Archive of Our Own

Early Evening – January 9th

Tiberius Prince looked up from his ledger at the sharp rap on his study door. The dark wizard set down his quill.

“Enter,” he said.

Healer Ambrosius Fawley, his personal physician, walked into Tiberius’ office. The older wizard nodded his head in greeting.

“Your daughter has delivered a healthy baby boy,” the Healer stated.

“And Eileen?”

“She is exhausted, but healthy. They are being bathed as we speak and will be accepting visitors in approximately ten minutes.” Fawley sat down in the chair Tiberius indicated. “Has the father been notified?”

“There is no father. Eileen was suddenly widowed two months after the wedding.” Tiberius replied mildly as he closed his inkwell. There was a pause in their conversation as the men listened to an heirloom skeleton clock taking pride of place in the study chime the hour.

“My condolences to your family.”

“Thank you, but condolences are not necessary. The groom was of little consequence. My daughter and her child will be much better off without him.” The ink dry, the wizard closed his ledger and stood up, intending to visit with his daughter and meet his heir.

“Ah.” Fawley rose, a slight smile on his lips. “Unfortunately, many a family has borne that misfortune once or twice.”

“Indeed,” Tiberius agreed.

Left unsaid was the shared knowledge that Eileen Prince’s husband had not died accidently. Sometimes a family line required an infusion of new blood, but that did not necessarily mean that it needed the man or woman attached to that blood.

~*~*~*~*
Midnight – November 1st

Albus Dumbledore clicked his deluminator a final time, relighting the last streetlamp, as he casually walked away from Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. The Headmaster of Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry did not spare another look, or another thought, to the moses basket he left abandoned. He disapparated with barely a sound.

After all, it was all for the Greater Good.

~*~*~*~*
Moments later, the disillusionment charm concealing an ancient Potter nanny-elf dissolved. Shuddering at the Dark Magic surrounding Little Master that originated from the deep gash at his temple, Nessie gathered the sleeping boy into her arms. An ice-cold wind caused the elderly house-elf to shiver. She adjusted the blanket covering her small charge.

Nessie scowled. She could smell the pungent odor of a strong sleeping draught on his lips. That was a dangerous potion for one so young.

“Bad, bad bumblebee.” Nessie muttered. Like a proper house-elf, she kept her opinions to herself.

She snapped her spindly fingers, instantly removing the compulsion charms saturating the letter she found at the bottom of the now empty basket. Tucking the letter into her freshly starched monogrammed pillowcase, Nessie banished the basket.

With a final check that no tracking charms remained on Little Master or his clothing, Nessie disapparated away.

~*~*~*~*
Early Morning – November 2nd

Dumbledore cursed as he tore his sleeping quarters apart. The Elder wand was not where he had left it on the bedside table. It should have been beside his spectacles and atop an ancient tome for bedtime reading. The wand had not rolled beneath the bed or the table in the night as he initially surmised.

A wandless summoning charm proved fruitless. The wand was no longer in his bedroom.

The old wizard noticed that it was not just the Elder wand that was missing. Gaps on his crammed bookshelves showed many purloined research books had been removed.

Without stopping to pull on a bathrobe or run a hairbrush through his tangled white hair and beard, the agitated headmaster apparated to his office. More books and several pieces of art were missing, leaving huge gaps in the enormous bookcases wrapping around the turreted office.

A haze of smoke hovered over a display table filled with once whirling gadgets, infused with illegally acquired blood belonging to Harry James Potter. The acrid odor of molten silver and the charred oak tabletop revealed that the illicit tracking spells tied to the boy’s blood had been destroyed along with the silver devices. No trace of the blood itself remained.

Had the illegal blood wards concealing his pawn on Privet Drive also been destroyed, he wondered. He’d have to visit Surrey to re-acquire some more blood and create new wards, if necessary.

Dumbledore hurried to a tall cabinet, flinging the doors open. Missing was the Potter Grimoire, the Potter Pensive, and James Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. He had liberated those and many other family treasures from the Potter’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow after stealing Gringotts’ vault keys from James Potter’s cooling corpse. Those keys were now missing as well as two of the three Deathly Hallows.

Anger began to build up in the elderly wizard. How dare someone reclaim his hoard. Not only had they recalled every item belonging to the Potter Family, but they had also recalled all the items he had surreptitiously stolen from other dead and dying magical families. Decades of his illicit research and forbidden knowledge were now gone with no trace.

He breathed deeply, trying futilely to anchor his magic.

Damn the goblins, he thought in a sudden moment of clarity. Twistknife, the Potter Account Manager at Gringotts’ Wizarding Bank must have ordered a Reclamation Rite prior to sealing the Potter vaults until the final recognized heir was old enough to reclaim them. The Reclamation Rite was a traditional failsafe procedure required in many of the Ancient and Noble Families to protect an underage heir’s assets from unscrupulous predators.

But the goblins must have overpowered the Reclamation Rite, he seethed, thereby capturing all his other purloined possessions. Unless he could figure out a way to access the frozen Potter vaults, everything would remain inaccessible to him. Damn it all to hell.

Dumbledore screamed. His anger and frustration exploded in waves of destructive magic, blowing out all the windows in the tower.

It wasn’t until he failed to arrive at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for his first year of classes that the rest of the magical world discovered Harry James Potter was missing.

~*~*~*~*
Twenty-Four Years Later

Thirty-five-year-old Severus Prince strode purposefully down bustling Diagon Alley, trying to avoid being jostled by inattentive shoppers. Even though he had wrapped it in cushioning charms, the item in the box he held in his hands was still quite fragile and he did not want additional damage done to it.

He didn’t visit the alley often, but he knew the general location of the shop he was searching for. Due to the extreme age of the alley itself, Diagon Alley meandered in a convoluted path, accommodating both the irregular placement of the original buildings and subsequent storefronts built to fill the remaining odd spaces throughout the years. Severus supposed the haphazard arrangement of the storefronts might be considered charming by some.

He approached Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and knew Amanuensis Quills was just beyond a slight jog in the alley. The shop he was searching for should fall between the two. What Severus discovered was not a physical storefront but a bright yellow painted door. He glanced up, noticing a brass pocket watch and fob sign hanging from a bracket above it.

The heavy wooden door was decorated with the number 277 and engraved brass plaques listed the two businesses located on an upper floor.

and

Severus opened the door and began climbing the steep, narrow staircase.

~*~*~*~*
A cacophony of sound greeted the black-haired wizard as he paused before the open door leading into Twickenham’s Timepieces. Numerous clocks within the shop all dinged, chimed, tweeted, beeped, or bonged, marking the quarter hour.

Severus glanced at the closed door of the law office located beside Twickenham’s and wondered if the offices existed beneath a sound-dampening charm. If he had to listen to that sound every fifteen minutes, he would go mad.

He stepped into the clock shop, met now only by the quiet tick-tock of the swinging pendulum clocks and the soft tick-tick-tick of other wall and tabletop models. Severus could see a single man, perched in front of a meticulously organized worktable in deep concentration, a bright globe of conjured light hovering above his head. The light caused bright red highlights to appear in his long, tightly braided chestnut hair.

“Good afternoon,” Severus called out.

The man turned, smiling as he jumped off the high stool he had been perched on. In his mid-twenties, he was younger than Severus expected. Setting his magnifier spectacles aside, he blinked several times to refocus his eyes. The clockmaker had the most stunning emerald green eyes, thought Severus.

“Welcome to Twickenham’s Timepieces. How may I be of assistance?” Stepping behind a glass display case containing pocket watches, the younger wizard indicated for Severus to set his box on the countertop. He pulled on protective white cotton gloves.

“My grandfather’s skeleton clock is losing time. He asked me to see if it can be repaired.” Severus opened the box and removed the cushioning charms. “Am I speaking with Mr. Twickenham?”

“Sorry, no. My name is Peverell. Unfortunately, Mr. Twickenham passed away earlier this year. I began a partnership with him years ago when his eyesight began to fail, and he willed his half of this establishment to me. However, like Mr. Twickenham, I am a fully certified horologist.”

He gestured to three framed Mastery Certificates mounted above his worktable. Severus could make out, in elegant script, the name Harlan I.P. Peverell on an elaborately decorated certificate from the Swiss Horologists Guild. He could not clearly make out the writing on the other two but one appeared very similar to his own mastery certifications.

“Or clockmaker, if you will.” Harlan gestured toward the box. “May I?”

After Severus voiced his agreement, Harlan gently lifted the skeleton clock out of the box and carefully set it on a velvet display mat. With a gesture over his shoulder, the light globe floated toward the display case. The horologist reached up and placed the globe precisely where he wanted it.

“Oh, this is exquisite,” the nearly twenty-six-year-old murmured as he carefully removed the original glass dome protecting the delicate mechanism. Skeleton clocks had always been a favorite of his.

“It’s Early Victorian…English…signed by Joseph Watson & Son, Cambridge. Probably made in 1840 or so. I say 1840 because Watson & Son left Cambridge around that time. It has an eight-day chain fusee movement and those are known for their accuracy and longevity.”

“Can you tell what’s wrong with it?” Severus asked.

“My initial guess is that it needs to be cleaned and lubricated. They do dry out over time. It’s altogether possible there might be a bent gear or a damaged spring, but I won’t know that until I strip down the clock mechanism. I can tell it has been repaired several times over its long lifetime, some repairs more successful than others.” Harlan pulled out a ruler and began measuring the piece.

“17.25 inches (43.82 cm) tall…8.5 inches (21.59 cm) wide…6.5 in (16.51 cm) deep. Silver dial with Roman numerals…original steel hands…steeple shaped plates…four ringed baluster pillars standing on silver plinths. Original mahogany base…wood is badly scratched…need to get that refinished.”

Severus cleared his throat. It was amusing to watch the man’s total concentration on the clock mechanisms. He had no doubt that Harlan Peverell was qualified to repair clocks, because the man’s attention to detail spoke volumes.

“Er…the wear on your clock is consistent with age and use.” Harlan’s pale complexion could not hide his embarrassed blushing. It made sparse freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks stand out. “Your Watson clock is in very good condition for a timepiece from 1840. Once the clock movement has been completely stripped down and overhauled it should return to full working order.

“And I do apologize for my overzealousness. I am intrigued by skeleton clocks, and this is a splendid example. Growing up, my guardian had a collection of them in his library.” Harlan looked earnestly at Severus, a nervous smile lighting up his face. “And I’m being very rude. I never asked your name.”

“Severus Prince, at your service.” Severus nodded his head once. “And the clock belongs to my grandfather, Tiberius Prince. Can you estimate the cost of repairs?”

“I charge a flat fee of thirty-seven galleons to strip a clock this size down, clean it and make minor repairs.” The clockmaker gestured to all the neat cubbyholes built into his workbench. “I have a very large collection of replacement gears, springs, sprockets, weights, and such so I can usually find a satisfactory substitution to a damaged piece. Due to the age of this clock, if I need to order or recreate any bits, I will owl you the additional costs. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Thirty-seven galleons are acceptable. How long do you think this will take?”

Harlan pondered for a moment as he collected a tag to identify the clock’s owner and an ever-full quill. “I have two repairs ahead of yours and a third I am waiting on a pendulum from Switzerland. Will two…two- and one-half weeks work? If you need it earlier, for a special occasion, it will be an additional 10 galleons.”

“We are in no hurry. I would prefer it be repaired properly.” Severus filled out his contact information on the tag in his spiky scrawl. He had Harlan read back the information to make certain it was legible.

“Prince Manor. You come from a long line of Brewers,” Harlan commented as he read the address. “Are you a Potions Master as well?”

“I have dual masteries and one of them is in Potions, but I am currently on retainer to Gringotts Bank as a Cursebreaker with a specialty in Black Magic.” Severus wasn’t sure why he had even answered what was probably a rhetorical question, but he found the younger wizard pleasant and easy to talk with.

“Impressive. Gringotts hires only the best. So, you said retainer; does that mean you are available for free-lance work?”

Severus nodded.

“Do you have a business card? Clients occasionally bring items for appraisal or repair that they don’t know anything about. While rare, it is not unknown for those pieces to contain hidden curses. I have the skill to remove minor curses, those roughly equivalent to a biting teacup, but I can’t and won’t handle the truly nasty ones.”

So not an idiot, Severus thought.

“I do have a final question on the clock though. Have you or anyone recently cast a Reparo on it?”

“Reparo is something you use to fix a dropped dinner plate. Only a fool would cast that charm on a delicate apparatus.” Severus’ irritation was obvious.

“I have to ask. If someone has cast Reparo on a clock and I don’t cancel that spell before I dismantle the mechanism to clean it, it’s a royal nightmare to put it back together again. The spell keeps trying to repair something that is not broken.” He held up his hands in the universal sign of submission. “Could one of your children have cast the spell trying to be helpful?”

“Shouldn’t you automatically cast a Finite Incantum on anything that walks in your door?” Severus muttered under his breath. Unless he thought, the nullifying charm also came with its own issues.

“And to answer your question, no. Only my grandfather and I currently live at the manor and neither of us are dunderheads. Other than dusting the protective glass dome, the house-elves would never touch the clock itself. I am also unmarried and therefore have no children.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Harlan blurted out and then looked horrified.

“Pardon me?” Severus stiffened at the sudden familiarity by the horologist.

“Sorry. I’ve been told I’m as curious as a kneazle sometimes and have no filter on my mouth,” Harlan babbled nervously. He had not meant to vocalize that question. “I know…I know I’m being impertinent, but…I’m like you. I’m unmarried, childless and the last of my line. I’ve been inundated with…you know…since before I even hit puberty.”

Severus blinked and then started to laugh. Oh yes, he did know. Introductions to every sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, or best friend in the wixen world, surprise blind dates, marriage proposals from total strangers, blatant attempts at line theft.

And then there was his grandfather’s incessant demand that Severus provide him with an heir. The old wizard’s pressure to provide a spare heir had driven Eileen to flee to the continent, abandoning then eight-year-old Severus in the process. The cold, calculated death of her husband had left scars deeper than anyone had imagined. And Severus was not inclined to follow in her footsteps.

~*~*~*~*
“My experiences in the Marriage Follies were similar to yours, at least until the summer I turned fifteen, and then all hell broke loose.” Harlan and Severus had been discussing their different encounters with marriage-minded witches and their families. No other customers entered Twickenham’s Timepieces after Severus arrived, so he did not worry about taking the horologist away from his business. He was enjoying Harlan’s irreverent humor and that he would refer to the most sacred Pureblood customs, Marriage and Line Continuation, as Follies made Severus laugh. He had willingly remained through another round of the clocks sounding the quarter hour.

“What happened?” he asked.

“When I was in my fourth year, I aced the International OWLS. Taking OWLS a year early did not cause any real waves because at the Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons there are always early achievers, but less than six months later, I foolishly achieved Outstandings on all twelve of my International NEWTS.”

“Why do you say you were foolish? That is cause for celebration. I would imagine that it opened the door to many unexpected opportunities.” Severus was intrigued. Mr. Peverell was decidedly much more than a simple clockmaker.

“It did. I was immediately accepted into an apprenticeship with the Swiss Horologists Guild and that’s a nearly impossible achievement, especially for someone who is still a minor.” Harlan was rightfully proud of his accomplishments.

“But that academic success, unfortunately, caught the eye of one Albus Dumbledore. Without even meeting me in person, that senile old goat decided to announce to the wixen world that he had finally found the missing Harry Potter. You can imagine the circus my life suddenly became,” he paused, taking a calming breath. “That bastard nearly cost me my apprenticeship.”

“What made Dumbledore think you were Harry Potter? The name Peverell?”

“With all the intermarriage between the British Pureblood Houses, it’s nearly impossible to find someone you are not related to if you go far enough down the Family Trees. I have Peverell blood from both my mother and my father, so while that may have been what initially caught his attention, it actually wasn’t the main reason.

“The nearest I was ever able to determine is that I have green eyes.” Harlan’s voice was flat. “Apparently Harry and his mother also had green eyes. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but less than two percent of the world’s population have natural green eyes and most of them are found in northern Europe. The highest percentage of people with green eyes are, ironically, found in Ireland and Scotland.”

Severus stared at his companion. Since Harry Potter had disappeared years ago, and the only known photograph of him was as a newborn, no one really knew how the missing child would look as he aged. The British Ministry always stated he looked exactly like his deceased Pureblood father, complete with messy black Potter hair and little round spectacles, but with his deceased Mudblood mother’s green eyes. Harry Potter also allegedly had a large, jagged curse scar on his forehead.

“Unbelievable,” Severus muttered, agreeing with the comment on intertwining family trees. Harlan was not wearing spectacles round or otherwise, and with his reddish-brown hair pulled back from his face, did not exhibit a disfiguring scar. But he did have green eyes.

“Instead of a few marriage-minded witches and their families, I’m suddenly in every crosshair imaginable from Death Eaters looking for revenge to the unscrupulous forged marriage contracts,” Harlan continued.

“The Gringotts Wizarding Bank of Switzerland immediately called me in for an interview, subsequently notifying the wizarding public that Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons student Harlan Iago Peverell was not the Harry James Potter they were searching for. And then, since I was still a minor, they provided a warded mailbox and cast a Mail Redirection Charm on me to protect me from portkeys, hexes, curses, jinxes and tracking charms. It also scans for potion-laced foodstuffs. I still have that warded mailbox on both my personal and business mail to this day. Best investment I have ever made.

“Once receiving official confirmation that I was not the long-lost Boy-Who-Lived, the Horologists Guild swiftly closed ranks around me, essentially keeping me isolated from the public until I completed my masteries. Thankfully, in those intervening years my life quieted down substantially.

“Unfortunately, there are still a few English wizards who refuse to accept the truth because (One) the information came from the nasty Goblins, (Two) the information came from a foreign ministry, and my ultimate favorite, (Three) because Albus Dumbledore said so.” Harlan threw his hands up in the universal gesture of ‘so what can you do?’

“I am rather confused,” Severus said. “Why would you have ever moved to London in the first place if you were still being impacted by Dumbledore’s lunacy?”

“Mr. Twickenham was second cousin twice removed to my guardian, and he had lost his wife and daughters during Grindelwald’s rise to power. There was no one to continue the family business. When his eyesight began to fail, he begged me to join him, and I didn’t feel that I could turn him away.” Harlan smiled, fondly remembering the elderly wizard.

“There were quite a few witches and wizards that came to Twickenham’s Timepieces when word got out that I was working at the shop. They were curious to meet me and see how the great Dumbledore could have mistaken me for the secretive Boy-Who-Lived, but Mr. Twickenham soon put a stop to that. He may have been ancient, but he was a wizard not to be trifled with.”

“Mistaken? Secretive?” Severus questioned.

“Do you travel much while on Cursebreaking assignments? Occasionally fail to keep up with current events?” Harlan asked.

“It’s not unusual to be away for weeks at a time.” Severus was confused by the sudden shift in topic. “A number of years ago, I spent six months in the Peruvian Rainforests. Why?”

“Because on Harry James Potter’s seventeenth birthday, a miracle occurred. The London Branch of Gringotts Wizarding Bank unsealed the Potter vaults. The Wizengamot was immediately notified that Lord Potter, now considered an adult, had claimed the family rings.” Harlan smirked at Severus’ look of shock.

“The long-awaited Boy-Who-Lived climbed out of anonymity long enough to claim his estate and then, just as quietly, return to it. Other than Twistknife, his Gringotts Account Manager, no one ever saw him. He has, however, named a proxy for the previously frozen Potter seat on the Wizengamot. And to Dumbledore’s dismay, the seat is solidly in the Grey.”

“How did I ever miss that?” Severus shook his head. Perhaps his grandfather and associates were right, and he did totally bury himself in the minutia of obscure research, thus ignoring the world around him. “That must have made your life easier.”

“To some extent, sure, but I’m still considered quite a catch for the marriage minded. And some witches do go to extremes to catch my attention...” Harlan brushed a stray lock of loose hair out of his face.

“I have an amicable relationship with the solicitors in the offices next door, so sometimes we’ll share a lunch. Three months ago, Miss Bulstrode needed additional ink and quills, so she offered to pick up soup and sandwiches at Brews and Stews while she was out. Her partner, Mr. Zabini, wanted to see if I could repair his broken watch fob so the two of us were in the shop while we waited for her to return.

“We heard the door open and close at the bottom of the staircase and just assumed Millicent had returned. To our shock, a red-headed witch burst through the door wearing not much more than knickers and a smile, absolutely drenched in Amortentia. In this small space, the results were immediate. Blaise’s pupils were blown, and I would imagine mine were as well.

“Thankfully, before anything untoward could occur, Millicent returned and hit the redhead in the back with a Petrificus Totalus, sending her to the floor. After casting three quick Bubble-Head Charms, we were left trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“So, in some respects, not being Potter has made my life easier, but in others, it didn’t change a thing. Sometimes I think it just wouldn’t be my life if something strange didn’t happen occasionally.”

~*~*~*~*
“What happened to the witch?” Severus finally asked when Harlan fell silent. “Line Theft is a serious charge.”

“Currently she is in a closed ward at Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries pending a final determination by the staff Mind-healers. If she’s as batshite crazy as we think she is, neither Blaise nor I would be willing to subject an already mentally ill person to the Dementors of Azkaban, but if the healers determine that she is sane, and this was a deliberate attempt at entrapment…”

“The gloves are off,” Severus stated.

“Precisely. And in any event, I have decided to withdraw myself from the Marriage Follies altogether.” Harlan sounded resolute.

“You can’t just reject all witches because you’ve met a nutcase or two.”

“She’s a nice girl. She has a great personality,” was Harlan’s sarcastic reply.

Severus laughed. He couldn’t even count the times he had heard that phrase over the years.

“So, you’re just going to let the Peverell Line die out?” Severus asked.

“I said I was withdrawing from the Marriage Follies not that I did not want an heir. I happen to like children, and I would love several of my very own,” the younger wizard replied. “I have met some very nice witches, but I have never met one I want to spend eternity with.”

“You’re talking adoption, right?” Severus asked, his tone cold. “You’re not considering a temporary solution, are you?”

“A temporary…” Green eyes met him in shock. “How dare you think I would follow that barbaric Pureblood custom! I was speaking of hiring a surrogate to carry my offspring.”

“My apologies, Mr. Peverell. I don’t support that practice myself, and I certainly don’t know you well enough to make such an assumption.” His response was penitent.

“And it’s not something you discuss in polite society,” came a huffy reply. “The ICW has been trying to ban that unholy practice of patricide/matricide for decades, but it’s too bloody intrenched in certain Pureblood circles.”

“As well I know being born into that certain Pureblood circle. I never met my own father. He died under questionable circumstances two months after the wedding,” Severus stated quietly. “My mother never fully recovered from the betrayal she felt.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Harlan reached out and clasped Severus’ hand.

“And now my grandfather has given me an ultimatum. If I do not produce an heir by the time I turn forty, I fear I will be in the same situation my mother found herself in. Please, explain what you mean by surrogacy. Won’t that leave you a bastard as an heir? The Prince line would never accept an illegitimate heir.” Severus had no idea why he was baring his soul to a man he had just met, but something told him Harlan fully understood his situation.

“Surrogacy has always been a quiet and a legal solution to provide a family a child. Infertility and miscarriage are not spoken of publicly in the wixen world because of the social ramifications it can bring.

“There are several discrete ICW-regulated surrogacy organizations available worldwide. With Miss Bulstrode’s legal assistance, I am currently working with one such organization located in Geneva, Switzerland. They are very selective of their clientele for obvious reasons.”

A cacophony of sound temporarily silenced the pair of wizards as all the clocks within Twickenham’s Timepieces began to ding, chime, tweet, beep, or bong, marking the four o’clock hour. The mayhem was almost cheerful, Severus decided, as he watched Harlan’s delight while observing the older wizard’s reaction to the noise.

~*~*~*~*
“You mentioned that you required an heir before the age of forty. How long does that give you?” Harlan asked, while putting away his tools for the day. Twickenham’s Timepieces closed at four o’clock on weekdays during the off-season.

“I turned thirty-five in January, so just shy of five years.”

“The timing is tight, but that may be enough time if you do decide to pursue surrogacy. Fair warning, it is expensive, and it can take years for a surrogate witch to become available. Once she delivers a baby, for health reasons she is required to take a year or two off between pregnancies.” Harlan locked and spelled the door to the shop. He turned the Open sign to read Closed.

“Have you ever considered approaching a witch from a matriarchal line? They might be amenable to a Line Continuation contract. It may be more acceptable to your grandfather than a surrogacy.” Harlan suggested.

“The older I get, the less I give a damn what my grandfather thinks. If he’s vindictive enough to disown his only heir, then that’s on him. I earn enough as a Cursebreaker to live on my own quite comfortably without needing his galleons.”

Severus waited for Harlan to climb down the steep stairs ahead of him. His unexpected conversation with the horologist made him realize he needed to put his needs first and not his grandfather’s. And once he found the courage to do that, he was never putting that genie back in the bottle, no matter what Tiberius Prince thought.

“I have been deliberately failing at what you refer to as the Marriage Follies for years. Without putting too fine a point to it, I like angles far more than I like curves.” Severus was deliberately blunt. He waited to see disgust in the clockmaker’s eyes, but it did not appear.

Harlan was releasing his hair from the tight braid he always wore while repairing his clocks. He ran his fingers through his long chestnut hair, releasing it into soft waves that fell to his waist. He looked at Severus a moment before he replied.

“You aren’t the only wizard deliberately failing in the Follies. Had I wanted to spend my life with a witch, I would have wed once I completed my apprenticeships. I have several close female friends, with and without great personalities, but I have never once felt a desire to bed any of them.” Harlan opened the yellow door leading onto Diagon Alley. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

“Not really. I’ll probably stop somewhere for a drink before heading back to the manor.”

“I’m heading over to The White Wyvern for an early dinner. They make a great Jamaican Rum Punch. You’re welcome to join me if you like.” His voice casual, Harlan locked the yellow door behind them.

“Are you currently in a relationship?” That was a deal breaker for Severus. He refused to associate with cheaters and the jealousy and heartbreak that often followed.

“No,” Harlan replied, coyly. “Interested?”

“Possibly,” Severus replied. “In any case, we can at least share a meal while getting to know one another better.”

The pair turned down Nocturne Alley and walked to The White Wyvern and into a future filled with possibilities. Or maybe just a meal and a glass of Jamaican Rum Punch.