In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Six: Secrets Beneath the Snow

The sounds of construction echoed through the now-awakening Rosier estate—hammering, wand work, enchantments settling into mortar and stone. The smell of earth, fresh cut wood, and raw magic filled the air as the estate stirred from its long slumber. Harrison moved room to room, answering questions, checking on progress, conjuring warming charms where the structure still lacked insulation.

It was all coming together faster than he expected. As if the house itself wanted to be rebuilt.

But the peace shattered with a shout from outside.

"Oi! Mr. James! We've got something... odd!"

Harrison stepped out onto the frosted veranda, wand already in hand as he approached the edge of the grounds where the garden team had been clearing away ivy and restoring the old spell-guided rose lattice.

A small group of enchanted laborers and a half-dozen hired magical groundskeepers stood in a circle, staring down at the dirt. One of the witches held a glowing probe, and another was trying—unsuccessfully—to pry up a metal latch buried deep beneath tangled roots.

"Sir, we were clearing the northeast edge near the greenhouse," she explained, "and we found this. It's got magical reinforcement runes all over it. Old ones. Rosier script, and some even older."

Harrison stepped forward, brushing aside what remained of the snow and revealing it fully.

It was an iron hatch—flat, circular, sealed with a glowing black sigil that flickered in protest when touched. Definitely family-tied. Definitely dangerous.

"Stop trying to open it," he said at once, voice sharp and commanding. "Back away. Everyone. Now."

They obeyed. Even the ground itself seemed to pulse with warning energy.

He crouched beside it, ran his fingers along the sigils, and let his magic hum low beneath his breath. The warding recognized him—not as a Rosier, but as kin. Not by blood, but by power. It allowed him to touch it, just barely. Enough to feel the tension in the lock, the kind of protection that was meant to maim if forced.

"Thank you for finding this," he said coolly, rising. "You've done well. I'll handle the rest personally. Take the afternoon to work on the west wing perimeter wards. Leave this to me."

They hesitated, but obeyed, and he cast a muffling dome around the garden space once they were gone.

Then he opened the hatch.

A steep staircase descended into silence, the air heavy with age and clinging dust. Harrison descended cautiously, wand lit and senses stretched.

What he found was exactly what he feared—and exactly what he needed.

An abandoned Rosier potions laboratory.

Stone counters, silver cauldrons, racks of dried ingredients—some long since crumbled to ash. The glass cabinets held oddities from a darker time: vials of preserved blood, containers etched in Infernal script, a few broken phials that reeked of forbidden alchemy. The walls were lined with faded chalk diagrams and sigils only half-remembered by any living soul.

But it was the far shelf that caught his eye.

A black book, wrapped in thorned enchantments and silver chains, sat at the center of a runed pedestal.

He approached slowly.

The Rosier Grimoire. Ancient. Sentient. And lethal to those unworthy.

Harrison didn't touch it. Not yet. But he let his magic brush the surface.

It knew him.

Not as blood—but as someone once touched by Death.

The book stirred.

"Not yet," Harrison whispered. "Not for me."

He cast a heavy containment charm on the room. Then layered a blood lock, keyed only to him. He sealed the hatch with protective sigils and erased the memory of its discovery from the warding network, ensuring no one could even perceive its existence.

When he rose again into the snowy air, he stared out over the fields—silent and frost-bitten—and breathed deeply.

The Rosiers had dabbled in dark things, but this house was not theirs anymore.

Later that evening, as he sat in what was now a nearly livable study, parchment and ink before him, Harrison turned his thoughts inward.

This manor had once belonged to a family that embraced blood purity, cruelty, and control. But that legacy ended the day he walked through the Veil. It could not bear their name any longer. It belonged to him now. To the child he would raise. To the life they would build.

He was a Potter. A Peverell. The bearer of the Hallows. The last living soul who could wield all three.

But he was also Harrison. A man who had seen too much death, who had made a choice not just to undo a war—but to give someone a chance.

This house would be a haven. Not a tomb.

He dipped his quill and began to write across the top of a fresh piece of parchment:

New Name Registration — Gringotts & British Magical Registry
Former: Rosier Manor
Proposed: Evermoor Hall

He stared at the name.

Evermoor—a word that evoked permanence, timelessness, life in the midst of shadows. A place where even in death, something beautiful might grow again.

He wrote:

Let it be a house where the past does not chain the future. Let it be filled with books, laughter, protection, and healing. Let it be the place a frightened boy learns he is more than what the world told him to be.

He sealed the letter and set it aside for the owl.

Then, as the wind whispered against the window and the fire burned low, Harrison walked to the nursery room—bare, but freshly charmed—and sat in the corner on the rug he had conjured.

He closed his eyes.

"Your home is waiting for you, Tom," he murmured. "I just hope it's enough."

Chapter 6.5: Harrison's Identity Documentation

Before finalizing his property claim and filing adoption inquiries, Harrison had ensured his identity was legally unassailable.

Through Gringotts' international documentation service—reserved only for clients of extreme wealth and prestige—Harrison's official magical identity papers were created, notarized under magical law, and magically bonded to his wand and blood signature.

Harrison James Potter
Place of Birth: Manhattan, New York, United States of America
Date of Birth: October 31st, 1909
Current Age: 23
Lineage: Verified Descendant of House Potter, Britain (maternal ancestry claimed for visit rights)
Citizenship: American Magical Confederacy
Parents: Jonathan Alaric Potter & Marjorie Ainsley Potter (Deceased, 1929 – Apparition Mishap)
Occupation: Independent Heir & Traveler
Reason for Entry into UK: Heritage visit, property acquisition, and interest in magical fosterhood under the International Orphan Adoption Accord (ratified 1926)

These documents had already been submitted through official channels. Between his impressive magical fortune, perfect paperwork, and unassuming demeanor as a noble foreigner with tragic origins and curious inclinations, no one had reason to doubt him.

He even ensured his magical passport bore a subtly age-adjusted appearance—his features exactly as they were now, slightly softened, American-angled in style, with clean magical background scans.

He was every bit the image of a wealthy, eccentric young enchanter from across the sea... looking for a connection to his ancestral roots.

A Potter by blood. A Peverell by right. But unknown to the world.

Just Harrison James, the man who would try to save the darkest soul before it ever fell.