In the Shadow of What If's

Foundations of a Future

Chapter Four: Foundations of a Future

Morning came quietly.

Harrison rose before the sun fully breached the horizon, instinct honed from years of vigilance, war, and loss. The tavern was still asleep save for the occasional creak of shifting wood and the soft whistle of the wind outside. He cast a warming charm over the washbasin and splashed his face, watching himself in the fogged mirror.

It was always strange to look into his own eyes and not see the scar.

But today, he looked like a man with purpose. Measured. Clear. Grounded.

By the time he made it downstairs, Pip had already left a breakfast of eggs, sausages, and toast in his private nook by the fire. He ate without hurry, savoring the normalcy. He would never again take peace for granted.

He was just rinsing the last of his tea when a rapping sound tapped at the window. He looked up to see a regal barn owl, feathers tipped in frost, a scroll fastened to its leg. It landed with practiced grace, and Harrison stepped forward to retrieve the sealed message.

GRINGOTTS BANK
Property Division
For: H. J. Potter
Subject: Deed Transfer: Rosier Estate

He broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and read swiftly.

Dear Mr. Potter,

This letter is to confirm full transfer of ownership regarding the Rosier Estate, located in Yorkshire, northern England. As of this morning, all titles—magical and Muggle—are legally under your name, with trace enchantments tied solely to your signature and blood. Our crews have opened the wards for your arrival, though it remains largely uninhabitable until repairs begin. Keys and property tags are included. We await your instructions regarding restoration.

Respectfully,
Broker Gornak, Senior Property Specialist

Folded within the parchment was a silver key etched with runes, a sign of full ownership. Harrison held it in his palm for a moment, feeling its thrum of old, forgotten magic.

It was his now.

His first true home.

And soon, it would be someone else's too.

By midday, Harrison had packed what little he brought—his cloak over one arm, wand concealed in his coat, pouch securely tied to his belt—and apparated just outside the Rosier Estate's old boundary line.

The wind here was sharp and biting, the snow deeper. Thick pines lined the land, silent and watchful. As he stepped past the threshold, he felt the fizz and flicker of faded wards acknowledge him—like a dying breath given new life.

The estate itself stood crumbling atop a hill. Ivy choked its once-beautiful stones, windows gaped like shattered eyes, and the old gates groaned open as he approached. The main structure, three stories tall with sweeping wings, still bore the bones of greatness: arched doorways, balconies that overlooked the forest, a towering observatory half collapsed from a long-forgotten spell.

He walked through it in silence, boots echoing on cracked marble, ancient portraits stirring in their frames to peer at the stranger in their halls.

"This place has history," he whispered, placing a hand against a faded column. "And soon, it'll have a future again."

He called out then—not in voice, but in magic.

His wand rose, and the air shimmered as runes leapt from his thoughts. His magic surged, spilling into the walls, the foundations, the bones of the house. He wove protections, stabilizers, magical buffers that would hold the place together until the enchanters and builders arrived.

Then, his true genius emerged: enchantments he'd created himself. Wards that shifted based on intent. Charms that responded to tone, not just spell. Secret passageways keyed to bloodline or protection of children. A nursery room that could never be found by anyone with ill will. A private study that would only reveal itself to him when he spoke the name "James."

This would not be a house. It would be a sanctuary.

By afternoon, he sat in the great room, a fire coaxed to life in the ancient hearth by phoenix feather kindling. There was a table now, conjured temporarily, with parchment spread before him and two checklists:

Estate Restoration: Enchanters. Wardsmiths. Magical carpenters. Interior charms. Hidden spell runes. Temperature regulators.

Orphanage Inquiry: Wool's Orphanage. Child records. Magical testing. Guardian application process. Identity spells.

He tapped his quill thoughtfully.

The orphanage would require care. He couldn't simply show up and demand a child. There were forms, evaluations, and the ever-present obstacle of bureaucracy. Fortunately, gold softened a great many rules. And he had studied every clause of 1930s magical guardianship law.

He would begin with a formal inquiry through the Ministry's Muggle Liaison office under the alias of Harrison James of Boston, citing interest in adopting a British-born magical orphan for "international fostering." It was vague enough to escape notice, but legitimate enough to be taken seriously.

He folded the parchment and summoned an owl to take it directly to the Ministry.

That evening, Harrison stood on the balcony of the half-restored observatory, watching the sun sink beneath the treeline. He could feel the wards tightening around the land, the magic humming in sync with his heartbeat. The house was coming back to life.

Tomorrow, he thought. Furniture, books, toys...

He didn't know what five-year-old Tom would like. He had never seen the child—only the memories Voldemort had buried deep in his own soul. But he knew what a child should have.

A warm bed. A safe room. A place to play. A library filled with wonders. A space to make mistakes without fear. A place to cry, and laugh, and grow.

For all of Tom's future cruelty, he had been a child once. A boy abandoned. Unloved. Told he was strange. Feared even by his carers.

Harrison's jaw set with resolve.

He will not be feared in this house. Not for who he is. Not ever.

He closed his eyes and whispered to the wind, as if the boy might hear him even now.

"I'm coming for you, Tom. And I'm going to be everything no one else ever was."