The July heat clung to the city like an afterthought — the kind that made every bit of pavement shimmer. The British Museum loomed above them, its marble columns and massive steps buzzing with tourists.
Talora and Shya arrived first.
Shya's black hair was braided loose, gold hoops glinting in the sun. She wore a oversized black t-shirt tucked into extremely ripped boyfriend jeans, and her gold rings caught every glint of light when she adjusted her sunglasses. Her makeup shimmered — thin black winged liner and a faint, glittering blue eyeshadow that caught when she blinked. The kind of look that dared the world to underestimate her.
Beside her, Talora was her opposite — calm, bright, and sunlit. Her golden-brown hair was tied back with a white ribbon, her linen shorts crisp, her blue-and-white striped blouse tucked in neatly. Her makeup was soft and classic: bronze eyes, clear gloss, and a red-tinted balm that made her look effortlessly polished. Pandora, her white Cadejo pup, peeked out of her emerald Occamy Birkin, little paws resting on the rim.
Haneera, Shya's black Gwyllgi pup, was nestled in her own obsidian Birkin base, glowing eyes blinking sleepily as her head poked out from the enchanted lining. Both dogs looked absurdly pampered — and thoroughly adored.
"They're late," Talora said, shading her eyes. "How hard is it to find a museum that's the size of an empire?"
Shya snorted. "Please. They're purebloods. They probably stopped to debate what a 'bus lane' is."
As if on cue, Roman and Cassian appeared from the crowd — both looking almost comfortable in Muggle clothes.
Roman had clearly been coached by Talora's fashion sense at some point: clean white tee, dark jeans, and loafers that were definitely too expensive.
Cassian, by contrast, looked like he was at war with his outfit — black button-up slightly rolled at the sleeves, boots too formal for the street, and a faintly suspicious expression at everything around him.
"See?" Shya said under her breath. "Imported confusion."
Roman grinned when he spotted them. "You weren't kidding about the line. Is the museum always this full?"
"Usually," Talora said. "Blame history. Everyone wants a piece."
Cassian's gaze flicked to the dogs. "You brought them."
"Of course we brought them," Shya said. "They're part of the crew now. And they're stealthier than you think."
"Yeah, the definition of stealth," Roman muttered as Pandora yawned loudly. "Completely invisible."
"They'll be fine," Talora said serenely, patting Pandora's head. "The enchantments on our bags make sure they stay quiet when they need to. It's practically tradition — dogs in handbags."
"Tradition?" Cassian repeated, incredulous.
Shya smirked. "Welcome to girlhood."
Roman passed her a small silver tin. "You wanted the sour stuff, right? Imported from Zonko's. Shock-Orbs. Strong enough to make your face invert."
"Perfect." Shya popped the tin open, grinning wickedly. "Okay, here's the deal. Every time we see something stolen by the British Empire, we eat one."
Cassian frowned. "That's… the entire museum."
"Exactly," she said, with too much enthusiasm.
Talora laughed. "We'll be sick by the end of this."
"Then it's a contest," Roman declared. "Whoever taps out first buys dessert."
"Deal," Shya said instantly. "And boys? No magic. You cheat, you buy for everyone."
Cassian arched an eyebrow, his mouth twitching. "You think I'd cheat at candy?"
"I think you'd cheat at breathing if it meant proving a point," she shot back.
Roman laughed under his breath. "This is going to be good."
They started up the steps together, laughter already echoing off the marble.
The pups wriggled in their bags, tails thumping against the enchanted lining.
The day stretched ahead — sunlight, stolen artifacts, and a dare that was probably going to end in tears.
The British Museum was humming — marble echoing with school trips, whispering tourists, and the clack of shoes on polished floors. Sunlight fractured through the glass dome, falling over them in shifting squares of gold.
"Alright," Shya declared, map unfolded like a battle plan. "Rules are simple. If the sign says acquired, donated by colonial officer, or provenance unknown, you eat one."
Talora stared. "We'll be dead by the first floor."
"Exactly," Shya grinned. "Historical accuracy."
Cassian gave her a wry look. "And what are we learning from this?"
"That sugar burns," Roman said, already pocketing one. "And that British guilt comes in citrus."
They entered the Duveen Gallery — a corridor of light and ruin. Marble gods lined the walls, torsos smooth and limbs missing, eyes turned toward a ceiling they would never reach again.
Shya whistled low. "You can feel it, can't you? They were taken apart piece by piece."
"Acquired," Cassian corrected, deadpan.
"Fine," she said. "Stolen with paperwork."
Talora ran her fingers along the edge of a broken pedestal. "They call this preservation, but it's more like… taxidermy for culture."
"Creepy," Roman said.
"True," she replied. "Still beautiful, though."
The pups peeked from their bags, Haneera's small black nose twitching, Pandora letting out a soft wuff as if in agreement.
Shya tossed a Shock-Orb into her mouth and instantly regretted it.
Her face contorted; her eyes watered. "Oh my god—this is chemical warfare—"
Roman howled laughing. "Your turn, general!"
Cassian followed, his face stoic for a second—then cracked, jaw tightening. "This should be illegal."
"Consider it reparations," Shya croaked, fanning her mouth.
Even Talora couldn't help laughing, daintily eating one herself and saying, "It's tangy, not tragic."
"You're a menace," Shya said.
"Ravenclaw," Talora replied, unbothered.
They drifted into the South Asia wing, where color replaced marble — rich crimson silk, golden patterns, the faint scent of sandalwood and varnish.
Shya slowed. Her steps softened.
It wasn't reverence — not exactly — but recognition.
"Punjab, circa 1780," she read from the plaque. "Acquired by the East India Company."
Roman groaned. "Again?"
"Shut up and eat," she said, tossing him a candy.
He chewed, grimacing. "It tastes like betrayal."
"Accurate," she said.
Cassian leaned in beside her. "That painting—who is it?"
"A Sikh warrior," Shya said. "Probably Khalsa. You see the sword, the turban? They... we... believe courage and compassion had to live in the same body. That's why the kara is steel—it doesn't bend, doesn't rust. It's not decoration. It's discipline."
Cassian's gaze flicked to her wrist — the simple steel circle glinting in the light. "And you wear it because…?"
She shrugged. "Because even though I'm not Khalsa, I'm still Sikh, it reminds me who I'm supposed to be. Even when I forget."
He looked like he wanted to say something — didn't.
Just nodded, quietly.
Haneera, peeking out, gave a small whine — her eyes following the faint shimmer of light gathering near the glass.
For a second, it pulsed — blue-gold, like bottled memory.
The others didn't see it. But Shya paused.
Her hand hovered above the case, palm tingling.
Then it faded, leaving only her reflection and the warrior's calm, immortal stare.
Next, the Americas gallery — dimmer, quieter. The beadwork gleamed under soft light.
Talora knelt beside a display: Beaded jacket, Red River Settlement, 1850.
"My dad's side," she said simply.
Shya crouched beside her. "Métis?"
Talora nodded. "The Red River Rebellion, all that? They fought to keep their language, their land. My great-granddad used to bead, before the schools. He said patterns were maps — every flower was a direction home."
Roman leaned against the next display. "You know all this by heart."
She smiled a little. "Someone has to remember."
He bit into a Shock-Orb, wincing immediately. "Ow. Consider me educated."
Talora laughed, the sound light and musical. "That's what you get for mocking history."
Shya's pup, Haneera, let out a small huff, ears twitching. Pandora whined softly, pawing toward the case.
The glass rippled faintly — barely perceptible — and one of the beadwork flowers shimmered as if catching invisible light. Then it stopped.
Just a trick of the eye. Or not.
Talora blinked, eyes wide for a moment. "Did you see—?"
Roman leaned closer. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, brushing it off, but her smile was softer now. "Maybe some stories just don't like being forgotten."
By the time they reached the Egyptian gallery, they were punch-drunk on sugar, awe, and indignation.
"'Loaned permanently,'" Cassian read from a placard. "Isn't that—"
"An oxymoron?" Talora supplied.
"Colonialism in three words," Shya added, shoving another candy in her mouth.
Her eyes watered again.
Cassian laughed. "Still worth it?"
"Justice always burns," she choked.
Roman groaned. "You are so dramatic."
"I'm passionate," she said. "There's a difference."
They turned another corner, and Cassian pointed. "Hey—military relics."
Shya lit up instantly. "My domain."
The case held fragments of steel hilts, banners, a cracked drum. "Every army had its own rhythm," she said, tracing the air. "Even when they were wrong, they believed they were right. That's the danger of purpose."
Cassian smiled. "You sound like Dumbledore."
"Flatterer."
They ended up in the museum café, exhausted and sticky-fingered, surrounded by half-eaten pastries and Coke bottles.
The pups snoozed in their enchanted bags; Pandora's tail thumped faintly in her sleep.
Cassian took a sip of Coke and grimaced. "Still not as good as Butterbeer."
"It's fizzier," Shya said. "And symbolically anti-imperial."
"Because it's American?" Roman asked.
"Because it gives you a sugar rush and no answers," she replied dryly.
They laughed — and then fell quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled.
After a while, Cassian said softly, "You two… you know all of this. All these histories. Does it ever feel like too much?"
Shya twirled her straw. "Sometimes. It's like carrying stories in your blood. But I'd rather carry them than lose them."
Talora nodded. "Same. My mom says remembering is a rebellion. Every recipe, every word, every bit of laughter — it's survival."
Roman smiled faintly. "You both make history sound… alive."
"It is," Shya said. "It's not over. We're still part of it."
The four sat there — Coke fizzing, sunlight pouring through the window, the quiet hum of London beyond the glass.
Two Ravenclaws, two Slytherins, two sleeping pups — and the faint feeling that something important had happened, even if they couldn't name it yet.
By the time they spilled out onto the museum steps, the sunlight had turned honey-soft, washing London in gold.
The girls' Birkins gleamed faintly as Haneera and Pandora peeked from inside, ears twitching at the evening sounds.
A sleek black car waited by the curb — Milos, the Gill driver, holding the door with a knowing smile.
A few feet away, Henry leaned against the Livanthos town car, crisp uniform, patient expression.
"I feel like we've lived three lifetimes," Roman said, stretching.
"You mean eaten three tons of sugar," Cassian replied, voice dry.
Shya smirked. "And learned that the British Museum is just an expensive apology letter."
Talora added, "Written in other people's handwriting."
Roman groaned. "Don't start; I can still taste the Shock-Orbs."
"Justice is lemon-flavoured," Shya declared proudly.
Cassian shook his head. "You're insufferable."
"Correct," she said, eyes gleaming.
Henry cleared his throat politely. "Miss Livanthos, your mother requests you're home before dinner."
Talora nodded. "Tell her we're bringing back culture shock."
Shya laughed and turned to the boys. "Next time, we pick something easier on our tongues."
Roman grinned. "Like what?"
"Science Museum," Talora suggested. "Less colonialism, more explosions."
Cassian smirked. "Dangerous combination. I approve."
They lingered a moment longer than necessary — that awkward, gentle pause before goodbye that no one quite wanted to break.
Roman ruffled Tristan's hair as the younger boy waved from inside the car; Arya pressed his face to the window to make Haneera bark.
"See you soon?" Cassian asked.
Shya's smile softened. "Count on it."
Then Milos closed the door, and the cars pulled away — two gleaming silhouettes dissolving into the golden London streets.
The studio was bathed in the same fading light, scattered across her sketchbook and the streaks of ultramarine on her fingers.
Haneera lay curled beside her chair, snoring softly, paws twitching in a dream.
Shya's pencil moved without pause — a quick, fevered sketch: the curve of the Duveen statues, the shimmer of beadwork, the faint shape of Cassian biting into a sour candy.
She didn't try to perfect it; she just wanted to remember the way it felt — messy, bright, alive.
When she was done, she set down the pencil, leaned back, and whispered to Haneera, "Maybe we're part of the exhibit too."
The kitchen smelled like sugar and butter. Pandora lay near the oven, tail thumping every few minutes in her sleep.
Talora moved easily — whisk, pour, wipe, hum. The recipe was her grandmother's, hand-copied on old paper with curling edges.
Every motion felt steady, grounded. She thought of the museum — of Shya's laughter echoing under stone ceilings, of Roman trying to swallow history one Shock-Orb at a time.
When the timer dinged, she smiled faintly, tasting the first cookie, still warm.
It tasted like memory and new beginnings.
12 Grimmauld Place was silent — the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs.
Kreacher muttered somewhere in the distance, but Cassian barely heard him.
He was seated on the worn sofa, a half-empty Coke bottle sweating beside him, the museum ticket stub tucked into a book.
For the first time in weeks, the house didn't feel quite so suffocating.
He glanced at the stub again — and thought of Shya's grin, the steel glint of her kara, the way she said "strength shouldn't bend."
He didn't know why, but it made him breathe a little easier.
Nott Hall was all polished silence and ancestral portraits.
Roman sat at his desk, turning a folded museum brochure over in his hands.
The cover showed the Rosetta Stone; he'd circled the words "loaned permanently" in ink.
It still made him laugh — quietly, under his breath.
He leaned back, thinking of Talora's steady voice explaining her people's beadwork, the way her eyes lit when she spoke of connection.
For a long moment, he just sat there, smiling faintly at nothing.
Then he placed the brochure beside his quill, whispered, "Next time, less sugar," and reached for the Shock-Orb tin on his shelf.