Chapter One

He sat hunched over in his favourite frayed chair head lolling over the top, a bottle of empty scotch lying across his lap and numerous more around his chair. The bottles made a wonderful mosaic and helped to pain the picture of a troubled man who was lost. Occasionally his face would be illuminated in the flickering of the fire from the fireplace across the room before the shadows would take it away. The face was covered in scars, bits of his ears were torn off and a missing eye. The largest scar ran from his left cheek up across his nose over his eye and up to his scalp.

The crackle and snap of the wood being burned roared through the void towards the man, but he never stirred. The room had no furnishings except for the chair, the walls were wood, but were of a cheap kind, there was no painting or photographs and the mantle was bare except for a broken pocket watch with the initials HJP on it and a unopened letter the words To My Heir written on it. It was unknown why this pocket watch was the only possession in the room. When he had gone to his family vault deep blow the ground that was all he had found besides the gold silver and bronze coins and he had only found it because it had been placed on a pedestal. The room had only one window which was open a crack allowing the alcohol and the stagnate air from the sweat stained clothed man to escape into the star filled sky.

Night turned to day and with the sun shining into the room, the man stirred, moaning and mumbling incoherently. Finally, he opened his eye and looked over at the darkened fireplace, his face emotionless and frozen as if nothing more than a statue chipped into being by an amateur drunken artist. The only sign of life came from his eye that narrow green iris filled with pain and sadness. It was heavy and dark as if that fragile organ was supporting the entire cosmos.

He rose out of the chair, the bottle falling to the floor breaking into several pieces, but he did not notice, kicking the pieces to the side with his sock covered toe he moved slowly across the floor. He continued across the floor carelessly pushing the other empty bottles to the side as he walked. Blood seeping through his sock onto the floor leaving behind bloody footprints in his wake, but he did not flinch or give any sign that he had noticed, it was as if he could not feel at all. His hand stretched out as if some unseen force was dragging him.

When he reached the fireplace, he looked down at the inconspicuous closed pocket watch, a relic from his ancestor, the person he guessed he was named after. His eye glanced between the letter and the pocket watch as if he was watching a tennis match as he had watched his aunt done frequently when he was a child. Finally, he rose his left hand and snatched the letter away with such speed that it appeared as if he was afraid it would bolt. Then he turned around and as his gaze drifted down to the letter, his eye spotted the bloody footprints and then his gaze turned to his foot where he noticed the red circle around his toes and groaned in frustration.

"Damnit, those were my favourite socks."

The next thing he did was strange, he pulled out a long piece of wood and directing it at his toe mumbled something in a different language. A strand of light twirled out of the stick and when it reached the toe, made the whole toe glow before disappearing. Then he pointed the stick at his toe again and after mumbling something that sounded different, another strand of light, though with a different colour, shot out. This time though, when the toe ceased glowing, the sock was no longer red. After evaporating the empty bottles and the pieces of glass from the broken bottle, he calmly walked back to the chair and flopped into it.

Holding the letter delicately in his hands, he stared at it, as if he was hoping that his unasked questions would be answered. Sighing in frustration, he carefully broke the wax seal and then reached in and pulled out the faded parchment. After he discarded the envelope with his left hand, he unfolded the letter and began reading it.

Dear Harold James Potter,

I do not have much time left, hah, time, we always think that we have enough. I am your distant ancestor, Harold James Potter, born 14 October in the year of our Lord, 1433. I'm writing to you on 22 January 1528, for reasons I don't know, only that my wife, the wonderful Lisette de Lapin, insisted that I do, though what was so special about writing to you I can't quite fathom and neither would she tell me.

Ah my wonderful wife, when I first met her, she had just ran over from Paris escaping an execution and tripped over some rut in the road and I, being the wonderful gentleman I am, caught her. She told me her name was Lisette de Lapin and I became enchanted by it and before you know it, we were together and married. She works as an advisor for Henry the VI and I am a member of the Masons Guild.

Anyways as I am sure, you have no desire to read about our life, I will get straight to the point. I leaving behind in our new vault besides the money that we made, all converted into magic currency of course, this broken pocket clock. It is a peculiar object in it of itself; my wife told me that it is a pocket watch or a miniature clock, which is completely fascinating because there are only a handful of clocks around here and they are huge building sized ones. She has forbid me from opening it, which I have to say, is very frustrating because the unknown has always intrigued me. I do not know how it came to be in my possession only that it is most dear to me and that i should never lose it, so I have taken to keep it in my pocket at all times.

However, I digress; I am leaving it in your possession and in my wife's words 'if you are tired of your wretched sulky life and want to find purpose and meaning, then open it.' Though I have no idea how a small broken clock could do that, nor do I know why she said such things about your life, I couldn't imagine a reason why one should not enjoy life no matter what kind of struggles they go through, we only have one life to live and we should make the best of it. I also would think that the future would be wonderful full of new places, new advancements like this clock. However, I guess the future is not that much different than the present. One always looks to the future imagining something wonderful and it always ends up being wonderful to all but those that call it their present, to them it's all the same.

Sorry for that philosophical tangent I cannot help it; I guess it is the age imposing its will on me. My wife just gave a snort after that I did not realise it was funny. Anyways enough chat; I have said my piece, now it is up to you to decide whether to open the mysterious pocket watch. The choice is yours, but remember life is meant to be lived, so go out and explore the wonders and mysteries of your world starting with the pocket watch. My wife just said good luck and if you do decide to open it to make peace with your past, whatever that means. Anyways good luck!

Sincerely yours,

Harold James Potter

The letter fell between his open hands onto his lap, his eye caught in the grip of the pocket watch across the room. He did not see the letter being blown away by the small breeze wafting through the window. His face rippled, emotions coming and going so quickly you feared that if you blinked you would miss it. Finally, it settled on the default, plastered on to the skull its rock hard surface stoic and old. Cracks began to form, a line opened up in it and it released a small sip of wind, as if on cue, the crack became more prominent and then with a sharp noise the stone began to drip off. Those drips became torrents and until nothing stone remained, all that was left was a man barely in his twenties.

His feet slowly crawled the short distance, his eye never leaving his goal its flickering silver surface. The light from the fire tap-dancing over its surface he could hear the sound it made, the clipping and clopping of its feet. His hands outstretched, desperately grasping for an end of his torment. He held it in his hand, his fingers rubbing over its etched surface, his thumb tracing over the initials that both he and his ancestor shared. He stared at it for a long time, unwilling to open it, trying to resist its lure, the lure of the unknown, the mystery that was the pocket watch.