluffy, waited patiently, a familiar envelope tied with blue ribbon around its leg.
Talora untied it and unfolded the letter, Luna's uneven handwriting sprawling across the page.
Dearest T,
I'm not leaving for New Zealand until the 28th — Dad says August is better for tracking the elusive Whistling Fang-Frog (he's convinced it sings).
So YES. Paris. The 20th to the 25th sounds perfect.
I've never been to Disneyland — I hear there's a dragon under the castle.
Count me in.
– Luna
Talora smiled, pressing the page flat and whispering, "Perfect."
At the same time across the city, Shya sat cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from her shower, her laptop open beside a half-finished sketch.
Haneera slept curled in her lap, tiny paws twitching.
She opened her phone — her own, glitter-cased and well-worn — and started typing.
to: Talora 🩵
just dropped the boys home.
they've joined the 21st century.
(yes, I bought them phones. yes, I'm a saint.)
I'll text you their numbers — we can actually plan properly now.
operation: paris birthday, go.
A minute later, her phone buzzed.
from: Talora 🩵
you're unhinged but brilliant.
luna can come btw. july 20-25. disneyland paris.
we leave the 20th, back on the 26th.
you're on entertainment duty.
to: Talora 🩵
naturally.
I'll bring chaos, glitter, and snacks.
Shya smiled down at her phone, then at Haneera.
"Paris, huh?" she whispered. "You're coming too, obviously."
The dog gave a soft, sleepy growl of approval.
Outside, London hummed — windows glowing, the air still holding heat from the day.
Across town, Cassian was pacing the Black townhouse, Kreacher muttering in the background; Roman was sprawled on his bed, testing his new phone camera on his reflection; Talora was sealing Luna's letter with blue wax.
And Shya — messy, chaotic, and a little bit brilliant — turned off her lamp and let herself smile into the dark.
The summer stretched wide before them, full of magic, mischief, and promise.