In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Seventeen: Among Laughter and Legacy

February 10th, 1932 – The Frosted Commons, Oxfordshire

The world beyond Evermoor was thawing.

Though winter still nipped at cloaks and reddened cheeks, the air had shifted—less sharp, more playful. It was the kind of day where the sun glinted just right off the snowbanks, and magic settled into the land like a sleeping fox in the brambles. It was also the perfect day for a trip.

Harrison had planned it quietly, deliberately—a simple outing to a magical public square in Oxfordshire, known as the Frosted Commons, where families gathered and children played under enchantments that kept the snow in soft flurries but never cold enough to chill. Open firepits lined the cobbled square, benches warmed by spell, and floating candied apple carts drifted lazily through the open space.

Tom stood beside Harrison in a charcoal wool coat, silver fox pin gleaming against his collar. His scarf was striped forest green and bronze—a subtle blend of intellect and ambition that Harrison found fitting.

"You don't have to speak to anyone," Harrison said gently. "We're just here to enjoy the day. Hot cocoa. Maybe look at the bookshop. You decide how much or how little you want to do."

Tom nodded, still visibly wary. But his eyes were scanning the Commons already, catching flickers of snowball fights, laughing children, and vendors handing out pastries that sparkled with frost-shaped sugar.

They were barely ten minutes into their walk when a pair of boys ran past them, the smaller of the two shouting, "No fair, Max! You used magic again!"

"I only used my feet!" called the older boy with a broad grin, clearly seventeen or so, chasing his younger brother with a practiced ease. Both had the look of heritage: fine robes layered over thick woolen jumpers, cheeks flushed with cold and joy.

The younger boy stopped short as he noticed Tom watching.

He blinked.

Tom blinked back.

Then the boy walked straight up and said, "I'm Harold Longbottom. You can call me Hal. You want to throw snowballs at my brother?"

Tom stared.

Then—without quite smiling—he gave a cautious, "Maybe."

Harold grinned and turned. "Maximus! We have backup!"

The older boy—Maximus Longbottom, Harrison noted with quiet amusement—approached with a chuckle. "I've been ambushed."

Harold gestured between them. "This is my new friend. What's your name?"

"Tom," the boy said, slowly. "Tom... Potter."

Harrison blinked but didn't correct him.

Maximus's eyebrows rose. "Potter, you say? Related to Fleamont?"

"Distantly," Harrison offered, stepping forward with a polite smile.

Maximus nodded respectfully. "Good family. Welcome."

The snowball fight that followed was chaos.

A wonderful, enchanted, ruleless chaos.

Tom hesitated at first—hovering near Harrison, watching the other children shout and hurl magically-enhanced snowballs that burst into harmless glitter on contact. But Harold was relentless. He passed Tom a compacted snowball, pointed dramatically at his brother, and whispered, "He's showing off again."

Tom narrowed his eyes.

And nailed Maximus in the back of the head with an absurdly accurate throw.

Maximus turned dramatically and cried, "Betrayed!" before collapsing into a pile of snow.

Harrison laughed. Genuinely laughed.

Tom blinked at the sound—then, to everyone's surprise, laughed too.

It was quiet. Short.

But unmistakable.

For over an hour, Tom played.

Not cautiously. Not watching for traps or mocking laughter. Just played.

He joined a group of four children making enchanted snowmen that sang old folk tunes. He accepted a cup of cocoa from a vendor and whispered, "Thank you," with a shy nod. He even helped Harold up after a particularly explosive fall and said, "You're terrible at dodging."

To which Harold grinned and said, "You're terrifying with snowballs."

And Tom—Tom smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a sneer.

A real smile.

Harrison thought his heart might burst.

Later, as the Commons began to empty and the sky painted itself in pink and periwinkle, Maximus came over to shake Harrison's hand.

"Your son's sharp. Watch him—he'll either become Minister or start his own Department of Magical Mayhem."

Harrison grinned. "I'll take that under advisement."

Harold gave Tom a little enchanted stone—shaped like a hedgehog—that would squeak when warmed in the hand.

"In case you forget today," he said, awkward but earnest.

Tom held it, silent. Then looked up.

"Thanks."

They parted like boys do—without ceremony, without hugs. Just a look, a nod, and a secret understanding.

That Night at Evermoor

Tom sat by the parlor fire, the hedgehog stone in his hand. The silver fox sat on the rug nearby, dozing.

Harrison settled across from him with two mugs of cocoa.

"I saw you smile."

Tom didn't respond.

But he didn't deny it either.

"They didn't find me weird," he said finally, quietly. "They just... played."

"Because there's nothing wrong with you," Harrison said. "And they saw that."

Tom looked at the hedgehog.

"I think I want to see them again."

Harrison smiled. "I think that can be arranged."

A beat of silence passed.

Then Tom asked, "Do you think he'll remember me? Hal?"

"I think he'd be stupid not to."

Tom looked down again.

"...Then I hope he's not stupid."