This final arc of the story involves Merope and Thomas moving into their new home period, so to speak, and exploring how they adapt to their own future. This is one of my favorite things about time travel, and I imagine if not for the fact that I came into this with a Very Specific Plan involved, I would probably spend a lot of time playing around.
But I need to keep myself on task.
I think you'll enjoy where this goes. I hope so, anyway.
One.
Leading Merope Gaunt through Diagon Alley, to Ollivander's to buy her first wand, Sirius and Thomas acted as her honor guard. Remus followed along behind her, beside Minerva McGonagall; while Merope stayed near Sirius, her preferred companion—perhaps she saw him as the brother that Morfin never was—she seemed quite pleased to have a full retinue with her.
"This place is wonderful," she said, softly, with no small amount of awe, eyeing the different shops and storefronts. "My father always told me that wizarding villages were places of filth and rabble. I am . . . coming to believe that he had a very skewed view of things."
"Grandfather wanted you too scared to branch out," Thomas said sagely. "If you were convinced that the only safe place was at his side, in his home, then you would never learn better. You would never understand that you deserve better."
"Your son is wise beyond his years," said Minerva.
Thomas looked proud of himself; he adjusted his collar.
"Ollivander is an odd one," Sirius said, "but he knows his work. Trust his recommendations."
Merope nodded.
Sirius opened his mouth to say something else, just as they were turning toward Ollivander's shop, when he stopped cold. His eyes flicked this way and that; his dominant hand twitched. "Remus," he said quickly. "Stay near Merope and Thomas. Be ready to run."
Remus didn't ask questions; he squared his shoulders and waited for Sirius's signal.
Minerva already had her wand in hand; she said nothing.
Sirius clenched his fists tightly enough that the knuckles of his fingers popped.
Two.
Merope's eyes were as wide as soup plates; she held her son against her and strained to make her voice work. Her chin quivered, her teeth chattered, and Thomas looked like he fully intended to stand in front of his mother and take whatever got thrown her way.
Morfin Gaunt, hunkered low like a beast, growled at them all.
"Oh, look," he hissed, in that language that only his family could speak. "Found the little blood traitor, haven't I? And her last sin with her. Not so clever now, are you, brat? What now? Trapped in an alley." Morfin whipped out his wand and pointed it square at his sister. "You'll pay for what you've done to this family, is what you'll do! You'll pay for your dishonor!"
Thomas wanted to speak, wanted to snap back at his uncle, but it seemed like his mother's fear was flowing into him; it was all he could do to keep his feet, clutching Merope's cloak with one hand. He glared daggers at the man and tried to tell himself he wasn't afraid.
Morfin's instincts were honed sharper than broken glass; he whirled around and lunged at Sirius Black before he could get properly into position. Sirius whipped out of the way and pivoted on one foot. He held a wickedly curved blade in one hand.
"If you're going to talk with snakes," Sirius murmured, almost friendly, "why don't you crawl like one?"
Morfin yowled with fury and whipped his arm around, sending a curse Sirius's way with all the ease and long practice of a man with no care for life or love. Sirius slid to one side of the alley, against a brick wall and low to the ground; he pulled his own wand and sent a stunning spell straight between his opponent's eyes. The only remaining Gaunt man let out a gurgling, grunting sound; he stumbled, fell against the stone, and collapsed in a heap.
Sirius slipped knife and wand back into place beneath his long coat, his eyes locked on the man who—somehow—followed him into the future. As Minerva McGonagall came up behind him, he said: "Get Dumbledore here. Quick as you can. I haven't the faintest idea what we need to do about this, but something has to be done."
Minerva nodded curtly and vanished.
Remus Lupin stepped out from the shadows just behind Merope and her son. His own wand was in his hand. "I had that handled, Padfoot," he said. "You just love to upstage me, don't you?"
Sirius flashed a playful little grin. "What can I say? I'm a drama queen."
Merope laughed.
Three.
Merope Gaunt's wand was twelve inches long, delicate, wrought of black walnut and a dragon heartstring. She was quite enamored with it, and she spent most of her time in Diagon Alley, and the scenic walk around the Hogwarts grounds once they were done, admiring it. Thomas, for his part, kept stealing glances at his mother's new prize; he seemed quite proud to see his mother sporting the first sign of proper training as a witch, and he took great umbrage with anyone who didn't understand how important this was.
"I can assure you," said Dumbledore, with a stern expression that made his voice all the more powerful, "that your safety is assured. So long as you are in this castle, no one will reach you. No one will harm you. I will see to it personally."
"How are you going to back that up?" Thomas asked quickly.
"I will have Aurors patrolling the castle at all hours," Dumbledore said. "They will also accompany your mother wherever she might need to go, if she requests it." He gestured grandly with one arm, noting the obvious confusion on the boy's face. "I hear told that Sirius showed quite the aptitude for protection today. An Auror is trained in just those skills, such as to do away with the threats represented by the dark arts."
Thomas scowled; he seemed to be gauging whether this would be enough.
"Hogwarts Castle has a great number of defensive measures built into it," Dumbledore went on. "I know not whether I will be able to properly convince you of your mother's safety, and your own along with it, but I urge you to pay close attention to the actions of those around you, so as to keep me honest."
The old wizard winked.
Thomas huffed. "Well," he said, "all right then."
Four.
Thomas Gaunt stepped into the empty classroom and sat at a desk near the front; he watched as a small group of adults entered after him: a short, squat little man with a nervous disposition and a receding hairline to match; a tall and looming man dressed in black, with long black hair that curtained his sharp and angular face; Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Minerva McGonagall.
The stranger in black looked particularly irritated, but Thomas couldn't work out what it was that bothered him so much. He supposed he would figure it out eventually; Thomas often found that people revealed quite a lot about themselves if you were willing to just pay attention, even if they didn't speak about themselves. It took time, and patience, but Thomas had plenty of both.
"If we are to make proper use of your . . . unique insights into He Who Must Not Be Named," said Minerva, and the way she said the epithet stopped Thomas from asking why she would say something so unwieldy and foolish—the way she said it, it had a cold kind of authority to it—even though he very much wanted to ask, "then you must learn about how he lived, the way he influenced Wizarding Britain, and what remains of that influence today. Therefore, Headmaster Dumbledore has deemed it important that we work together to bring you up to speed."
"You already know me," Sirius said, "and you just met Remus and Minerva today." He gestured to the other two. "This is Peter, another friend of mine; and this is Severus, a fellow junior professor here at the school."
"You're a professor, Mister Sirius?" Thomas asked.
Sirius flashed his usual grin. "I teach Muggle Studies with Professor Quirrell. Who knows? Come your third year, once you're ready for electives, you might just end up in my class."
"Is it good for you to have spent so many years away from your post?"
"That's the trick with time travel, Thomas," said Sirius. "By the reckoning of my fellows, here, it's scarce been a weekend since I left."
Thomas chewed on this information. He turned to the man in black robes. "What do you teach, Mister Severus?" he asked.
"Potions," said Severus, slowly. "Once you enter into your schooling here, you will attend my classes from your first year onward, unless and until it is determined that you are ill-suited to the art come your later years." Something about the way Severus spoke, something about his voice, caused a feeling of familiarity, almost nostalgia, to rise up in Thomas; he smiled. "Now, then." Severus turned to Minerva, looking grim. "How do you recommend that we begin?"
"I daresay it would be best to start at the beginning." Minerva turned to Sirius. "Given recent events, and the fact that you are already quite familiar with him, I think that Professor Black would be best suited to this stage."
Sirius clicked his tongue. "As you wish," he said brightly.