Among all the girls Tom knew, their beauty each had its own hue , but none quite like Astoria's.
Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour had silver hair, bright as starlight, dazzling to the eye , the kind that glimmered even in darkness, commanding attention wherever they went.
Astoria's, however, was white as winter mist , soft, luminous, restrained. It didn't demand attention; it invited it.
Her hair was silkier now, no longer brittle and pale from illness. Months of careful potions and good meals had brought life back into her , her skin smooth as cream, her eyes bright as frost.
Tom had chosen the perfect robe for her , an icy blue with faint silver trim that shimmered like frozen moonlight.
The only problem? The quality.
The cut and design were impeccable, but the fabric was subpar. Fortunately, the shop offered custom tailoring. Tom had the clerk take Astoria's measurements, jot down her preferred materials, and , while he was at it , ordered a second set for Daphne.
Daphne, of course, was blissfully asleep back at Hogwarts, entirely unaware that her sister and Tom were enjoying a secret morning date in Hogsmeade.
Once she found out, there would be drama.
Tom knew it.
Better to prepare a peace offering in advance.
And, of course, he couldn't forget Hermione either , it wouldn't do to favor one girl too openly.
If there was one truth in life, it was this: to be a proper scoundrel requires financial stability.
Tom chuckled quietly at the thought as they stepped out of the robe shop.
Astoria's stomach growled softly.
She pressed a hand to her abdomen, embarrassed. "I… might be a little hungry."
"Then breakfast," Tom said simply, leading her down the cobbled street.
Their destination was obvious: The Three Broomsticks.
…
The warm scent of butter and cinnamon hit them the moment they entered.
Behind the polished oak bar stood Madam Rosmerta, radiant as always , a woman whose age had only made her more dangerous.
Tom had long since noticed that half of Hogwarts' students came here for her, and the other half for the butterbeer.
There were, of course, two versions of the famous drink.
One was the student-safe, nonalcoholic version , simmered long enough to burn off every drop of alcohol, leaving only rich malt sweetness and a syrupy caramel aftertaste.
The other, reserved for adults, retained a faint golden bitterness , real butterbeer, smooth and slightly intoxicating.
Tom vastly preferred the latter, but Rosmerta wasn't reckless enough to risk her license for him.
So, he settled for a lime soda, watching the fizz sparkle in the glass like bottled sunlight.
Across from him, Astoria ate slowly, delicately , cutting her sandwich into perfect squares, chewing with quiet grace.
It was elegance without effort.
Tom couldn't help smiling. "Astoria, did your mother make you eat like this?"
She swallowed her bite, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and shook her head. "Not exactly. Mother hired a teacher to show me proper table manners when I was little. I just… got used to it. Eating slowly makes digestion easier."
Her tone was light, but Tom heard what she didn't say , the blood curse made her body fragile, forcing her to treat even meals like a ritual of survival.
He sighed softly and reached across the table, brushing a hand through her hair.
"Someday," he said gently, "I'll take you somewhere you can eat whatever you like , without worrying about anything."
A blush bloomed across her cheeks, soft as rose petals. "Mm."
…
After breakfast, they wandered toward Zonko's Joke Shop, a riot of color and noise even this early in the morning.
Tom's curiosity was immediately drawn to the darker items , Dungbombs, Self-Igniting Rope, and Slug Gummies that made the eater cough up slime for ten minutes straight.
Astoria, of course, had entirely different tastes. She purchased a delicate Rain Umbrella and several Pygmy Puff plushies , little puffs of fluff that chirped adorably when squeezed.
When opened, her new umbrella would summon a tiny localized rainstorm , a cute prank for someone who didn't like to get wet.
She even insisted Tom transfigure it to look exactly like Daphne's umbrella.
When he asked why, she only smiled sweetly. "You'll see."
They left the shop with their arms full of mischief, the cobblestones glistening beneath the faint morning drizzle.
…
Finally, Tom turned down a narrow side street , toward the crooked sign of the Hog's Head Inn.
Astoria tilted her head. "We're visiting… a bar?"
Tom's lips quirked. "A friend of mine runs it. And there's someone inside he should see."
He didn't elaborate.
Inside the study space of his mind, the ghostly image of Ariana Dumbledore stirred faintly, her presence glowing like a soft candle.
It was only fair that her brother knew she still existed , in some form.
As they neared the door, Tom could already hear the familiar growl from within.
"Bloody hell, it's not even noon, "
The rest of the sentence died in Aberforth Dumbledore's throat the moment he saw who stood at his door , a tall, calm boy with cold gray eyes… and a delicate silver-haired girl at his side.
The usual string of curses caught in his mouth, replaced by a gruff, uncertain silence.
"Morning," Tom said pleasantly, as though greeting a neighbor rather than the notoriously irritable innkeeper.
For a moment, Aberforth just stared , then grunted something that might've been a greeting… or a surrender.
Whatever words he'd planned to throw, he swallowed them whole.