Stop all the clocks || Theodore Nott

II. The Watchmakers

It was one of those bright grey mornings when Theodore entered the clocksmiths off the Golbourne Road. He had first heard of Kasri when enquiring at Borgin and Burke's about any delinquent parts one might associate with a time turner. Distcreet, if possible. To the vast majority of the Wizarding world, a demographic in which Theodore's family was distinctly not included, any shop nestled in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley was on the 'wrong side of the tracks'. The owners of the other side's major artefact shop were cold-blooded muggle haters in their prime, and had never much bothered with any thought to the ethics of their commerce, and less so to the complex knot of morals surrounding the altercation of time.

The shop assistant, a balding fat-lipped man in his fifties - neither the shrewd Borgin nor the cantankerous Burke, grumbled thoughtlessly at Theodore's inquiry, and running a fat finger down a thick-spined registry pointed at the name 'Kasri'. "Whore ologist" he said, the word ringing strangely in Theodore's head.

Theodore restrained the urge to respond but merely raised an eyebrow. At the sincere look on the man's face, he peered over at the registry to see the word he was referencing. He wasn't aware there was a study of women of the night, less so how that was in any way connected to time-turners.

"Says 'ere he's a squib. Mean's he's not under Ministry jurisdiction. If it's untraceable you want, try him." He finished bluntly, shutting the old registry with a swirl of dust, and gave him an ugly grimace that Theodore took as 'move on.'

It was this exchange that led him to the door of the clock-smith's, looking up at the faded old sign that read 'Melrose and Kasri, specialist horologists' in dry old gold lettering on a sun-browned black, the latter name much past it's prime in a kind of muddy yellow with cracks running through it. It was one of those small shopfronts crammed in to the cobbled side-street as an afterthought. It looked more like a relic than an actual functioning business; a small and anachronism in this fast moving world with its little shelves of beaten copper crammed with faded brass trinkets, gleaming little glass orbs and the faint persistent sound of taking behind it cobwebs trailing from the corners in an not-quite Bohemian way. Theodore pushed open the door, which when he'd come the previous day after his shift had been locked, the owner neglecting to turn the sign that hand on the door to 'closed'. This time, the frame swung faster than he'd anticipated, bumping into a circular hall table that seemed to have a dent from like-mindless customers. The dust almost stifling, and he caught its sifting glow in the sunlight before casting his eyes across the little shop. Shelves rammed with clocks, hooks, indistinguishable pieces of metal, little chains draping from sides, silvery orbs and everywhere the zigzag pattern of cogs artfully intertwining themselves with one another. It was total chaos, but totally charming, wherein even the most graceful people could feel like a bull in the china shop. The three dimensional sound of quiet ticking was both nauseating and soothing, and he stepped a foot towards the counter to ring the small brass bell for service. Seconds later, a thud of footsteps coming down a narrow set of old stairs could be heared before a figure burst through the door to the counter. Round faced, pale skin smattered with gentle brown freckles, a mop of unruly black curls and large brown eyes gleaming like orbs with a generous smile. This was not the Kasri Theodore had in mind. Yesterday, a newspaper cutout illuminated by a lamp on the shop's wall showed an ageing Middle Eastern man with a thick black beard, and handsome cheekbones of tan skin. It occurred to him that maybe he had received the image up-side down in his fatigue and beard had become bob, but even in that case the similarity was ludicrously stringent.

"I'm looking for Mr Hanif Al Kasri." Said Theodore, clearing his throat as the young woman tied up her tattered brown worker's apron behind her which was striped with streaks of black oil and scuff marks from the snag of sharp metal.

"Yes. Sorry, I'm afraid he's away at the moment. But I'm here." She began enthusiastically, her dark twinkling up at him.

"Oh, I see..." said Theodore, pausing uncomfortably, the cogs of his own mind running over the complicated situation. Kasri was a squib, but there was no telling what this woman was. One couldn't ask a muggle if they were a witch for obvious reasons, and if she indeed was a witch he would be exposing himself to someone who knew very much just how dangerous time-turners were. "When is he back?" Theodore asked hesitantly as not to sound impertinent.

"Not for a number of weeks. I'm his daughter, Sienna. You know, 'Melrose'" she said, giving a nod to the outside of the shop to imply its name. "Well, that was my mum's name, so I took it after she. But I promise he's my dad! My middle name's Miriam, so a good Muslim name even though I don't look it. Not that you have to, you know-." She fizzled out, before adding oddly. "So I suppose I'm not really Arabic on paper but I promise you we're related."

Theodore's expression must have given away a certain look of bewilderment at her incoherent little monologue, because she smiled  apologetically at the eccentricity of her own outburst. So, she was his daughter then, and most probably a muggle. He stifled a disappointed sigh before he began his excuses to back out of the shop. A muggle couldn't help him with a time-turner, so he would have to excuse himself. The Theodore of only a few months ago would have walked out without another word, but this world he was operating in was not the one he had grown up in.

"Ah, I see. Actually, it's something very specific that I needed to speak to Kasri- your father about, so I think-"

"That's ok, specialist is our thing! I'm sure I can help, I'm just as qualified as Dad. Do you have the piece with you?"

Theodore halted. He was usually quick witted and able to fashion the right words, but the way things were heading made him think twice. "Well yes but- look, I don't want to sound rude, but it really is only your father I can talk to this about."

He watched warily as her expression hardened to one of steely defiance. "My dad left the shop fully in my trust, because I'm fully capable of seeing to any watch. Just because I'm a woman, doesn't mean I can't help you. That might not be what you- but it's starting to look like it and it's seriously disappointing coming from a good loo- a young man like you." She said, her head held high in a look of swearing disapproval.

It would have been easier for Theo to walk out, but his feet were immovably planted on the ground. Walking out would confirm he was implying that her gender meant she was less qualified, which was not the reason for the dilemma. Being a pureblood, he rarely came into contact with muggles and was even less concerned about the way he treated them before, but he was not a misogynist and was rather tired of such labels being ascribed. He found himself reaching into his coat pocket to bring out the box, placing it onto the counter.

"It's just a little project, and not a watch in the same sense." Theodore excused reluctantly as she opened the box, no doubt immediately baffled by the hourglass in the centre of brass rings that spun on axels. But the expression on her face was not of ridicule or befuddlement, but of acute concentration as she held up the object, deftly turning it around with microscopic and tactile attention.

"Some sort of hourglass, but turned by the rings. Fascinating." She murmured in absorption of before returning her attention to Theo. "I'm sorry, I've just never seen anything like it. I'd say an experimental form of a pocket-watch, so the design probably dates back to the renaissance era. Fascinating." She said again with a look of defiant excitement as she her attention to Theodore. "If you leave it with me, I can have a dig and see what I can find? My dad has loads of books about esoteric artefacts like these."

"Thank you, but I really can't do that. It's very precious."

She looked as though she were about to say something else, but changed tack. There was clearly a sensibility in her that he hadn't expected given her slightly blundering speech. "What if you leave your address? I can write to you if I've found something. It's pretty unique looking so I can do it from memory and we can go from there?"

In regular circumstances Theodore would have declined such a request. He was very dubious what she could actually offer him, and concerned that he would be bringing her into a world that she was very much not welcomed to. There had evidently been no discussion about her father's magical heritage, and bringing muggles into their world was not something Theodore would do lightly. He was also of the mind that the less people know about you, the better. Silence spoke volumes of power; knowledge being the greatest weapon one could possess. Like arms, knowledge could be dealt, and an address was just one of those things that found its way into the wrong hands. In fact, it made all the sense in the world to decline her offer and walk out having partially regained his dignity after the peculiar interaction. But there was something; perhaps the look on her face of ardent enthusiasm, the charming smile and the look of sparky determination in her eye that meant he simply couldn't refuse.