In the Shadow of What If's

The Shadowed Path to Pompeii

Chapter Thirty: The Shadowed Path to Pompeii

The Italian morning bloomed warm and gold, with a gentle sea breeze that fluttered through the open windows of the Potter Villa. The scent of rosemary from the cliffside gardens mixed with salt from the sea below, and a hush of anticipation lingered in the air. Tomorrow, they would visit the ruins of Pompeii—an educational outing organized with diplomatic precision, ensuring both magical discretion and intellectual enrichment.

But for now, the world held its breath between the brightness of sun and the stillness of memory.

Thomas stood on the veranda, a linen shirt half-buttoned over his light trousers, curls damp from a too-hasty rinse in the villa's marble-tiled washroom. In his hand was a letter. The paper was smooth and expensive, the seal broken carefully. He had already read it twice.

He read it a third time.

Dear Thomas,

My parents are allowing me to come.

I don't know why. Perhaps because they think I'm learning how to "endure," as my mother says. Or maybe because they trust I won't be swayed by your ideals.

They have a meeting in Naples. Something important. A campaign, I think. Gellert Grindelwald is trying to become Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. My parents support him. Fiercely.

I've never heard him speak, but they say he's the future. That he'll purify what's been muddied. They use words like "order" and "legacy" when they talk about him. I don't think they know how often I listen.

But anyway. I'm coming.

My elf and I will be at the beach gate around nine.

I hope you'll meet me there.

—Walburga Black

Thomas let the letter fall to his side, then exhaled through his nose. He hadn't heard of Grindelwald before this. But the name rang hollow in his chest, like a bell before a storm.

He found his shoes by the garden steps and headed down toward the beach.

The sand was pale and warm underfoot, the sea calm and impossibly blue. Fishermen were setting out beyond the reef, their sails catching like birds' wings in the wind. Thomas followed the stone path that curved around a hedge of oleander, then down a vine-covered arch that led to the private gate at the far end of the cove.

She was already there.

Walburga Black stood like a ghost against the light—six years old, small but straight-backed, her posture flawless even in the face of discomfort. Her travel robe was far too formal for the weather, trimmed in heavy silver threading that shimmered dully in the heat. Her dark hair had been pinned up by someone with more concern for style than comfort, and her house-elf, a pale-eyed creature in a pressed tunic, carried her bag in silence.

"Walburga," Thomas called softly as he approached.

She turned. Her expression gave away nothing. But she didn't flinch from him either.

"You came," she said, as though she hadn't written that she would.

"I said I would."

There was a pause. Then she glanced toward the horizon, as though steeling herself.

"I've never been in Muggle spaces before," she said. "Not even once."

Thomas tilted his head. "You won't be alone, you'll be with us."