In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Naming Moon

March 22nd, 1932 — Evermoor Hall

The conservatory was quiet that morning. Mimic Root had begun to sprout tiny golden-tipped leaves, which squeaked and shivered when touched by the spring breeze filtering through the enchanted windows. Tom was seated at the low reading table, a quill in hand, eyes distant as he stared not at the open book before him—but at the fireless hearth, lost in a tangle of thought he didn't know how to name.

He didn't hear Harrison approach until the man knelt beside him on the rug.

Tom turned his head slightly, alert, but not startled. Harrison always made a point of never sneaking up on him—not by magic, not by accident. The older man's presence was like the rooms of Evermoor themselves: steady, warm, quietly known.

"Do you have a moment?" Harrison asked gently, his hands resting on his knees. His voice wasn't heavy with warning or laced with urgency. Just soft. Human.

Tom gave a slow nod. His fingers closed the book with deliberate care.

Harrison stayed quiet for a moment longer, as if deciding where to begin. And then—

"I'd like to ask you something," he said, voice low. "Something important."

Tom tilted his head.

"Okay."

"It's about the ritual," Harrison said. "Blood adoption."

There it was.

Tom's shoulders didn't tense. They didn't rise or shrink back. He simply... stopped. Like a breath held just below the surface. Waiting to see if it would drown or be drawn back in as air.

"I know you've read about it," Harrison continued. "And I know you've probably wondered why I haven't asked you before."

Tom nodded once.

"I figured," he said quietly, "you weren't sure if I was worth it."

The words weren't bitter. They weren't angry.

They were worse.

They were calm.

As though he had simply accepted it.

Harrison's heart cracked open in his chest.

"Tom..." He reached forward, gently, and touched the boy's hand.

Tom didn't flinch.

"I didn't wait because I didn't think you were worthy. I waited because this is your choice. You're not a stray I'm pulling in out of pity. You're not a project. You're not a broken thing to fix."

Tom blinked at that. His throat moved, but he said nothing.

Harrison went on.

"I love you. I love who you are. Not who you might become. Not who I hope you'll be. Just you. The boy who worries for plants, who reads until his eyes ache, who won't say he's cold but always accepts the scarf. You are already my son. Magic doesn't make that real. But it can honor it."

The silence between them swelled—not heavy, but deep. A stillness that echoed in the heart.

Tom finally looked at him directly, silver-gray eyes wide, exposed.

"I thought... I thought if I asked, you'd say no. Or that you'd feel forced to say yes."

Harrison cupped his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

"No one could force me to love you," he said. "And no one could stop me from loving you either."

He let his hand fall back to his lap and continued.

"The ritual... it's powerful magic. It will tie us together in blood, in legacy, in every magical registry across Britain. It will rewrite the resonance in your spellwork. You'll share my wards, my protections. You'll carry the name Potter not because I gave it to you... but because you claimed it."

Tom's breath was shallow, but he was listening, hanging on every word.

"We'll do it on the next blood moon," Harrison said. "Two months from now. It has the right weight, the right symbolism. But until then—" he paused, smiling faintly "—you have a task."

Tom blinked. "A... task?"

"You'll need to choose a name," Harrison said. "Your full name. Your true name."

The boy stared, confusion flickering behind his guarded expression.

"I already have a name."

"You have a past name," Harrison corrected gently. "And you'll always be Tom, if you want to be. But this is a chance to claim your future. You can add to it. Change it. Choose something that feels yours. That no one gave you. Not the orphanage. Not a headmaster. Not even me."

Tom's throat tightened. He looked down at his lap, quiet for so long that Harrison thought perhaps he had pushed too far. But then—

"I don't know how to choose."

"That's why we have time."

"I don't want to pick something I'll hate in ten years," he muttered.

"You won't," Harrison said. "Not if it means something. Names aren't just sounds—they're intentions. You can choose one from a story, from history, from a memory. Or we can find something together."

Tom nodded slowly, then asked the question that had clearly been gnawing at him.

"...Will I still be me?"

Harrison's smile was immediate and warm.

"Absolutely. You'll still be brilliant. Still a little terrifying when you want to be. Still quiet when you think no one's watching. Still the boy who gave a mimic root a name and reads upside down on the couch when he's too tired to sit up."

Tom's cheeks flushed slightly.

He nodded. More firmly this time.

And then, to Harrison's quiet surprise, he whispered:

"Okay."

And just like that—one word, three letters—a promise was made.

That evening, Tom returned to the conservatory after dinner, a notebook clutched in his hands. Harrison watched from the doorway as the boy sat beneath the glowing lantern tree, flipping slowly through the pages. He wrote one name, then crossed it out. Wrote another. Paused. Tapped the quill against his chin. Thought.

He's taking it seriously, Harrison realized, eyes stinging faintly.

Of course he was. It wasn't just a name to Tom.

It was the first thing he would ever truly choose.

Later that night, as Evermoor settled under starlight and soft ward-glow, Harrison stood at the window of the warding room once more, looking down at the prepared circle.

The candle. The braid of hair. The basin. The blade.

Two months.

He could wait.

But his heart already felt the bond growing—not in blood, not yet—but in the unseen places where real family begins.

He closed his eyes and imagined it.

The circle alight.

Their hands joined.

A name spoken.

And not a title of fear.

Not Riddle.

Not Voldemort.

But a name chosen in the light, with love.

And a future rising behind it like dawn.