The summer rolled by in waves of warmth, laughter, and discovery—one golden day folding gently into the next.
At the Tonks household, time moved slower but fuller. Between splashes in the enchanted garden pool and late-night talks under the stars, the trio found a new rhythm. It wasn't the tightly-wound excitement of Hogwarts or the quiet adrenaline of secret pranks—it was something else. Softer. Deeper. Real.
Their mornings were often spent lounging with books sprawled open in the sun, catching up on both magical theory and the chaotic scrawl of the Marauder prank journal. Iris took to Lily's potion book like it was a sacred relic, jotting notes and annotations with fierce concentration. Every new discovery made her eyes light up.
Hadrian, for his part, found joy in the quiet. In between helping Ted in the garden or dodging Andromeda's gentle insistence that he eat something more than toast, he often lay beneath the tree line with parchment in hand—writing letters, sketching plans, or simply thinking.
Dora brought the energy. She taught them muggle card games that turned into enchanted duels with magically animated cards leaping from the deck like tiny warriors. She also helped the twins perfect their subtle transformation disguises, just in case they needed to be "unnoticeable" for a summer prank or an impromptu ice cream raid on the corner vendor in disguise.
They visited Diagon Alley once under Andromeda's careful eye—mostly to replace ink and parchment, but they snuck into Quality Quidditch Supplies long enough for Hadrian to sigh longingly at the brooms. Iris dragged them to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary and spent nearly an hour debating between three different stirring rods. Dora had to drag her out by the elbow.
They played chess with exploding pawns, enchanted lemonade to bubble in different colors, and even tried their hand at cooking a full dinner magically—earning mixed results and one scorched pan that still smelled faintly of treacle tart.
Through it all, their bond grew. Laughter layered over memories, filling in cracks that none of them had realized were there. Their shared grief had softened in the warmth of found family and silliness. They didn't talk about what came next. Not really. But it lingered—just out of sight, like the first stars at twilight.
And then, suddenly, it was the day before their birthday.
The house was quieter than usual, with a sense of gentle anticipation humming beneath the surface. Ted had mysteriously taken off for "errands," and Andromeda had been humming while tidying—a sign that something was brewing.
That evening, as the golden light began to fade behind the hills, the three of them sat on the porch steps, sipping chilled pumpkin juice and watching the sky paint itself in fading blue and amber.
"Do you think they'll come?" Iris asked softly, without specifying who.
Hadrian gave a faint smile. "Yeah. I think they will."
Dora bumped her shoulder gently against Iris's. "Well, if they don't, we'll still have cake. And I expect at least two presents each."
"Two?" Hadrian said, feigning shock. "That's excessive."
"Then I guess you don't want yours," she teased.
They laughed, leaning into each other as night slowly draped over the world.