Old magic, mum. Her nose stings when she hears him call her that, eyes prickling with a new wave of unshed tears. "He made you--" Breathless. Sharp inhale. That vile man did something to her son, after all? "Are you still this... thing that he did to you?"

At least tell her that, Harry, before you tell her the story properly. Otherwise she'll be hunting down Tom Riddle herself, taking a page out of her silly husband's book.

"Love," she softly corrects, "I still love you."

Right now, she contents herself with running her fingers through his hair, learning its feel, length, and color. If it shines under the light, will it still be black, or will there be flashes of color, as well?

"I never want to let go." Yet she's doing exactly that, pulling back to look at him, hooking their arms together. "I think we should walk. It's been a while since I've been back here. You can show me where you'd hang out and tell me everything. How does that sound?"