In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Thirty-One: Ashes and Olive Branches

The air in Pompeii shimmered with heat and history. Sunlight spilled across cobbled streets and broken columns, the ruins breathing stories into every crevice. It was beautiful in the way that ancient things often were—touched by tragedy, but too proud to crumble entirely.

Thomas Ordell Potter walked just behind Alessia, eyes wide and alert, ears tilted toward every soft-spoken word the guide shared. Walburga Black remained close, her expression unreadable but clearly listening. She said little, but Harrison had noticed the way her gaze lingered on frescoes of goddesses, the way her shoulders stiffened at talk of forgotten empires and families swallowed whole by time.

Not far behind, Hal Longbottom was sulking.

He wouldn't have used that word, of course. He was merely watching, thank you. Observing. Studying. Tactical observation.

Maximus had told him to stop glowering three times already.

"You'll turn into one of the statues," his older brother had muttered. "And then what'll we do, eh? Leave you in the forum for tourists to take pictures with?"

Hal ignored him.

He wasn't sulking.

He just... didn't like her.

Didn't like the way she walked so close to Thomas. The way she tilted her head when he spoke, as if committing every syllable to memory. The way Thomas—his Thomas—had laughed at something she whispered near the temple steps. A small laugh. Quick. But real.

He hadn't laughed like that with Hal in days.

Hal dragged his foot against the dust, leaving a line behind him as the group continued deeper into the ruins. It wasn't fair. He'd been there first. Since almost the beginning. Since Thomas showed up all skinny and quiet and haunted, like something pulled from a storm. Hal had earned his place. Through every game of wizard's chess, every sneaked pastry, every late-night storytelling session under the villa's charm-lit rafters.

And now she shows up. Dark-eyed and pale and proud, all wrapped up in a name that reeked of blood and old curses.

He didn't trust her.

Didn't trust that Thomas wouldn't get swept up in it. In her. In everything the Black family stood for.

Didn't trust that there would still be room for him.

Not with the garden party friends now, too—those posh ones from France and Germany and that weird boy with the butterfly cloak. Everyone wanted to talk to Thomas these days. Because he was a Potter. Because he was Harrison's son. Because he was interesting. Special.

Hal kicked a pebble down a broken staircase.

Maybe he wasn't interesting enough to keep up.

Thomas felt the moment the air shifted.

It wasn't the guide's voice or Alessia's change in tone—it was subtler than that. A heaviness between footfalls. An absence of laughter. He turned slightly and caught Hal trailing behind, face like thunder, arms crossed over his chest.

A small twist tugged behind his ribs.

He slowed his pace, let the others drift ahead.

Walburga noticed but didn't question him. She stepped aside, letting him go.

Hal didn't look up when Thomas approached.

"You okay?" Thomas asked quietly.

Hal didn't answer.