In the Shadow of What If's

The Keeper of the Secret Name

"I remember," Harrison said. "She told me she sent you something special."

"She did," Tom said, eyes distant again. "It was a collection of old magical parables and myths. Most were ridiculous. But one had a name. Not the main character—not the one you'd expect. But the one in the margins. The quiet one."

"And you liked it?"

"I didn't at first," Tom admitted. "But it kept coming back to me. Not because it was powerful. Not because it was famous. But because it felt... like something I could grow into. Like a doorway, not a wall."

Harrison exhaled softly. "That's the best kind of name."

Tom didn't say anything else about it. And Harrison didn't ask.

That evening, Harrison sat in his study, parchment scattered across his desk and the ritual calendar pinned to the far wall, counting down days with slow, magical ink. Thirty left. Thirty days until the circle would be drawn, until the silver basin would catch their mingled blood, until the name would be sealed.

He didn't know what the name would be.

That alone might have unnerved him once. But now? Now it felt like a gift. Tom had claimed something for himself. Something sacred.

And that, more than anything, told Harrison he had done something right.

He thought of how far they'd come.

From the wary-eyed boy who had flinched from touch and never laughed unless prompted... to the one who now wandered the halls of Evermoor barefoot at night, asking questions like "Why does the fox blink slower on Wednesdays?" and "What does starfire ink do when it's left under moonlight?"

He had written letters to Euphemia now every Friday. Asked Fleamont to teach him magical fencing. Had begun helping Dobby in the garden—not for reward, but because he liked seeing the leaves move under his command.

He was building a life.

A real one.

And soon—he would have a name to anchor it.

The next morning, Harrison found Tom in the east wing reading room, curled up on the armchair beneath the portrait of a wild-eyed witch who often offered unsolicited opinions about transfiguration methods. Tom was completely ignoring her.

On his lap was the very book Euphemia had sent.

Its cover was plain. A faded brown leather binding with only a single symbol on the spine—a silver rune that meant truth found in shadow.

Tom traced it with his thumb, not realizing Harrison was watching.

"What did you like about it?" Harrison asked from the doorway.

Tom looked up. Thought. Then said, "It didn't try to be more than it was. The book. The stories. They were simple. But not stupid. Just... quiet. And true."

Harrison walked over and crouched beside the chair.

"Would you read me the story with the name in it?"

Tom hesitated.

Then slowly flipped open the book.

He didn't point out which name it was.

He simply began reading.

His voice was soft at first—careful, like he was testing the room's response. But as the story unfolded, he grew steadier. It was a tale about a reclusive wizard who helped lost travelers find their way through an enchanted forest that rearranged itself to match your fears. He didn't cast powerful spells. He didn't duel dark lords. He just... helped.