In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Letters and Lingering Light

The sun had long since dipped behind the hills, and the last of the light had melted into soft twilight. Golden globes floated overhead, casting a warm, inviting glow over the winding garden paths and the final guests still lingering at the Potter Villa. The string quartet played a slow, dreamy waltz, and the fire lilies had bloomed to full brilliance—glowing faintly pink where the light met shadow.

Harrison walked along the eastern garden path, the breeze carrying hints of rosemary and salt. Beside him, Amaryllis Greengrass moved in perfect step. Her pale violet robes trailed behind her, edged in silver that caught the light. She had been by his side for most of the evening, and the silence between them now felt easy.

"You surprised me tonight," he said, glancing at her.

Amaryllis raised an eyebrow. "Because I danced?"

"Because you danced with me."

She looked ahead, a smile tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. "You were the most interesting person here."

He chuckled. "That sounds like faint praise."

"Then I'll clarify," she said, stopping just under the shadow of a flowering archway. "You're intelligent. You listen. And you didn't once try to impress me."

"I was just trying not to step on your feet."

She laughed—just softly.

Then Harrison hesitated, his hand brushing the edge of his sleeve. He hadn't done this in a long time—not since before all the wars, before the pain that split his life in half. But tonight had opened something in him.

"I was wondering..." he began, meeting her gaze, "if I could write to you."

Amaryllis studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable.

"You may," she said. "But if you ask me about the weather, I won't respond."

He smiled, more genuinely than he had in weeks. "Fair."

It had been years—too many—since he'd felt this kind of quiet interest in anyone. Since Ginny. He would always love her, always carry that life in the part of his soul still tethered to a future that would never come to pass. But that future was gone. Erased.

And this woman before him... she belonged to now.

On the south lawn, Thomas was in the middle of his own sort of dance—though his was made of laughter and parchment, not violins and waltzes.

He sat beneath the glowing willow, surrounded by the children he'd met that day. Hal Longbottom sprawled beside him, belly full of lemon tart, while Edmund Bones, Clara Abbott, Bea Prewett, and Foster Prewett gathered around.

They passed enchanted parchment back and forth, inscribed with playful charms—some glowing, others folding into origami owls, a few singing snippets of misheard wizarding folk songs.

"Here," Bea said, sliding him a scroll with a faint gold trim, "for when you want to duel again."

"You're the first person I've ever lost to and still liked," Foster added, tossing him a folded game card.

Edmund handed him a hand-drawn star map. "This one's charmed to show visible constellations from wherever you are—just write your name at the bottom."

Clara, quieter than the others but no less determined, offered a neat sheet of purple-lined parchment. "You seemed like someone who reads a lot. So write me what you're reading. I'll write back."

Thomas accepted each one with care, smiling so broadly Harrison might not have recognized him a year ago.

"You're really going to write all of them?" Hal asked, blinking as he watched the stack grow.

"Of course," Thomas said simply, carefully folding them into a pouch. "They're my friends."

"And Walburga?"

Thomas paused.

Then, without hesitation: "Yes. Her too."

Hal frowned a little. "Why?"

"She reminds me of who I used to be," Thomas said quietly. "Before Evermoor. Before Harrison. Lonely. Tense. Watching everything too closely."

The group went quiet for a moment.

Thomas added, "Maybe she won't write back. But I'd rather try."

At the main table, Fleamont and Euphemia sat with Cedric and Alyssa Longbottom beneath the lantern-lit pergola. Their drinks had mellowed, the conversation drifting between idle gossip and sharper speculation.

"Well," Fleamont said, glancing across the lawn to where Harrison stood with Amaryllis, "he didn't retreat into the library. That's a start."

Euphemia sipped her wine. "She's a good match."

"You mean she's sharp as a scalpel and twice as bold," Cedric muttered. "She could probably run the Wizengamot by twenty-five."

"She'll make him earn every answer," Alyssa said with an approving nod.

Then, as Maximus returned from his walk—face flushed, robes slightly out of order—they all turned to look at him.

He froze.

"What?"

"You walked her all the way to the fountain," Alyssa said sweetly. "That's practically a courtship ritual."

Cedric leaned in. "We've been discussing a betrothal."

"You what?" Maximus choked.

"She has excellent posture," Euphemia added helpfully. "And from what I hear, she hexed the Nott boy last spring. Really, what more could we want?"

Maximus groaned and buried his face in his hands. "She called me serious."

"In a complimentary way," Alyssa teased. "I believe that's how Gryffindors flirt."

Across the lawn, Augusta Flint laughed at something a distant cousin said, then—without looking—glanced once over her shoulder at Maximus before continuing on.

Fleamont, watching the scene, hummed in approval. "A bold one. She'll either terrify him or make him Prime Minister."

"Why not both?" Euphemia said, lifting her glass.

Later, as the stars emerged fully and the music faded to a hush, Harrison returned to the table, Thomas at his side.

Thomas began retelling the details of his evening—each child, each game, each letter requested. His eyes shone with purpose, voice animated. Harrison listened, nodding, smiling.

But once or twice, he looked up at the sky.

At the stars.

At a life still stretching ahead—unexpected and unknown.

And this time, he wasn't afraid of it.