The holidays had passed in a blur of warmth and celebration, but as the frost-covered countryside of Scotland came into view from the Hogwarts Express, Artemis Lovelace couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and longing. She had grown accustomed to the cozy gatherings at the Dawson farmhouse, the indulgent feasts, and the laughter-filled nights. Now, she and the twins, Rosaline and Eliza Dawson, were on their way back to Hogwarts, leaving behind a bittersweet scene—Henry Bell standing at the train station, waving them off, equal parts thrilled about his upcoming Hogwarts journey and saddened by their departure.
"You better write," Henry had insisted as he squeezed Rosaline's hand before they boarded the train. "And I mean proper letters, not just two-line notes."
Eliza had rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Henry. We'll see you soon enough."
Rosaline smirked. "Besides, you'll be here come September. Then you'll be the one struggling to keep up with all the letters."
As the train pulled away, Artemis caught sight of Henry in the distance, standing next to his parents, clutching his Hogwarts letter tightly. He had received it on January 5th, just a day after his birthday, and his excitement had been palpable ever since.
Upon their return to Hogwarts, Artemis quickly found herself back in the routine of academic pursuits. Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn had taken a keen interest in her research, offering to help refine her paper before submission to prestigious magical publications.
"A truly remarkable piece for someone so young," Flitwick had praised, his eyes twinkling as he skimmed through her parchment. "It's been quite some time since I've seen such a well-researched analysis from a first-year."
Slughorn, always eager to attach himself to rising talent, was equally enthusiastic. "Yes, yes! Brilliant work, my dear! We'll get this sent off to a few well-respected journals. The Journal of Experimental Magical Theories would certainly be interested. And—oh, I must send a copy to my dear friend Damocles Belby!"
Artemis, though pleased, was wary of Slughorn's excessive praise. Still, she graciously accepted their guidance, sending off the refined version of her paper by the end of the week. A few days later, a letter arrived by owl from her Aunt Aurelia, who had clearly wasted no time in celebrating her niece's accomplishments.
Dearest Artemis,
I cannot express how proud I am of you. To achieve such recognition at your age is no small feat, and you must allow yourself to revel in it, if only for a moment. I have no doubt that this is merely the beginning of your academic legacy. Continue on this path, and you will surpass even my expectations.
Warmest regards,
Aunt Aurelia.
Artemis read the letter twice before tucking it safely into her satchel, feeling a warmth in her chest at her aunt's words.
Between classes and research, Artemis found herself deepening her friendships with her fellow Ravenclaws. Over meals in the Great Hall and late-night study sessions in the common room, she recounted tales from the holidays—particularly the New Year's celebration at the Dawsons' German farmhouse.
Iris Lawrence, who had become a tentative friend, remarked, "It must have been lovely to be away from all the tension here," after listening intently.
"It was," Artemis admitted. "There were serious discussions, of course. My aunt and Mr. Dawson spoke at length about the state of things back home. But for the most part, it was lighthearted. Games, dancing, a bit of drinking on the adults' part—"
"Did they get ridiculous?" Sol Moonfall asked eagerly, his ever-present mischievous grin widening.
"Let's just say my aunt, normally the picture of refined dignity, actually joined in a dance contest. And won."
That sent Sol into a fit of laughter. "Merlin's beard, I would pay to see that."
Vivian Delacroix, ever composed, sipped her tea thoughtfully. "I imagine your aunt is quite formidable in more ways than one."
Artemis smirked. "You have no idea."
Magnus Kane, who had been quietly flipping through a tome on ancient runes, looked up with interest. "And the Slughorn soirée? You mentioned he had an unexpected surprise?"
Artemis chuckled. "Oh, yes. The great Professor Slughorn, master of connections, had no idea he had invited my aunt as my guardian to his little gathering. When he realized who she was, he nearly fainted. Spent the entire evening alternating between dazzling admiration and desperate attempts to make a lasting impression."
"That's the most Slughorn thing I've ever heard," Iris remarked dryly, earning a round of laughter from the group.
As the weeks passed, the Hogwarts routine resumed its familiar rhythm. Snow still clung stubbornly to the castle grounds, and students wrapped themselves in layers as they moved between classes. Discussions turned toward the upcoming year—ambitions, aspirations, and what the next term would bring.
Iris expressed her hopes of securing an apprenticeship with Madam Pince to gain insight into magical bookkeeping. Sol entertained the idea of starting a school-wide prank war, much to the horror of the more rule-abiding students. Vivian was quietly contemplating an advanced study in transfiguration, and Magnus, ever the academic, was considering a research project on Magical Staircases.
As the conversation shifted, Rosaline and Eliza chimed in about their own aspirations for the coming year.
"I'm going to convince Mother and Father to let us spend some time abroad this summer," Rosaline declared confidently. "Perhaps France or Spain. It would be wonderful to experience magical cultures outside Britain."
"As long as it doesn't involve any more etiquette lessons," Eliza muttered. "I swear, if I have to sit through another afternoon of 'proper wizarding courtly manners'—"
"You might as well embrace it," Rosaline teased. "After all, one day, you might be a famous Quidditch player. You'll need to know how to carry yourself at galas."
Eliza rolled her eyes. "Only if I can bring my broomstick to the ball."
Artemis grinned, enjoying the lively exchange. "At least you two have plans. I suppose I'll continue working on my research, though I am looking forward to Henry joining us next year."For now, though, Artemis focused on the present—on her friendships, her research, and the quiet moments of laughter in between the uncertainty that loomed outside the castle walls.
Rosaline nodded. "Oh, he's going to be insufferable with excitement. We should start preparing for him now."
Eliza smirked. "Yes, starting with warning him about Peeves. He has no idea what he's in for."
The newspaper the next day shattered the semblance of peace.
Dark Forces Escalate: Entire Village Vanishes Overnight
By Barnabas C., Chief War Correspondent
In a chilling escalation of violence, the wizarding village of Oakstone, located in southern England, has disappeared overnight. Aurors investigating the site found no bodies, no signs of resistance — only a vast, unnatural scorch mark spreading across the snow-dusted ground where the village once stood. Sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirm that the village's wards were shattered in mere moments, too swiftly for any organized evacuation.
Among the missing are Healer Margaret Fletchley and her family, including her infant son, who was celebrated just last month for surviving a rare magical ailment. Neighbors described seeing strange lights flickering through the trees the evening prior, followed by a silence so profound it unnerved even the most experienced wizards.
Newly Elected minister Bagnold has urged calm, but internal memos obtained by the Prophet suggest the Ministry is increasingly concerned that Voldemort's forces are no longer satisfied with targeting specific individuals. Whole communities, especially those providing refuge to Muggleborn families and suspected Order sympathizers, are now at risk.
"This was not just an attack," said one high-ranking Auror who requested anonymity. "This was a message. Nowhere is truly safe."
As fear spreads across Britain, even traditionally neutral families are reconsidering their silence. With the war bleeding into places once considered untouchable, many are left asking — how much longer can the world pretend Hogwarts is truly safe?
The candlelight flickered softly in the Ravenclaw common room as Artemis Lovelace sat alone curled up in an armchair, parchment sprawled across her lap. The fire crackled in the hearth, providing warmth against the late winter chill, but she barely noticed it. Her quill hovered over the blank space, ink glistening under the dim lighting. This was it—the moment of decision.
She had spent weeks deliberating on how to proceed. Despite her youth, Artemis knew too much about the war, and while she had sworn to stay out of direct conflict for the safety of her aunt, friends, and family, she couldn't turn a blind eye either. The knowledge she carried was dangerous, but it was also necessary.
Instead of revealing herself outright, she had devised a plan—one that would ensure anonymity while nudging the right people in the right direction. The first step was ensuring that nothing magical connected her to these letters.
"Fenny," she whispered into the empty room.
A soft pop echoed, and her loyal house-elf appeared, bowing low. "Mistress Artemis, Fenny is here. How may Fenny help?"
Artemis smiled slightly, setting her quill aside. "I need you to take these letters and get them printed through a Muggle method. No magic involved. Just ink, paper, and whatever Muggles use to do this."
Fenny's large eyes blinked in understanding. "Mistress wishes to keep them untraceable?"
"Exactly," Artemis nodded. "I trust you to be careful."
"Fenny will do it. Fenny is always careful for Mistress." The elf took the rolled-up parchment and disappeared with another soft pop.
Alone once more, Artemis leaned back against the chair, her mind whirling. The letters had been meticulously crafted, written under the pseudonym Brian Getaway—a fabricated identity, supposedly a squib seer who had been receiving cryptic visions. It was the safest way to leak information without raising suspicions, and if Dumbledore didn't trust the information, she would take firm actions in the next war after she had power to protect her near and dear ones.
The first letter contained vague but carefully constructed words about two boys, a prophecy, and the shifting tides of war. It hinted that one of these children would become a key figure in the fight against Voldemort.
The second letter was more direct. It spoke of lost relics, ancient magics that tethered Voldemort's existence to this plane, A soul fragmented in a way never seen before.
"There lies a locket, hidden in a house belonging to an ancient and noble dark family, guarded by a servant who remains unseen always.
A diary, held in the hands of a bright haired powerful family, its ink tainted with a soul that does not belong."
Artemis knew she could not give too much away. Too much detail might make Dumbledore suspicious of the source. But this would be enough. It would point him in the right direction without revealing how she knew.
When Fenny returned the next evening, the letters were neatly printed on crisp, unmarked Muggle paper. Artemis carefully sealed them, instructing Fenny to deliver them through means as mundane as possible. A simple drop in an unnoticed place. A post owl hired in a regular post office in some random alley. No direct ties back to her.
As she handed the letters over, a weight settled in her chest. This was dangerous. But it was necessary.
Was the reference to the diary too obvious? Would Dumbledore follow that thread, or dismiss it as too convenient? Every word was a balance — reveal enough to point him forward, not enough to expose herself. One wrong phrase, and she risked becoming a mystery worth solving.
She wasn't fighting the war. She was only whispering into the storm, nudging fate ever so slightly.
Dumbledore's POV
Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, the glow of candlelight casting long shadows that danced across the worn edges of his desk. The tower was quiet at this hour, save for the faint scrape of Fawkes shifting on his perch and the restless sigh of the wind against the enchanted window panes. Before him lay a plain envelope, the sort that might easily pass unnoticed among the flood of correspondence that crossed his desk each day. No crest. No magical signature. Not even a trace of the faint residual warmth that normally clung to letters handled by wizarding hands.
That, in itself, was unsettling.
In a world where every conversation carried risk, every scrap of parchment could be a weapon, it was the absence of magic that made this letter stand out. Muggle means. Deliberate, cautious, the work of someone who understood just how closely the Ministry — and others — monitored owl traffic these days.
His fingers traced the edge of the envelope, his movements slow, methodical, yet the faintest tremor betrayed the tension coiled deep within his bones. War had settled into him like a chronic ache, a constant hum of urgency that left no room for comfort. This letter, this unassuming thing, might well be another weight to carry — or a trap.
He unfolded the parchments, eyes sweeping across the neatly typed words, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.
To Albus Dumbledore,
You do not know me, nor shall you ever. I am but a seer—one with no magic but with sight beyond this realm. I have foreseen a prophecy that shall alter the course of this war, one that has already been spoken and set in motion.
Two boys shall be born at the end of July, children of those who have thrice defied the Dark Lord. One of them shall bring his downfall. But the Dark Lord knows this too. He hunts for them, and the clock ticks ever closer to his reckoning. Protect them.
The tide of war will shift not only through fate, but through knowledge. There are things you do not yet see, Headmaster. The past clings to the present in the form of objects—fragments of a soul desperate for immortality.
I offer you hints, no more, no less.
- Brian Getaway
Dumbledore sat back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as his mind unraveled the implications. The letters confirmed something he had long suspected: Voldemort had knowledge of the prophecy. Though Sybill Trelawney's words had been spoken in the Hog's Head last November, their weight had not yet been fully realized. Severus Snape had been the one to overhear them—or at least a portion. How much had he relayed? The consequences of that remained to be seen.
His thoughts drifted to the two women carrying the future within them—Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom. Both due to give birth in July. Both married to men in his order and both couples had defied Voldemort three times already. The danger to them had grown exponentially since the prophecy had been uttered.
But the next letter—it was not about them. It was about something even more insidious.
Horcruxes.
He had long suspected that Voldemort had used dark magic beyond even what most feared to imagine, but confirmation—if this was truly such—was something else entirely. A diary? That in itself was strange. Why would Tom Riddle have left a diary imbued with power? Who held it? The letter mentioned a noble family. The Malfoys? The Blacks? The LeStranges? The Rosiers? The Notts? all had long been close to Voldemort. The diary, if it indeed contained part of his soul, would not have been given lightly. Abraxus Malfoy was an obvious possibility, Theoddarus Nott Another, Randalf LeStrange, Orion Black yet another—Voldemort had always favored the wealthy, well-connected purebloods, and These especially had been loyal followers since Tom's school days. But it could be anyone else as well.
The other hint troubled him more. A servant's keeping. An ancient house. That was more cryptic. The Blacks, perhaps? The House of Carrows? If a servant was involved, it was unlikely to be a direct Death Eater or someone in a position of power. House-elves, perhaps.
But which house? The Gaunts were long gone, and their estate had crumbled into nothingness. The LeStranges, Notts, Blacks, Carrows, Rosiers however, still held power, fractured though they were.
His fingers tapped idly against his desk. The challenge now was to investigate without arousing suspicion. If he were to ask outright, even in a roundabout manner, it would alert the wrong people. The Malfoys, particularly Abraxus, were too clever to reveal anything unless backed into a corner.
As for the other Horcrux—if a Servant was involved, that made it all the more difficult. House-elves were notoriously loyal, and few would ever betray their masters' secrets.
Dumbledore's hands flattened against the desk, frustration prickling at the edges of his usually implacable calm. The letter was too convenient. Too knowing. Too carefully worded, as though the sender understood precisely how much truth to offer without revealing their source. That was dangerous — no one should know this much, not even Alastor, not even himself.
Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, the sound bright and clear against the heavy air. Dumbledore glanced at his companion, a flicker of something like guilt passing across his features. He had gambled too often with trust — trusting Tom once, trusting Severus now, trusting in prophecy, trusting in fate.
And now, this.
An anonymous hand offering just enough truth to guide him down a road someone else had chosen.
For a brief, irrational moment, he considered ignoring it. Filing the letter away in some forgotten drawer and pretending it had never arrived. There was too much uncertainty, and war made even wise men paranoid. The path to hell was paved with half-truths, after all — and who was to say this wasn't bait? Bait for his curiosity. Bait to lure him into confronting Voldemort too soon, without knowing how many fragments he needed to destroy.
But the weight of it was already settling into his bones.
He couldn't ignore it. Even if it was bait, the knowledge was too precise, too dangerous to disregard. If Voldemort truly had splintered his soul, then the war would not be won by spells alone. No duel, no battle, no victory could truly end him until every fragment was found and destroyed.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, folding the letter with care, slipping it into the hidden drawer beneath his desk. His fingers lingered over the wood, trembling faintly, as though somewhere deep inside, he already knew that this letter — this anonymous whisper — had just rewritten the war.
The name 'Brian Getaway' meant nothing. No record in Hogwarts' student rolls, no mentions in the Department of Mysteries' archives. But Dumbledore knew better than to dismiss ghosts — especially ones that knew too much.
It had given him hope.
And it had made him afraid.
For the first time in years, Albus Dumbledore felt truly afraid.
Not just of Voldemort.
But of how much of the future had already been stolen from his hands.