In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Twenty: Names and Notions

March 17th, 1932 – Longbottom Manor, Sussex Downs – Morning After the Sleepover

The morning light poured like honey through the stained-glass windows of Longbottom Manor. The sunlight cut across the carved wooden banisters and landed in golden pools on the checker-tile floors, banishing the last traces of night's shadows. The manor was already humming—house-elves tidying the breakfast service, fireplaces crackling with subtle warming spells, the scent of cinnamon and coffee drifting through the air.

Tom Riddle woke early.

He hadn't meant to.

Sleep had come easily the night before, despite the unfamiliar bed. Hal had passed out mid-story, face buried in a pillow, one arm flung dramatically across his side of the bed. The enchanted pillow wall had collapsed during the night, but neither boy seemed to mind. Not even Tom, whose usual tendency was to curl in on himself like something bracing for a blow.

But this morning, he awoke with a clarity that felt... unburdened.

And he didn't want to disturb Hal. So he slipped out.

Barefoot, robe tugged tight around his thin shoulders, he padded down the wide, warm hallway until he found himself descending a smaller staircase that led to the first-floor side parlor. It was quiet there, away from the main bustle of the breakfast service. A piano sat unused in the corner, and the curtains were half-drawn against the rising sun.

And sitting near the fire, sipping from a plain clay mug, was Lord Cedric Longbottom.

Tom froze mid-step, instinctively straightening. He hadn't expected anyone else to be awake. Especially not him.

Cedric looked up and smiled—not a politician's smile, not a Lord's. Just a man's.

"Morning, Tom," he said kindly. "Didn't expect another early riser in this house. Hal wouldn't be up before ten if not for breakfast threats."

Tom stood stiff for a moment, then inclined his head. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You didn't. Come sit."

There was no command in his voice. Just warmth.

Tom stepped forward slowly, cautiously, and slid onto the edge of the armchair across from Cedric.

"Did you sleep well?"

Tom gave a short nod. "Yes. Your house is... quiet."

Cedric chuckled. "You should hear it during summer holidays."

Tom glanced at the mug. "Is that tea?"

"Coffee. Do you take tea?"

Tom shook his head. "Not often. We drink hot cocoa at Evermoor. Mina says it's calming."

"Smart elf," Cedric said with a nod. "She seems very protective of you."

Tom looked away. "She's one of the only people who doesn't look at me like I'm a puzzle. Or a problem."

Cedric's expression softened.

"Would you mind if I asked you a rather forward question, Tom?"

Tom tensed. "...Depends what it is."

Cedric studied him for a long moment. Not probing. Just observing.

"You said your name was Tom Potter, when we met."

Tom nodded slowly, the practiced lie rolling over him like armor.

"I was adopted. Harrison gave me the name."

"Of course," Cedric said, taking another sip. "But... you weren't blood adopted, were you?"

Tom blinked. "How do you know?"

Cedric gestured with one hand. "You walk like someone who's always waiting to be challenged. I know that walk. It's the kind of thing most heirs learn to wear like armor. But your magic still doesn't quite hum with the Potter resonance. I felt it when we shook hands."

Tom looked down at his hands.

He still had the Riddle blood. The blood of a madman father and a mother who died with no family left to name her.

"I didn't think it mattered," Tom said, voice tighter now. "I have a name. He gave it to me."

"It does matter," Cedric said softly. "But not in the way you think."

Tom narrowed his eyes.

Cedric leaned forward.

"You don't need Potter blood to belong to him. But names have power. And blood adoptions? They don't just change paperwork. They change magic. They say, 'this is mine, as if born to me.' And the world listens."

Tom's fingers tightened in his lap.

"I thought it might be rude to ask," Cedric continued gently. "But you're not just Harrison's ward anymore. You're his son in every way but magic."

Tom didn't answer.

So Cedric said quietly, "Is that something you want?"

Tom's chest tightened.

Because he didn't know.

The idea of magic reaching inside him, re-writing who he was... terrified him. It thrilled him too. What if it made him forget his past? Or worse—what if it didn't?

"I don't know," he whispered. "I think... I want to earn it first."

Cedric leaned back with a small smile.

"That," he said, "is a Potter answer if I've ever heard one."

Upstairs – Later That Morning

Harrison and Lady Alyssa were in the breakfast parlor, finishing their third cup of tea, when Tom entered.

He was dressed, hair slightly rumpled, eyes far away. Harrison knew immediately something had changed.

He offered a warm smile. "Hungry?"

Tom nodded and sat beside him without hesitation. Harrison placed a gentle hand on his back in greeting—a familiar gesture now—and Tom leaned into it for just a second.

Just long enough to feel anchored.

That Evening – Back at Evermoor

The Floo jump home was smoother this time. Tom stood straighter, gripped Harrison's arm only once.

They landed in Evermoor's parlor just as dusk turned the sky to violet, and the fox statue blinked sleepily on the mantle.

Tom didn't say much during supper.

But as Harrison was setting his quill down in the library later that night, he felt a presence beside him.

Tom held a parchment.

"What's this?" Harrison asked.

"A letter," Tom said quietly. "To Euphemia Potter."

Harrison blinked. "Oh?"

Tom nodded. "I thought... maybe she'd want to know about Mimic Root. It bloomed today."

Harrison smiled and took the letter, eyes scanning the neat script.

And when he looked up, he said softly, "She's going to be so proud to hear from you."

Tom looked away.

But he smiled.