In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Five: Plans and Promises

The morning sun broke through thin clouds, casting pale light over the still-frosted grounds of the Rosier estate. The manor loomed in silent grandeur, half asleep but stirring—its magic sensing a new master. Harrison stood on the porch with his coat buttoned and wand tucked beneath his sleeve, waiting as the estate's wards whispered to him like old ghosts waking.

Today was the beginning of two paths. One to restore a house. The other to restore a soul.

And both had to be laid with care.

Diagon Alley – Artisan's Row

By midmorning, Harrison had returned to Diagon Alley—not through the Leaky Cauldron this time, but via an older, less frequented Floo station that exited near Artisan's Row, a hidden offshoot of the Alley that catered to those of wealth, legacy, and specific magical needs.

The cobbled lane here was narrower, quieter, and marked by bespoke signs: Wardwright & Daughters, Flint & Feather Enchantments, Mistroot Carpentry, Verdant Looms: Magical Upholstery, and more.

Harrison stepped into Wardwright & Daughters first.

The shop's interior shimmered with runes. Floating crystals drifted above oak display tables, humming faintly with active enchantments. Behind the counter stood a woman in her sixties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, surrounded by blueprints suspended mid-air.

"Looking for a trinket or a fortress, darling?" she asked, brushing soot from her apron.

"A fortress," Harrison replied smoothly, "with the bones of a manor. I'm the new owner of the Rosier estate in Yorkshire. It needs protection—ancient, layered, keyed to blood and intent. I want wards that breathe, not bark."

Her brows lifted, mildly impressed.

"You speak like someone who's done his homework."

"I've had time," he said softly.

They talked for nearly an hour. He described his requirements in detail: perimeter shielding, adaptive anti-Apparition fields, memory slip zones for Muggles, layered charm barriers that would fluctuate depending on threat level, a null ward around the nursery, and emergency lock-in protocols in case of magical surge or attack.

She whistled. "You're expecting trouble?"

"I'm preparing for the possibility that one day, someone will come for someone I care about. And I want them to fail."

She didn't ask further.

When he left, they had a full contract drawn and an installation team scheduled for two days out. Everything was paid in advance.

Next stop was Mistroot Carpentry, a firm known for restoring historical wizarding homes. Inside, enchanted models of manor interiors floated like dollhouses midair, each spinning to display layered repairs—rot undone, walls reforged, magical conduits reawakened.

A bald man with a forest-green vest looked up. "How cursed is it?"

Harrison smiled. "Only emotionally."

That earned a laugh, and again, the conversation turned serious. He requested preservation of original structure, reinforcement of magic-bearing stones, and a full modernization of enchantment channels to allow for responsive lighting, self-regulating temperature, and anti-curse detection.

"You raising a family in there?" the carpenter asked as he jotted notes.

"Eventually," Harrison said, quiet.

"Then we'll make sure it's solid."

His final visit was to Verdant Looms, where he hand-selected fabric patterns for the common rooms, sitting areas, and bedrooms. He picked soft navy for a boy's room, not because he knew what Tom liked—but because it reminded him of calm. He chose textures that were warm to the touch, spell-threaded for comfort.

He ordered a large armchair for the library, patterned rugs for the hall, and a quilt stitched with phoenixes for the nursery bed—enchanted to warm if the child ever cried during a nightmare.

He hesitated at a toy shelf. Dragons. Brooms. Magical chess. Model castles.

He picked a knight figurine and a toy wand that sparked in gentle color when waved.

Just in case.

By dusk, Harrison had returned to the estate, now flickering with signs of life.

A crew of magical groundskeepers had already arrived to clear pathways and begin restoring the old garden spells. He met with them briefly before heading inside and locking the door behind him. With a flick of his wand, the fire returned to the great hall's hearth.

He removed his coat, now dusted with snow, and took out a single sealed letter.

It was the official inquiry to the Ministry—sent through diplomatic channels this morning, requesting information about magical orphans born in London. No names yet. No signatures tying it to the name Potter. Just a concerned, wealthy American wizard interested in adopting a magical child from Britain.

The ball had begun to roll.

That night, Harrison wandered the second floor until he reached a partially restored bedroom. The walls had been scrubbed clean, and moonlight poured through the newly enchanted windows.

He sat on the bed and opened the leather-bound journal he had begun upon arriving in this timeline.

Entry One – January 5th, 1932

The estate breathes again. The house responds to me. I believe it knows I mean to protect it, and what I intend it to become. A home.

I've laid the first foundation stones. Not just for a structure—but for a life. His life.

The inquiry is sent. I know he's there. Alone. Waiting. Five years old. No letters. No gifts. No visits. Just silence. I was loved, even when I didn't believe I deserved it. And he wasn't. That's what makes the difference.

I'll change that. I have to.

I've already made space for him. I just hope when we meet... I'm enough.

He set down the quill and closed the book.

Then he whispered into the fire, low and fierce and full of promise:

"You won't be alone much longer, Tom."