The Annual Dawson New Year's Eve Party had always been a glittering jewel in the crown of wizarding society, a night where power and ambition danced hand-in-hand beneath the vaulted ceilings of Dawson Manor. This year was no different — if anything, the Dawsons had outdone themselves.
Above the crystal chandeliers, enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, each flake glimmering silver before dissolving into faint puffs of mist just above the polished marble floor. The scent of evergreen, mulled wine, and something faintly spiced — possibly cinnamon-dusted firewhiskey — curled through the air, mingling with laughter and the low hum of conversation. A quartet of self-playing violins, charmed to float a few feet above the corner stage, coaxed out a haunting, ethereal arrangement of Auld Lang Syne, the notes shimmering like frost.
Clusters of Ministry officials, senior Healers, and high-profile business owners gathered in polished knots, their conversations layered with the subtle tension that came when too much power shared too little space. Amelia Bones, her monocle glinting sharply in the candlelight, stood near the fireplace in deep conversation with Barty Crouch Sr., both of them speaking in the carefully neutral tones that only seasoned Ministry veterans could manage at social events. Across the room, Daphne Greengrass' mother, Anastasia, sipped delicately from a crystal flute, her smile perfectly poised as she exchanged murmured pleasantries with Algernon Selwyn, a wizened member of the Wizengamot whose opinions could make or break legislation with a raised brow.
But at the center of it all — as always — was Lavania Dawson, her presence a study in controlled grace. Her silver robes caught the candlelight just so, making her seem ethereal as she moved from guest to guest, weaving between conversations with the effortless precision of someone who had spent decades shaping perception like a master sculptor. Her laugh rang clear but never too loud, her praise always warm but never too personal. She could build a relationship in a single sentence and destroy one with a raised brow.
Nearby, Healer Edgar Dawson provided quiet balance to his wife's brilliance. Where Lavania maneuvered, Edgar anchored — a comforting presence to fellow Healers and quieter guests who found the glitz and polish overwhelming. His role was less about influence and more about steadiness, though even Edgar was never entirely out of the political undercurrent that flowed through these rooms.
The WIX, scattered at various points throughout the ballroom, knew better than most how to read these undercurrents. They'd grown up here, after all — or had, at the very least, learned to navigate these waters since their second year. To the casual observer, they were simply bright Hogwarts students — promising, charming, some still a little rough around the edges — but to the WIX themselves, this party was a battlefield in silk gloves.
They didn't need spells to know who was aligned with whom, or which Ministry faction had gained or lost favor in the last year. They heard it in the way names were dropped, in who Lavania introduced to who, in who was offered the better glass of wine and who got nothing but pumpkin fizz. It was all politics — just draped in glittering gowns and polite smiles.
To the WIX, these adults weren't intimidating — they were sources, potential stories waiting to be unraveled. And while the grown-ups sipped firewhiskey and traded favors, the WIX — invisible journalists beneath their polished exteriors — were quietly collecting every piece of information they could get.
The WIX had made an art of blending into formal events while causing as much chaos as possible — usually behind the scenes, where no one important could pin it directly on them. Tonight, though, they'd been warned. Lavania Dawson's look during pre-party preparations had been clear: no fires, no stunts, and under no circumstances were they to "accidentally" rewrite the seating charms again.
So, they behaved. Mostly.
At the base of the grand staircase, all nine of them had assembled in a rare moment of unity, glittering in borrowed sophistication — or, in Sol's case, the bare minimum amount of presentability required to avoid being thrown out.
"Why do you all look like you were hexed into respectability?" Sol demanded, arms flung wide as he scanned the group. "What happened to our brand?"
"We have a brand?" Henry Bell asked, tugging at his collar for the seventh time. His dress robes, perfectly tailored thanks to Elizabeth Bell's keen eye, made him look like an actual heir to something important, which he found deeply unsettling.
"Chaos, but make it fashionable," Gwenog Jones said, brushing an imaginary speck off Artemis' sleeve. "Artemis, I don't even recognize you. You're alarmingly respectable."
"Don't get used to it," Artemis muttered, smoothing down the fitted sleeve of her deep blue-green dress. Family jewels gleamed at her throat and wrist, old gold set with dark emeralds, a sharp contrast to the casual practicality she usually preferred. The dress was expensive — Lavania Dawson had made sure of that — but it was the Lovelace heirloom jewellery that made her look every inch the child of an ancient family. It was a look Artemis was still learning to wear without feeling like a fraud.
Rosaline Dawson, predictably, was fussing over Eliza, adjusting her twin's hair for the third time. "You've got a strand out of place."
"I swear to Merlin," Eliza grumbled, "if you touch my hair again, I'm setting it on fire."
"Not before I document it," Vivian Delacroix said, her sleek bob perfectly framing her mischievous grin. "Historic moment — one twin setting the other ablaze at their own party. Imagine the headlines."
"I like this version of us," Sol declared dramatically. "The stylish, powerful young elites, destined to scandalize wizarding society."
"You mean the version where you've been banned from the drinks table before the party even started?" Iris Lawrence quipped, her hand casually slipping into Gwenog's. Gwenog, who had grudgingly tamed her wild hair for the occasion, curled her fingers briefly around Iris's and gave her a mock-offended look.
"Baseless accusations," Sol sniffed. "I'm a pillar of responsibility."
"No, you're a cautionary tale," Magnus Kane said mildly, adjusting his cufflinks — the only outward sign of his unease with formal gatherings. His robes were only slightly wrinkled, which for Magnus counted as a major achievement.
"Magnus, you are too composed," Sol complained, stepping back and surveying the group like a theatrical director evaluating his cast. "We need at least one unhinged moment to maintain balance."
"Why is that your job?" Eliza asked.
"It's a burden I carry for all of you," Sol said solemnly. "I'm selfless like that."
Artemis, watching this entire exchange with her usual dry detachment, finally shook her head. "Are we going inside, or are we just loitering here until someone drags us?"
"Onward!" Sol declared, sweeping toward the ballroom with exaggerated flair. "Destiny awaits, my friends."
"Is destiny code for food?" Henry asked hopefully.
"Absolutely."
With that, the WIX dispersed into the ballroom, drifting into their familiar roles — some blending into corners, some inserting themselves into polite conversations, and some, like Sol, immediately gravitating toward trouble.
Vivian sat curled into one corner of a velvet sofa, Greg Hattick perched beside her, the two engaged in a passionate debate about whether Muggle or wizarding fireworks were superior.
"Muggle fireworks are quieter," Greg argued. "Less risk of someone's hair catching fire."
"Where's the fun in that?" Vivian countered. "If your eyebrows don't feel slightly at risk, is it even a proper celebration?"
Gwenog and Iris stood together by the balcony doors, their fingers loosely intertwined. Gwenog's usual cocky energy had softened lately, the sharp edges dulled just slightly since her confrontation with Iris weeks earlier. She still glanced at her girlfriend every few seconds, as if reassuring herself Iris was still there, still choosing her. Iris, calm and steady, squeezed Gwenog's hand in return whenever she noticed — a small, wordless promise.
Sol, as always, drifted through the crowd like a chaotic comet, dramatically toasting anyone who made eye contact for too long. He lifted his glass to a confused Herbology consultant who escaped before Sol could deliver a speech about the power of underappreciated ferns.
"Do you think he'd actually die if he stopped talking for more than a minute?" Magnus asked, voice low near Artemis's ear.
Artemis smiled, that small half-smile she saved for when she was too tired to fight it. "I think it's how he processes the absurdity of life."
Magnus glanced down at her, his shoulder brushing hers, and said nothing. His presence, solid and warm, spoke for itself.
Eliza had always liked these parties — the glitter, the attention, the way her family name carried just enough weight to open doors without drowning her in expectations. But tonight, there was something different in the air. Something about the way people's gazes slid toward her and then away again — not dismissive, but considering, as if they were measuring her for something just out of reach.
It had been happening more and more lately. Quiet moments at practice when visiting scouts lingered just a bit too long, professors who seemed surprised when she answered questions correctly, as though her talent with a broomstick precluded intelligence. Being a Dawson twin always meant being noticed, but this was different. This was her, not Rosaline — her skill, her potential, her future.
So when Harold Barker introduced himself, all warm smiles and mild manners, she was primed to want to believe him.
"I've followed your matches all year," Barker said, the edges of his smile just right, wide enough to suggest enthusiasm, not so wide it felt false. "The way you play — fearless but smart. That's rare."
Eliza's cheeks warmed at the praise, that familiar, aching need to be seen flaring to life in her chest. "Thank you," she said, voice just a little too eager. "I've been working on my strategic passing —"
"It shows." His hand, light as air, rested on her elbow as he steered her slightly away from the buffet table, where Sol was loudly trying to convince a house-elf to hand over an entire tray of mini-pasties. "You've got the instincts they're looking for."
She knew — somewhere, in the corner of her mind where instincts were sharper than ego — that he was standing too close.
But he was a recruiter. This was how things worked, wasn't it? A bit of extra attention, a hand guiding her away from the noise, quiet words exchanged in corners where scouts didn't have to compete with loud music and floating champagne trays. She'd heard Rosaline grumble about it — how Quidditch players were treated like walking investments — but wasn't that what she wanted? To be invested in? To be someone worth following?
Still, that flutter of pride was quickly tangled with something less pleasant as they stepped toward the edge of the ballroom, his hand sliding from her elbow to the small of her back. It was polite, almost impersonal, but it stayed there too long — a fraction of a second past appropriate.
Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat, but Barker didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did — and that was the point.
"You know," he continued smoothly, his voice dropping just slightly, "it's not just your talent on the pitch. It's how you carry yourself. Confident, but approachable."
Eliza's breath caught. The words were perfectly tailored to her insecurities — she'd spent so much of her life feeling like the other Dawson twin, the louder one, the flashier one, the one who didn't quite fit the poised elegance Rosaline wore so easily. To be described like this — like someone worthy of notice, of professional interest — it was heady.
And it made the cold, prickling unease at the base of her neck that much easier to ignore.
"You really think so?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
"I know so," Barker said, leaning just a hair closer, his breath warm near her ear. "Why don't we step somewhere quieter? Too loud in here for real talk."
The ballroom had been noisy all evening, and the side parlor was barely a few steps away, the door ajar and candlelight spilling onto the polished floor. It was logical. Sensible.
But her stomach clenched hard, that creeping unease sharpening until it was nearly impossible to swallow. This is how it's done, right? she told herself. These kinds of conversations aren't public. That doesn't mean anything's wrong.
But his hand was still at her back, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress in a way that was almost casual — but not quite. Not enough to scream. Not enough to run.
Sol hadn't meant to follow Eliza. He really hadn't.
He'd been in the middle of dramatically regaling a rather bemused Herbology consultant with his impassioned defense of the underappreciated Fanged Fern, fully intending to slip away and filch an extra dessert before Rosaline could catch him. But his eye, always wandering — always cataloguing things most people never bothered to notice — had snagged on the figure of Harold Barker.
The man was forgettable in every way, which made Sol's instincts prickle. People like that were the most dangerous — the ones you never noticed until they were too close. But it wasn't Barker alone that made Sol's stomach twist.
It was Eliza.
Her posture was off, just slightly. She stood straighter than usual, her shoulders squared the way they were when she was trying to be impressive, but her neck was tight, her fingers fluttering nervously along the side of her dress. Her smile was there — but it was polished, not real. The kind of smile you put on when you weren't sure if you were the joke or the punchline.
Barker's body angled between her and the crowd, subtle but deliberate — a small shield that cut her off from everyone else. The way his hand rested too long at the small of her back, the way he leaned just a little closer than conversation required — none of it screamed danger, but Sol's gut screamed loud enough for both of them.
He knew what this was.
Sol had perfected the art of being the carefree idiot — the charming disaster who bumbled into rooms with too much noise and too little grace, a living distraction in brightly colored robes. But behind the chaos, he saw things. He noticed the way people leaned away from uncomfortable conversations, the way girls elbowed each other when a professor stood too close, the way certain blokes found excuses to guide younger students away from the crowds.
He knew what predatory interest looked like. And right now, Eliza was standing in the middle of it.
The urge to crack a joke, to call out something ridiculous and draw the eyes of everyone in the room, coiled in his chest like a reflex — the armor he wore whenever things felt too sharp. But this wasn't a prank. This was Eliza.
One of his people. His family.
The humor was still there — because Sol was Sol — but underneath it, fury curled low and cold in his stomach, the kind that made his hands itch and his smile just a little too sharp.
"Eliza!" he called, too loud on purpose, shattering the thin bubble of isolation around her like a stone through glass.
The bright, slightly manic grin that stretched across his face was pure Sol Moonfall, a performance crafted over years — but his heart was pounding too fast beneath it, adrenaline burning at the edges.
Eliza turned, and for a second — just a second — Sol saw relief flicker behind her wide eyes. That was all the confirmation he needed.
"We're doing the WIX toast!" he declared, charging across the room like a human Bludger, perfectly comfortable making an absolute spectacle of himself if it meant giving Eliza a way out.
Barker's hand tensed, just for a moment, before slipping away.
"We're doing the WIX toast!" Sol declared again, his grin wide enough to split his face. "You can't miss it — it's a sacred tradition!"
Eliza blinked. "What toast?"
"The annual one," Sol said, eyes just a bit too sharp despite the gleeful facade. "All nine of us — can't break the streak."
Barker's smile didn't falter — but it cooled, shifting from professional warmth to something more clinical, like a man mentally reviewing his options.
"We were just discussing—"
"Great!" Sol interrupted, beaming. "Discuss over butterbeer. Come on, Eliza."
Sol's hand settled on her arm as they wove back into the crowd, his grip just firm enough to ground her.
"That guy's bad news," Sol muttered under his breath.
"What? No, he—"
"Trust me," Sol said, and the humor was gone entirely. "We're telling your mum."
Eliza's stomach twisted again — but this time, it wasn't the same pride-fear tangle. It was just fear — and relief that Sol had seen her sinking and yanked her back before it was too late.
The moment Eliza stepped into the side parlor where her parents waited, the air shifted. The festive warmth of the party hadn't reached this room — it was too quiet, too still, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. The soft glow from the floating sconces did nothing to soften the sharpness of Lavania Dawson's expression.
Lavania stood by the window, a glass of untouched elf-made wine in her hand, though her fingers curled so tightly around the delicate stem it was a wonder the glass hadn't shattered. There was no raised voice, no outward panic — Lavania Dawson didn't need volume to make herself heard. Her fury, when it came, was far more lethal.
"Where is he?" Lavania asked, her voice silk-smooth but sharp enough to cut through marble.
Edgar stood just behind her, his posture far less composed. His hands, so often gentle — the hands of a healer, hands meant for repairing broken bones and mending torn skin — were curled into fists, veins standing stark along his forearms. He had always been the calmer one, the balance to Lavania's ambition, but tonight there was nothing calm in the set of his jaw or the tremor in his voice.
"This house was supposed to be safe," Edgar said hoarsely, the words grinding out like stone on stone.
"It will be," came Aurelia Lovelace's voice from the doorway.
She stood with her cane in hand, her robes a shade of poisonous green that caught the candlelight in unpleasant ways, her sharp eyes scanning the room with the cold, clinical precision of a woman who had outlived wars and scandals alike. There was no trembling outrage in Aurelia's voice — just the quiet promise of ruin.
"He'll wish he was Kissed when I'm through with him," Aurelia said, her cane tapping once, a soft and measured sound that somehow rang louder than Lavania's fury.
Eliza stood stiffly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, shrinking even under the protection of the people who loved her. Rosaline hovered at her side, her knuckles white where they gripped Eliza's wrist, though her voice was gone, all her usual fire replaced with a kind of helpless fury.
"We've already detained him," Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice came from the hall as he stepped inside. His deep baritone carried with it the weight of official authority, but there was an edge of personal disgust riding beneath it. "He didn't get far."
Lavania's smile was thin and glacial. "Make sure he knows exactly whose daughter he put his hands on."
"He will," Kingsley assured her.
But Lavania's gaze slid from Kingsley to Elizabeth Bell, who had appeared just behind him, the soft rustle of her emerald robes the only sound. Where Lavania's fury was sharpened into a weapon, Elizabeth's was quiet and devastating, the particular kind of anger wielded by women who knew exactly where to apply pressure for the maximum destruction with minimum noise.
"The Wixen Chronicles will cover every detail," Elizabeth said, her voice low but resolute. "There will be no sanitizing this, no burying it under convenient ministry silence. If he's done it to one girl, he's done it to others. We'll find them."
Alan Bell stood beside her, his expression tight with fury kept in check only by years of legal training. His wife was the CEO, the face of The Wixen Chronicles, but Alan was the architect of its ironclad protections, the one who made sure no threat — political or otherwise — could muzzle them.
"The moment charges are laid, we print," Alan said quietly.
"That's not enough," Edgar said, his voice rough as his hands flexed at his sides. "He doesn't deserve the protection of a trial."
"No," Lavania said, turning slightly, her expression colder than ice. "But we deserve to show exactly who he is — so no one, anywhere, can ever let him near their daughters again."
Sol stood a little apart from the others, uncharacteristically quiet, his usual humor absent. He was watching Eliza the way someone watches a falling tower, waiting to see if it's really going to collapse — or if it might, impossibly, hold. His hand brushed Eliza's elbow for a moment, just long enough for her to feel it before he let go.
Eliza, still trembling, whispered, "I'm sorry."
The silence that followed was almost unbearable.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Lavania said sharply, the rare crack in her voice showing just how deeply the night had shaken her. "Do you hear me, Eliza?"
Eliza nodded quickly, but her eyes were still too bright, her hands twisting the fabric of her dress.
Aurelia stepped closer, her cane tapping rhythmically, like the countdown of something ancient and inevitable. "He will pay," Aurelia said softly, and though her voice was gentle, there was nothing soft in her promise. "But that is not the part that matters right now."
Eliza blinked. "What part matters?"
Aurelia's gaze swept across the room — over Sol's unusually solemn face, Rosaline's pale knuckles, the hard set of Edgar's jaw, Lavania's burning restraint, Elizabeth's professional poise — and finally, back to Eliza herself.
"You survived," Aurelia said, her voice dropping even softer, until only Eliza could truly hear it. "You walked away. Not everyone does."
Eliza's throat clenched tight, and she swallowed against the wave of guilt and shame and relief crashing over her all at once.
"You survived," Aurelia repeated. "And no matter how much they whisper, no matter how much you doubt yourself, you did nothing wrong."
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut, and the first tear slipped down her cheek. Rosaline's arm wrapped around her, and Eliza finally let herself lean into her twin, into her mother, into Sol, into the arms waiting for her — no longer standing alone.
Aurelia stepped back, letting the younger generation close ranks around their own. There was power in the old ways, yes — but sometimes, the strongest defense came from the people you grew up beside.
Eliza's bedroom had never felt this small.
The pale lavender walls, usually so soft and familiar, seemed to press inward, shrinking the space until every breath felt too tight. The floating shelves filled with Quidditch trophies, practice schedules, and old school photos all felt like they belonged to someone else, a girl who hadn't frozen under a stranger's hand, a girl who didn't feel like her skin was still crawling even though no one was touching her now.
She sat on her bed, knees drawn up, fingers tangled in the soft folds of her dress, wrinkling the once-smooth fabric without noticing. Her hair was still perfectly done, her makeup untouched — but she felt undone, like if someone so much as said her name wrong, she might fall apart completely.
The rest of the WIX were crammed into the room, though none of them were talking. Their silence wasn't awkward — it was thick and heavy, a shared grief and fury hanging between them.
Rosaline stood by the window, her back to the room, one hand pressed flat to the cold glass like she could anchor herself to it. Her face was set in careful, tight lines, but her reflection in the glass gave her away — her jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder her teeth hadn't cracked.
"I should have been there," Rosaline whispered, barely loud enough to hear.
"You were," Artemis said softly from where she sat on the edge of the desk, her voice low but unshakable. "We all were."
It didn't feel like enough, not to Rosaline, not to any of them.
Gwenog paced restlessly at the foot of the bed, hands flexing at her sides like she was moments from punching the wall. Gwenog didn't do helplessness well — and knowing that someone had dared to put their hands on Eliza, dared to think they could get away with it, made her stomach twist in ways she couldn't untangle.
"This isn't supposed to happen at parties like this," Gwenog muttered, her voice low and hard. "Not here. Not to us."
The worst part was that she knew better. They all did. They were teenage girls, after all. No place was ever really safe.
On the opposite side of the bed, Iris sat cross-legged, her fingers trailing slow, comforting circles between Eliza's shoulder blades. Her touch was light, practical comfort, the kind you didn't have to think about accepting. With her free hand, she quietly summoned a glass of water from the bedside table and nudged it into Eliza's hands, not saying a word — just offering.
"You're freezing," Iris said softly, rising smoothly to cross the room. She opened the wardrobe, hands already familiar with the cluttered inside, and pulled out Eliza's oldest, softest jumper — the faded green Harpies one, worn at the cuffs and slightly too big. The one she always reached for after rough matches or bad days.
Iris returned and gently draped it around Eliza's shoulders, her touch lingering long enough for Eliza to lean into it. That simple, steady pressure — I'm here — was sometimes all Iris needed to say.
At the door, Magnus stood with his back to the wall, arms folded, his eyes constantly flicking toward the hallway like he was ready to throw out anyone who so much as breathed wrong near them. Magnus never filled silence with words — he filled it with presence, a quiet shield at the edge of every storm, his calm settling over the room even when nothing else could.
Sol, sprawled on the floor beside the bed, his back resting against the side, was unusually still. His knees were bent, elbows resting on them, fingers raking through his dark hair over and over. His usual grin was gone, his face drawn tight with frustration — not at Eliza, but at himself.
"Seriously," Sol said, forcing his voice into something too bright, too loud, the humor straining at the edges. "At least I got to make an entrance, right? Pretty sure the whole ballroom will remember me for my toast, if nothing else."
It wasn't funny, but Eliza smiled anyway, because that's what Sol did — he pulled laughter out of nothing, even when it hurt.
"You're ridiculous," she said, her voice small but clearer than before.
"And you love me for it," Sol shot back automatically, though there was no real confidence behind it. Only relief.
He didn't say the part that was eating him alive — that if he hadn't been watching, hadn't seen it, Barker might have gotten her away from the crowd. That the whole night might have ended very, very differently.
Rosaline finally turned from the window, her expression slipping from carefully composed to raw around the edges. "We're never letting you out of our sight again."
"You can't—" Eliza started.
"We can," Rosaline said sharply, her arms folding tight across her chest. "We can and we will."
"It's not your job to follow me everywhere."
"No," Rosaline said, her voice softening. "But it's my job to make sure you know you don't have to do any of it alone."
Eliza's breath caught, and her fingers twisted the cuff of her jumper, the fabric soft and grounding against her skin.
"You're allowed to be angry," Rosaline added, her voice quieter but no less firm. "And sad. And scared. Whatever you feel — it's yours. No one gets to tell you otherwise."
"You're also allowed to know," Magnus added quietly, "that none of it was your fault."
Eliza's breath shuddered, the knot in her chest loosening just enough to let the first tear spill down her cheek.
Gwenog, still pacing, exhaled sharply and dragged her hands through her hair. "If you ever want to hex something — anything — I'm your girl."
That — finally — earned a soft, wobbly laugh from Eliza. "I'll let you know."
The tension eased just slightly, enough for the weight in the room to shift from crushing to bearable, enough for Eliza to sit a little straighter, her back still pressed into Iris' comforting hand.
"We've got you," Artemis said, her voice like iron wrapped in velvet. "You know that, right?"
"I know." And this time, Eliza meant it.
They stayed there, the nine of them, curled into the small space of her bedroom, the entire world reduced to this room, this night, these people.
The house might have let danger through its doors, but the WIX never would again.