Chapter 1: The Reluctant Host

The wind howled through the narrow streets of Cwm Rhosyn, carrying with it the earthy scent of damp moss and wildflowers. At the edge of the village stood Clary Richards' home, a two-story cottage built from weathered stone, its roof sagging slightly as if the years weighed heavily upon it. The front yard was wild and untamed, with ivy creeping up the walls and herbs spilling over their garden beds. A narrow dirt path led to the garage, where the scent of bitterroot and asphodel hung in the air. The faint glow of potion flames flickered through the cracks in the weather-beaten wooden doors.
Albus Dumbledore rapped his knuckles against the thick oak door of the cottage. It creaked open just enough for Clary's face to appear, his silver spectacles perched askew on his crooked nose. His dark skin, weathered by years of work in cauldron steam and under the sun, caught the warm light spilling from inside.

"Albus," Clary said, his voice low and gravelly. His sharp green eyes—bright against the deep brown of his face—flicked to Tol, standing awkwardly on the stoop with his bag slung over his shoulder. "Not again."

"Clarence," Dumbledore began, his tone warm but firm, "may we come in? It's rather brisk out here."

Clary opened the door reluctantly, allowing them into the cramped sitting room. The space smelled of beeswax and dried lavender. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, jars of strange ingredients, and half-finished potions. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. As Dumbledore stepped inside, Clary crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "You've got some nerve, showing up here after last time," he said. "A werewolf, Albus! A werewolf. I'm still finding claw marks in the garage door. And now—" He waved a hand toward Tol. "What is this one? A cursed child? A half-giant? Perhaps he's sprouted wings?"

Tol opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore raised a hand to calm him. "Tol is simply a boy in need of guidance, Clary. And I can think of no one more suited to the task than you."

"No," Clary said flatly, turning toward the kitchen. "Absolutely not. I'm not running a charity for magical misfits. Last time, the Wolfsbane brew alone nearly drove me out of business for the Lupin boy. This time? No chance."

Dumbledore followed him, his calm presence filling the room like an inevitability. "Clarence," he said softly, "you and I both know this is no ordinary boy."
Clary snorted, tossing a dishrag onto the counter. "I don't care if he's the reincarnation of Merlin himself. I'm done cleaning up messes that aren't mine."
"You said the same thing about Cwm Rhosyn," Dumbledore reminded him, his voice like a soft prod. "And yet here you are, thriving in this quiet place, far from the troubles you left behind in Missouri. Do you remember what you told me when you brewed your first potion here? That you wanted a fresh start, but also to help others do the same."

Clary froze, his shoulders tensing.

"This boy is not just in need of a fresh start," Dumbledore continued, his tone shifting to one of gravity. "Tol is the promised Silver."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Clary turned slowly, his green eyes narrowing. "You're not serious."

Dumbledore gestured for Tol to step forward. "Tol, show him."

Tol hesitated but obeyed, setting down his bag and drawing his wand from inside his coat. The wand was sleek, polished, and glinted faintly even in the dim light of the room. Its surface shimmered with an ethereal glow, faint as moonlight.

Clary stepped closer, his brow furrowed. He held out his hand, and Tol reluctantly passed the wand over. Clary inspected it carefully, his long fingers tracing the carvings along the handle. "Rowan wood," he murmured, his voice suddenly quiet. "Silver core. Impossible." He met Dumbledore's gaze. "You're telling me this boy is supposed to stay hidden? Here? Under my roof?"

"Precisely, and not impossible, but impossibly rare, that a wandwood accepts a metal" Dumbledore said, his tone unyielding. "There are eyes already searching for him, Clarence. Powerful, dangerous eyes. Here in Cwm Rhosyn, he'll be safe. With you, he'll learn to protect himself. It's the only way."
Clary sighed deeply, setting the wand down on the table. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze distant. Dumbledore didn't press further, watching the internal struggle play out in his old friend's face.

Finally, Clary muttered, "You've got a way of twisting a man's arm, Albus. Fine. He can stay. But I'm telling you now—if he blows up my garage or attracts any trouble, he's your problem."

Dumbledore's lips twitched in a knowing smile. "That is all I ask, old friend."

As the tension from the earlier exchange began to dissipate, Dumbledore settled into one of Clary's well-worn chairs near the hearth. He adjusted his cloak, brushing the faint embers of the fireplace warmth, while Clary leaned against the counter with a mug in his hands. The rich aroma of coffee wafted through the room, mingling with the faint chemical tang of brewed potions from the garage. "It's turned cold early this year," Dumbledore remarked, his blue eyes wandering to the frost that crept along the edges of the window. "I can't say I recall autumn arriving quite so abruptly in this part of Wales."

Clary gave a half-snort, taking a sip from his mug. "Cold's just an excuse to sell firewood at a markup. People up in Scotland or Canada would laugh at what you call cold." He shifted his weight, his large frame casting a shadow that flickered in the firelight. "Still, I'll admit, it does cut through the bones more than I remember."

Tol sat on the edge of a low stool nearby, silent as he always was in the company of adults. His hands rested on his knees, his wand tucked away safely inside his jacket. He listened to the way Clary's deep, smooth voice filled the room, contrasting with Dumbledore's softer, measured tones. "I imagine the caravaneers will start coming through soon, with their wares from the coast," Clary continued, glancing at the window as though expecting to see them already. "Always happens when the weather dips. Folk need their herbs and winter tonics before the snows really set in."

"Ah, yes. The caravaneers," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard. "Quite the resilient lot. Their trade brings a vitality to these remote parts that would otherwise be hard to sustain. Do they still set up near the old stone bridge by the stream?"

Clary nodded. "That's the spot. Same as always. Though some of the newer ones think they can take shortcuts through the woods. They learn quick enough—between the bogs and the old wards, you'd think they'd learn to stick to the path." He chuckled darkly. "Lost a wagon wheel or two, I hear. Nothing serious, but enough to remind them." Tol shifted slightly but kept his silence, his eyes darting between the two older men. There was an ease in their conversation, even when it veered into topics Tol didn't fully understand. It was strange to think of Dumbledore, the formidable headmaster, speaking of local merchants and frosted mornings as if he were just another villager.

"And how is business these days, Clary?" Dumbledore asked, his tone polite but with genuine interest. "I trust you've kept yourself busy with the potions trade?"

Clary gave a rueful grin. "Busy enough. People always want something. I swear, they don't get that potioneering ain't instant work. Takes time to brew things proper. But you can't rush folk when they've got a cough or a curse they want gone yesterday." He shrugged, though there was no real bitterness in his voice. "Keeps the lights on, anyway." The room fell into a brief, comfortable silence. The fire crackled softly, and outside, the wind whistled faintly through the trees. Tol stared at the dancing flames, his mind wandering for a moment, but he still listened as the two men exchanged small stories of life in the countryside, the peculiarities of wandering traders, and the persistent chill of Welsh winters.

It was the kind of ordinary talk Tol hadn't realized he'd missed, a reminder of the quieter world that existed outside his own chaos. For now, he was content to simply be here, unnoticed, as the two men carried on. The living room was small but full of life. The walls were a dark, warm wood, almost hidden by shelves crammed with jars of dried herbs, labeled in Clary's sharp, looping handwriting. Some jars held dried flowers, their colors muted but still vivid against the dim light. Others were filled with roots and powders, some glittering faintly when Tol caught them at the right angle. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their faint scents mingling with the woodsmoke and brewing potion that drifted in from the garage. It was the kind of place where everything had its purpose, and yet, to Tol, it all seemed chaotically placed.

The fire in the hearth snapped and popped, casting flickering shadows over the room. A large, well-used armchair sat near the fire, and Dumbledore occupied it like he belonged there, his fingers loosely steepled as he leaned back, looking utterly at ease. Clary remained near the counter, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked on something Tol couldn't quite see. Dumbledore's voice, calm yet grave, broke the comfortable quiet. "I trust you've heard the news, Clary, about Voldemort." He said the name casually, without hesitation, and Tol noticed the faint tightening of Clary's jaw.
Clary snorted, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth. "You mean You-Know-Who. Yeah, I've heard. Who hasn't? Every owl in Britain's been carrying some version of the story."

"Still, the reality of it..." Dumbledore trailed off, his gaze drifting to the fire. "The Dark Lord has fallen, but I fear it is not as final as many hope."
Clary scoffed. "Fallen or not, I'll take it. Can't say I'm crying over him getting what's coming to him. But you're saying he's not really gone?"

Tol watched as Dumbledore's expression shifted, the light of the fire catching on his half-moon glasses. "Gone, yes. For now. But not defeated. There are... echoes of his power still felt, remnants of his influence. This is why care must be taken with Tol." Clary's dark eyes flicked to Tol briefly before returning to Dumbledore. "So you're saying the kid's mixed up in all this? What's he got to do with You-Know-Who?"

Tol felt the weight of Clary's glance and shifted in his seat, his fingers brushing against the edge of his wand tucked in his jacket pocket. He looked around the room again, trying to distract himself from the heavy conversation. Above the shelves, he noticed a row of glass jars filled with liquids in varying shades of green and gold, their surfaces catching the firelight. On a nearby table, a mortar and pestle sat amidst scattered leaves, as though Clary had been grinding something moments before their arrival.

Dumbledore's voice pulled his attention back. "Not directly," he said, his tone measured. "But there are those who would use him, those who would seek to exploit his... uniqueness. It is better that he remain here, unseen and unheard, for now."

Clary frowned, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. "It's always something with you, Albus. You bring me a werewolf one year, and now this. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind keeping my head low—been doing it since I got outta Missouri—but this?" He gestured vaguely toward Tol. "This feels like trouble knocking on my door."

"Trouble does have a way of finding its way to me," Dumbledore said lightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "But you are more than capable of handling it, Clary. And you are not alone." The two men fell into a contemplative silence, the crackle of the fire filling the room. Tol's gaze wandered again, this time lingering on the thick, colorful rug beneath their feet, worn in patches but still vibrant. The warmth of the fire and the mingling scents of the herbs created an almost hypnotic atmosphere, one that both calmed and unnerved him.

"You really think he'll come back?" Clary asked after a moment, his voice low.

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to gleam in the firelight. "I do. Perhaps not tomorrow or the next day, but one day. And when that day comes, we must be prepared."

Dumbledore rose from his chair with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who had all the time in the world. He smoothed his robes and adjusted his cloak, the deep indigo fabric catching the firelight for just a moment.

"I trust you'll make Tol feel at home," he said, his eyes twinkling as they settled on Clary.

Clary grunted, his arms still crossed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about me, Albus. I've got a knack for babysitting strays, remember?"

Dumbledore smiled faintly, his gaze shifting to Tol. "You'll do well here, my boy. Listen to Clary—he has much to teach, and you have much to learn."
Tol nodded, unsure what else to do. He felt the weight of Dumbledore's words, though he didn't fully understand them. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly.
With that, Dumbledore moved toward the door, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. He paused at the threshold, turning back to look at Clary one last time. "Take care, Clary. And do try to stay out of trouble."

Clary let out a bark of laughter. "Trouble? Me? Never."

The old wizard chuckled softly, then stepped outside. Tol followed, watching from the doorway as Dumbledore turned on the spot, his figure disappearing with a faint crack, like the pop of a distant firework. The quiet of the countryside rushed back in, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl the only sounds that remained.

Tol stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where Dumbledore had been, the reality of his situation settling in. He was alone now—with Clary, yes, but without the steady presence of the man who had brought him here. "Don't just stand there," Clary's voice called from inside. "Close the door. You're lettin' the cold in."

Tol stepped back into the house, shutting the door behind him. The warmth of the living room enveloped him once again, the scents of herbs and woodsmoke grounding him in the present. Clary was already moving, heading toward the kitchen area. "Guess it's just you and me now, kid," he said, his tone neutral. He grabbed a jar off one of the shelves, pulling the lid off with a pop. The faint smell of dried lavender filled the air. "Hungry? I'm not much of a cook, but I can whip up somethin' simple."

Tol hesitated. "I'm fine, thanks."

Clary shrugged, putting the jar down. "Suit yourself. Just don't expect me to cater to picky eaters." He leaned against the counter, his sharp eyes studying Tol. "You don't say much, huh?" Tol shifted under his gaze, unsure how to respond. "I... just don't know what to say," he admitted.

Clary nodded, as though he understood more than Tol had said. "Well, you'll figure it out soon enough. I don't bite. Most days, anyway." His lips quirked into a wry smile. Tol couldn't help but smile back, albeit faintly. For all his gruffness, Clary didn't seem unkind. It was going to take time to adjust, but something about the warmth of the house, the cluttered shelves, and the quiet confidence in Clary's demeanor made Tol feel safe.

Clary pushed himself off the counter, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. "Well, kid, I reckon you've had a long day. C'mon, I'll show you where you'll be crashing." He grabbed an old oil lamp from the corner and lit it with a wave of his hand, the warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room. Tol followed as Clary headed toward the narrow staircase tucked into the corner, its wooden steps creaking under his weight.

"Watch your step," Clary said as they ascended. "These stairs've been here longer than I have, and they've got a mind of their own. Trip if you're not careful."

The second floor was smaller than Tol expected, with a low, sloping ceiling and a narrow hallway. The walls were paneled with the same dark wood as downstairs, and the faint scent of cedar lingered in the air. Clary stopped in front of a door on the left. "Here you go," he said, pushing it open.

The room was simple but cozy. A small bed with a neatly folded quilt sat against one wall, and a wooden dresser with a chipped corner stood near the window. The panes were frosted with the chill of the evening, but Tol could just make out the silhouette of the trees swaying outside. A small rug, faded with age, covered the floor, and a single shelf above the bed held a few battered books and an unlit candle. "Not much, but it's warm and quiet," Clary said, stepping aside to let Tol in. "Bathroom's at the end of the hall, and my room's the one next door." He jerked a thumb toward the adjoining wall. "If you need anything, just knock. But if it's something stupid, like you're scared of the dark, I'll make you sleep outside."

Tol managed a faint smile, though he wasn't entirely sure Clary was joking. "Thank you. This is... nice." Clary gave a grunt of acknowledgment, his sharp eyes scanning the room as though checking for anything out of place. Satisfied, he turned to leave. "I'll let you settle in. Don't stay up too late. We start early around here."

With that, he left, the soft creak of the stairs fading as he descended back to the living room.

Tol set his bag down by the bed and sat on the edge, taking a moment to absorb his surroundings. The quiet of the house was comforting, the only sounds the occasional groan of the wind and the faint crackle of the fire below. He ran his fingers over the quilt, its fabric rough but well-worn, and glanced at the books on the shelf, their spines faded and titles barely legible. For the first time in what felt like ages, Tol felt a small spark of hope flicker within him. This place was different. Clary was different. And though he didn't know what the days ahead would bring, he knew he wasn't entirely alone.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and let himself drift into the quiet stillness of the night.

The knock on Tol's door was firm but not loud, just enough to pull him out of the light sleep he'd fallen into. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The scent of cedar still lingered, mingling now with the faint aroma of something savory wafting up from below. "Rise and shine, kid," Clary called through the door. "We don't do lie-ins around here. Wash up and get down before your tea gets cold."

Tol groaned quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The room was still dim, the faint glow of early dawn creeping in through the frosted window. He splashed cold water on his face in the small bathroom at the end of the hall, the icy bite jolting him awake, then made his way downstairs. The living room was just as he'd left it—cluttered but cozy, the fire from the night before now embers in the hearth. The scent of frying bacon grew stronger as he stepped into the kitchen, where Clary was bustling around the stove.

The kitchen was small but homely, with wooden cabinets and a well-worn table in the center of the room. The walls were adorned with hanging herbs—sage, thyme, and lavender among them—and the shelves were lined with jars and tins, their labels handwritten and slightly smudged. A faded plaid curtain hung over the sink, framing a window that overlooked the still-dark countryside. "Morning," Clary said without turning, cracking an egg into a sizzling pan. "Grab those plates over there, will you? Let's set this table so we don't have to eat standing up like savages."

Tol nodded and moved to the cabinet Clary had gestured to, pulling out two mismatched plates. He set them on the table, which was already laid with a pot of steaming tea, a French press for coffee, and a small platter of toast and beans.

"Tea or coffee?" Clary asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tea," Tol replied, sitting down.

"Figures," Clary said with a snort. "You Brits and your tea. Nothing like starting your day with hot leaf water."
Tol couldn't help but smile faintly. "It's better than coffee. Too bitter."

Clary chuckled, shaking his head. "You'll come around eventually. Coffee's what keeps the world moving. Tea's just... optimism in a mug."

He brought the pan over to the table, sliding the eggs and bacon onto their plates. The meal was simple but hearty: crispy bacon, soft scrambled eggs, baked beans, and toast slathered with butter. Clary poured himself a mug of coffee, sitting down with a satisfied sigh.

"This," Clary said, gesturing at the spread, "is how you start a day. None of that cereal nonsense."

Tol picked at his food, the warmth of the tea in his hands easing some of the tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. The room felt warm despite the early chill outside, the kind of cozy that spoke of years of routine and quiet mornings like this. The soft clatter of forks and knives against plates filled the silence, and Tol found himself relaxing a little, the unfamiliarity of the place starting to fade. "You'll get used to it here," Clary said suddenly, as if reading Tol's thoughts. "It's quiet, but it's good. Folks in the village keep to themselves, but they're decent. And this house?" He waved his fork around the room. "It's got its quirks, but it's got heart. You'll see."

Tol nodded, unsure how to respond, but the faint smile on his face was enough.

As the meal wound down, Clary leaned back in his chair, cradling his coffee mug in both hands. His sharp eyes studied Tol for a moment, assessing, before he broke the silence.

"So," he began, drawing out the word, "you got a wand, right? Saw you flash it last night when Albus made you."

Tol nodded, setting his mug of tea down carefully. "Yes."

"You know how to use it?" Clary asked, raising an eyebrow. "And I don't mean just waving it around looking pretty. You actually castin' spells with it, or is it just there for show?"

Tol hesitated, unsure if Clary was testing him or genuinely curious. "I've used it," he said cautiously. "Not for much, though. Just... simple spells."
"Simple, huh?" Clary leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Like what? Show me what you got. No time like the present to see what I'm dealin' with."

Tol's cheeks flushed slightly under the scrutiny. "Well, I can do a Lumos," he said quietly. "And I know Stupefy. And Expelliarmus." He glanced up at Clary, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.

"That it?" Clary asked, his tone not unkind but definitely pointed.

"Mostly," Tol admitted. "I mean, I know a few others. Like cleaning spells, and—oh, I tried a Summoning Charm once. It worked, kind of." He paused, unsure if he should continue, but then added, "I've been practicing on my own since... since everything happened. "

Tol didn't respond, but the way his gaze dropped to the table said enough.

"Alright," Clary said after a moment, his voice more upbeat. "Well, you know the basics, at least. That's somethin'. We'll work on the rest as we go. Albus wouldn't've dropped you here if he thought you were useless, so I'm guessin' there's more to you than you're lettin' on." He took a sip of coffee, eyeing Tol over the rim of the mug. "What's your specialty, then? You any good at anything in particular?" Tol thought for a moment, frowning. "I don't know if I have a specialty," he said finally. "I was pretty good at Charms, I guess. And Defense Against the Dark Arts. But it wasn't like I had time to figure out what I'm best at. Everything got... interrupted."

Clary hummed thoughtfully, setting his mug down. "Well, we'll figure it out. Plenty of time for that now. For now, though, don't go wavin' that wand around unless I tell you to. Last thing we need is someone in the village gettin' nosy about a kid castin' spells left and right."

Tol nodded, relieved that Clary didn't press him further.

"Alright," Clary said, standing and stretching. "Let's get this table cleared, then we'll talk about what needs doin' around here. I ain't lettin' you just sit around collectin' dust, you hear me?"

Tol managed a small smile as he stood to help. "Got it."

As Tol followed Clary out of the cozy kitchen and into the garage, he could already feel the distinct change in atmosphere. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, spices, and something more metallic—a mixture of magic and brewing concoctions. The garage was large, with stone walls lined with shelves that held various vials, jars, and canisters filled with ingredients. Several large cauldrons were bubbling away on low flames, each with a different color or texture.

Clary made his way over to the largest cauldron, where a faint green glow flickered beneath the simmering liquid. "This here's a brew for sleep aid, calming the nerves. A bit of Valerian root, some lavender, and a pinch of dreamleaf. Helps folks sleep like they're in a cloud," Clary explained, his hands deftly checking the fire beneath the cauldron, adjusting it with a wave of his wand.

He moved to another cauldron, one bubbling a deep purple hue. "This is a concoction for memory enhancement," he continued, adding ingredients from his workbench with precision. "Ginkgo, starflower, and a bit of powdered moonstone. Helps with concentration too."

Tol nodded quietly, watching the old man work. The complexity of potion-making seemed far beyond him. "Anything I can help with?"
"Yeah," Clary said, pulling his wand from his pocket. "Sweep the floor, will ya? I'll tidy up the counters."

Tol grabbed the broom and began sweeping the small patch of ground, the bristles of the broom swishing over the dusty stones. He was silent, though his mind was racing, absorbing everything Clary was saying. The whole garage smelled like a herbal apothecary's dream, mixed with the unmistakable scent of magic.

Once the floor was clean, Clary nodded in approval. He moved to the counter, flicking his wand with a casual gesture. "Counters too. We need everything spotless around here," he said. As Tol moved to clean the counter, Clary waved his wand, and two cups and a bottle of pumpkin juice appeared from the kitchen with a soft pop.

"Go ahead, have a seat," Clary said, motioning to a small wooden stool next to him. He summoned a stool for himself and sat down across from Tol. "I know Pippa," he said, his voice soft but laced with experience. "Old friend of mine. We've had a few dealings over the years. She's sharp, and she's got a good head for business." He took a long sip from his cup, setting it down with a quiet thud. "She's been around a lot longer than most folks realize."
Tol's eyes flickered with curiosity as he listened to Clary speak. "Business?" he asked, taking a careful sip of his pumpkin juice.

"Yeah. Potions, charms, rare ingredients," Clary replied, leaning back in his stool. "She's got her hands in a lot of pies, so to speak. And I've helped her out a time or two. Don't know if she mentioned it, but we go way back. She's a good ally to have."

Tol nodded slowly, taking in the quiet exchange. It was clear that Pippa had her own networks, and it seemed Clary was part of them too. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of life she'd led before all of this. What kinds of "business" had she been involved in?

As the flames under the cauldrons slowly died down, the once vibrant and bubbling concoctions began to simmer gently, the colors shifting as they cooled. The air in the garage grew quieter, the usual hum of the brewing process replaced by the soft sound of the cooling potions. Clary took a few measured steps back, allowing the brew to settle. "Let 'em cool down for a bit," he murmured.

After a while, he pulled several boxes down from the shelves behind the counters, placing them in front of Tol. "Start filling these," Clary instructed, guiding Tol to pour the cooled potions into small glass containers. With careful hands, they worked together, filling vial after vial with the carefully brewed concoctions. As each potion filled its vessel, Tol marveled at how precise and delicate the process was. The colors in the potions were mesmerizing—some glowing softly, others clear, with a faint shimmer as the light hit them.

Once all the vials were filled, Clary took over, using a flick of his wand to seal each one with a thin layer of magic. He muttered a few words under his breath, and a faint glow surrounded each bottle, ensuring the potions would remain potent until they were needed. Carefully, he stacked the vials in boxes, then placed them underneath the counters, securing them for future use.

The work done, Clary stretched his arms and stood tall. "Good work, kid. Now let's get something in us."

He led Tol back to the kitchen, where the atmosphere was calm and welcoming. Clary moved to the stove, setting a small pot on the burner to heat up, the familiar aroma of coffee filling the air. After a few moments, he poured two mugs, handing one to Tol. The boy accepted it hesitantly, sniffing the strong scent.

"Proper coffee," Clary remarked with a grin. "None of that weak tea stuff, you know?"

Tol chuckled softly, taking a cautious sip. The strong, bitter taste hit him instantly, but he found it surprisingly pleasant. "It's... good," he said, a little surprised by how much he liked it.

Clary took a seat at the kitchen table, his own mug in hand. "So, I see you and Pippa are pretty close," he said after a beat, his voice soft but probing. He didn't look at Tol directly, but his gaze lingered on the mug, a quiet understanding in his tone. "She's a tough one, but she cares about people, even if she doesn't always show it. If you want to send her a message, you can use the owl. Just write it down, and he'll take it straight to her."

Tol looked up, his brow furrowed for a moment as he processed the offer. "I could write her a letter?"

Clary nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Yep. An owl's the fastest way to get a message to her, and if you need something, it's best to let her know soon." He gave Tol a knowing smile. "I'd bet she's worried about you, but she's not the type to show it. She's been through a lot, same as you."

Tol thought for a moment, then nodded. It felt strange, the idea of reaching out to Pippa from here, but it was a small comfort. He could always count on her to help him navigate the unknown. And for now, he needed that connection more than ever.

When Clary left to tend to the potions in the garage, Tol excused himself and made his way upstairs to the small room that had been set aside for him. He took his time, running his fingers over the cool walls, as if the touch could help him remember things that were slipping away. Sitting at a wooden desk, he unfurled a piece of parchment, feeling its rough texture under his fingertips. As he grasped the quill, a pang of grief tugged at his chest. His hand hovered over the page, the ink staring back at him, waiting for his words.

He thought about his mother, a woman he couldn't quite picture anymore. She was a very blond lady, with pale skin that almost seemed to glow in the sunlight, but the details of her face were fading. The sound of her voice, the way she used to smile at him, all of it seemed to slip through his mind like water through his fingers. He could feel the warmth of her hugs, the scent of her hair, but her features, her eyes, her smile, the curve of her smile, were becoming harder and harder to recall. The memory of her had been dimming ever since her death, and the more he tried to focus on it, the more it eluded him.

Frustrated, he set the quill down, rubbing his forehead. He wanted to remember her face, his mother, the woman who had given him life, the woman who had taught him everything he knew before she was gone. But every time he tried, it felt as if the image was slipping further and further away. He gripped the edges of the parchment, and a sigh escaped his lips. It was painful, this feeling of forgetting, of losing parts of himself with every passing day. Shaking it off, he picked up the quill again and began to write. It was easier to talk to Pippa, easier to write to her about his thoughts and feelings, even when they seemed to scatter like fallen leaves in the wind. As he dipped the quill in ink and started the letter, he pushed the thoughts of his mother to the back of his mind, focusing on something else, on Pippa, on his new life, and on the strange peace he was starting to feel here in the Welsh countryside.

Dear Pippa,
I hope this letter finds you well. I don't know if you're still as busy as always, but I wanted to let you know that I've settled into the place Clary gave me. I'm doing alright here, though everything feels a little different. The house is cozy, much warmer than I expected. The air smells of herbs and fresh earth, and I woke up to the sound of birds this morning. It's quiet here, almost peaceful, but I don't feel as alone as I thought I would. It's hard to describe, but the place feels... right, in a way.
Clary is a bit of a character, but he's been good to me. I've been helping him with his work in the garage. The whole place has this kind of charm to it. There are always shelves full of jars, bottles, and dried herbs hanging from the walls. The air smells of the mixtures he brews, and the warmth from the cauldrons feels comforting. The house itself is nice, too. It's small, but it's got this homely feel to it, like the kind of place that makes you want to curl up with a book and forget about everything else for a while.
I think I'm starting to get used to it here already. There's still a lot I don't understand, but I feel... content, I suppose. I've been thinking about you a lot, and how you helped me when I was lost. It's still strange being away from everything I knew, but I think this is the right place for me to be—for now, at least.
Anyway, I hope you're doing okay. I'll try to write more often. And if you need anything from me, just let me know.
Take care of yourself,
Tol
As he finished the letter, he read it over, nodding to himself with quiet satisfaction. He had told Pippa what he could, about the peace of this new place, about Clary, and the uncertainty that still lingered within him. But it was more than that. It was a letter to his past, to the part of him that had been searching for something, anything, to fill the emptiness that had followed his mother's death. "I will be brave, mom."

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with the wax Clary had left him. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a connection to the world he was beginning to build here. The world where he wasn't just a boy lost in grief, but someone finding their way again. He stood up, the letter in hand, and walked to the window, glancing out at the misty morning. The hills and the woods beyond stretched out before him in a peaceful, unbroken line. It was a place where, Tol felt he could breathe.

With a final glance at the quiet village below, he left the room, letter in hand. He had more to learn, more to face, but for now, he was content. And that, for the moment, was enough.