In the Shadow of What If's

The Shadowed Path to Pompeii

There were murmured greetings, polite nods, and a few amused smiles.

Alessia smiled, clearly used to such groups.

"We will begin near the Forum. Stay close. There are Muggle tourists nearby, but I've secured a route that allows for the occasional magical overlay—without drawing attention."

She led them past stone arches and frescoed villas, through open squares and ancient marketplaces. Thomas watched Walburga closely. At first, she stayed quiet. Reserved. But eventually, as Alessia spoke of the city buried in ash and preserved like a spell gone wrong, something in Walburga's expression began to shift.

She was listening. Truly listening.

"And here," Alessia said, pausing before a crumbled mosaic, "we believe the original owner was a Roman seer—a witch who foresaw the mountain's eruption. She fled the city days before, taking her scrolls with her. Some survived. They speak of stars falling and fire raining from the sky."

"Like a prophecy?" Walburga asked.

Alessia blinked, then smiled. "Precisely like that."

Harrison glanced back at Thomas and raised a brow in approval.

Thomas didn't reply.

He was watching Walburga.

Really watching her.

Because in that moment—her face lit by sun and wonder, her shoulders no longer pulled so tightly back—she looked like the girl who might, just might, write back again.

And he hoped she would.

Harrison's POV

The portkey landing was as smooth as any he'd cast in recent years. No one stumbled, no hats went flying, and—miraculously—no one vomited. Small victories, Harrison thought, adjusting the strap of his satchel as the last shimmering trace of magic dissipated in the warm Italian air.

They stood just outside the gates of Pompeii, the ruins stretched out before them in solemn dignity. The charred skeletons of columns. The ghost of an empire buried and reborn as caution.

And somewhere ahead, his son walked beside Walburga Black.

Harrison lingered a step behind the others, letting the sun burn gently across his shoulders, the salt air brush his cheeks, and the sight of them—Thomas and the Black girl—draw his focus like gravity.

They were six. Six. And still, something about the way they moved together unsettled him in ways he couldn't name. Not wrong. Not dangerous. Just... aware. Too aware. As if neither had ever truly known what it meant to be a child.

Thomas walked straight-backed, polite, alert. But there was an ease to his stance around Walburga that Harrison rarely saw in him outside their home. And the girl? She wore the sundress Euphemia had coaxed her into like it was both armor and rebellion. Her dark eyes were sharp beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat she'd accepted only after Alyssa told her it had belonged to an "old pure-blood aunt who survived three Italian duels and one scandalous elopement."

Still, she wore it. And more importantly—she walked beside Thomas without tension.

"I don't like the way she holds herself," Fleamont murmured beside him. "Too still. Too cautious. Reminds me of a bird taught not to sing."

"She is a Black," Harrison replied. "Still... she wrote back."

"And that means something?"

"She could've ignored him. Or insulted him. Or asked never to see him again."

"But instead she said yes."

"Yes." Harrison glanced sideways. "And wore Muggle clothes to do it."

They followed the group deeper into the ruins, Alessia leading with well-rehearsed grace, her wand tucked cleverly beneath a wrap that passed as fashionable. Alyssa and Euphemia chatted with her at the front, asking questions about restoration charms and cultural preservation. The Longbottoms walked just behind them—Cedric and Hal both armed with magical cooling bracelets and matching frowns every time someone wandered too far.

Harrison's gaze never left the two children.

Thomas was gesturing quietly as Alessia spoke. A question. Likely historical. Maybe magical. Harrison could almost hear it: Did she really survive because of a prophecy? What did it say? Where did the scrolls go? And Walburga? She didn't answer out loud. She listened. Watched. But she stayed close.

Like she didn't want to miss anything.

Or like she didn't know how.

Harrison remembered the way Thomas had stood in the courtyard two nights ago, fists clenched, voice trembling, guilt clinging to him like frost. I thought you wouldn't want me anymore.

And now, here he was—steady again. Curious. Alive in a way Harrison hadn't seen since before the visit to the Blacks.

Not because of Walburga, necessarily.

But because of what she represented.

Someone who understood the weight of legacy. The suffocation of lineage. The constant performance. Someone who didn't mock him for needing approval—because she needed it too, just from different monsters.

And monsters they were.

Pollux and Irma Black had sent their daughter not out of trust or kindness, but strategy. Position. Appearance. They believed they were shaping her into a weapon.

Maybe they were.

But she was still just a girl.

And Thomas? He didn't see a weapon. He saw someone trying to survive the same storm he'd barely made it through.

They paused before a ruined temple. Alessia waved her wand subtly, casting a projection—ghost-light rising from the stone to show what it might've once looked like. A priestess. A statue. Flames curling from a long-forgotten brazier.

Walburga whispered something to Thomas. He nodded. Said something back.

Then—softly, gently—she smiled.

It was a fleeting thing. A flicker. Like a candle in wind.

But Harrison saw it.

He folded his arms and exhaled slowly.

"Something wrong?" Fleamont asked.

"No. Not wrong." Harrison's voice was distant. "Just... harder than I expected."

Fleamont raised a brow. "You mean watching him grow?"

"I mean watching him hope."

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A fragile, quiet hope. That maybe this girl, who understood shadows and expectations and the impossible weight of a name, could be a friend. A real one. Not just a playmate or political ally. Not someone to impress. But someone who saw him.

And in that fleeting smile, Harrison saw the most dangerous kind of magic: recognition.

Recognition that wasn't earned by blood or name, but pain. Longing. The kind of understanding that drew people together long before they knew what it meant to stay.

He wondered if the Blacks would notice the shift in their daughter. Or if they'd only see it too late.

He wondered what Thomas's next letter would say.

And he wondered what would happen if, one day, she wrote a letter that said: I want to stay.

Author's Note:
Yes, I know they are only six years old. Yes, I know that is young. But given the shape of their upbringing, the pressure, and the rarefied worlds they were born into—both magical and noble—it made sense to me to depict them as emotionally older than their years. Walburga is a girl expected to uphold a dynasty. Thomas is a boy desperate to live up to a name he chose, not one given. They are both still children, but they are children who believe perfection is the only way to earn love.