In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter 3: The Quiet before the Storm

The snow fell heavier now, muffling the sounds of the street, painting the cobbled path in delicate layers of white. Harrison pulled his coat tighter as he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron's brick gateway, back into the quieter street that bordered Muggle London and the magical threshold of Diagon Alley. He moved with quiet certainty, blending in with the crowd yet somehow untouched by it.

A few curious glances slid across him—his clothing sharp, foreign, but appropriate. He looked like an American wizard trying not to look like one. And he was doing a damn fine job of it.

He reached a smaller wizarding inn just a few alleyways off the main thoroughfare—The Crescent Moon, a tavern that catered more to tradesmen and travelers than the elite families that ruled Wizarding Britain. It wasn't lavish, but it was private. Harrison had picked it precisely for that reason.

The warmth of the fire hit him as he pushed through the heavy oak doors. The smell of pipe smoke, firewhiskey, roasted meat, and time-worn wood filled the air. A few patrons sat clustered at tables: a trio of warlocks playing enchanted chess, a middle-aged witch nursing a butterbeer while her owl preened on her shoulder, and a half-troll bartender who raised a bushy brow at the newcomer.

"Room?" the troll asked, voice deep and gravelly.

Harrison offered a tight smile, switching flawlessly into his American accent.

"Yes, please. Two nights. Paid in advance. Name's Harrison James."

The troll nodded, pulling a worn key from under the bar and setting it on the counter. "One galleon, two sickles."

Harrison paid without a blink, leaving a generous tip as well. The troll grunted his approval and motioned to the narrow staircase near the hearth.

Room 7.

The room was small but well-kept. A brass bedframe held a mattress charmed for warmth, a heavy quilt folded neatly at the foot. There was a narrow desk with a gently flickering lamp, and a washbasin beside a mirror that fogged slightly in the winter air. The window looked out onto a crooked alley, where snow gathered atop window ledges and chimney tops.

Harrison shut the door, cast three privacy spells, and sank into the chair with a sigh.

His shoulders were tight, his head heavy. Time travel wasn't something the human mind was meant to endure, and even now, hours after stepping through the Veil, his body hummed with displaced magic. Every part of him ached—not in pain, but from the weight of what he'd done.

There was no turning back. He had left everything behind.

Hermione. Ron. Teddy. Ginny.. Their unborn child.

But they were gone now, shadows in a world that no longer existed. Or rather, a world that had yet to come.

He reached into his pouch, withdrawing a small palm-sized frame. It had survived the transition through the Veil only because he had spelled it personally, with magic deep and old.

The photo inside was of the people he had loved.

Fred was grinning wildly, mid-laugh as George poured a drink over his head. Tonks made a face while Remus tried not to smile. Sirius had his arm around Harry's younger self, beaming with mischief. And in the back—small and quiet—stood Dobby, holding up a butterbeer bottle like a trophy.

All gone.

He set the frame down on the desk and stared at it.

"I'm going to fix it," he whispered. "I don't care how long it takes."

He opened the pouch again, pulling out a second object—a folded parchment sealed with green wax.

The Deed to Rosier Manor would arrive by owl tomorrow. From there, the restoration would begin. He'd hire craftsmen, enchanters, and builders, under different names and false accounts if needed. The house would become a fortress, a sanctuary, a home.

Not for him. For the boy.

For Tom.

The thought of that lonely little child in the orphanage... it cut deeper than any blade. No family. No warmth. Already judged. Already broken. The world had failed him before he'd ever had a chance. But Harrison would be different. He would give Tom the choice to not become the monster history had named him.

There was a knock at the door.

Harrison reached instinctively for his wand, relaxing only when he recognized the enchanted pulse of the tavern staff.

He opened it cautiously to reveal a house-elf in a crescent-shaped apron holding a small tray.

"Evening supper, sir," the elf squeaked. "Roast and potatoes. Bread's still warm."

Harrison smiled, surprising the elf. "Thank you. What's your name?"

The elf blinked. "I... I is Pip, sir."

"Well, thank you, Pip. You've done wonderfully."

The elf blushed so brightly it vanished with a pop before Harrison could say more.

He brought the tray in, shutting the door again. He didn't eat at first. He just sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching the snow gather outside the window. There were moments he doubted. Moments the enormity of what he had chosen pressed against his chest like a curse.

Can I really change it?
Can I save him?
Can I do this alone?

He reached into the pouch one last time and pulled out the Peverell ring—the Resurrection Stone hidden in its depths. He turned it over in his fingers, the black gem glinting faintly in the firelight.

He didn't use it. Not yet. Not tonight.

He just needed to hold it. To remember who he was.

Not the Boy Who Lived.

Not the Chosen One.

He was Harrison James Potter, Master of Death. And he had a purpose.

He undressed slowly, folding his coat and shirt, laying his wand on the nightstand, though he never truly let go of it. The quilt was warm, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender. As he settled beneath the covers, his last thoughts were of a small hand gripping his tightly, and a little boy with dark eyes looking up at him and whispering—

"Are you really here for me?"

"Yes," Harrison murmured aloud to the ceiling, as the snow fell silently beyond the window.

"Yes. I am."