She arrived ten minutes early, which told Rowan something about her. People who arrived early to meetings were either anxious or organised. Given the tone of her letter, he suspected the latter.

  Sirona had set aside a table near the back of the pub, far enough from the bar that conversation wouldn't carry. The evening crowd was thin. A few regulars nursing ales and a pair of witches playing Exploding Snap by the window.

  Clara Goode was a small woman, slight in build, with brown hair going grey at the temples and hands that bore the roughness of someone who worked with them for a living. Her robes were clean and pressed but worn at the cuffs and collar. Careful maintenance that spoke to limited means and considerable pride. She catalogued the room as she entered.

  Rowan stood when she approached the table. "Mrs. Goode. Thank you for coming."

  "Mr. Ashcroft." Her handshake was firm and brief. She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table, and for a moment they assessed each other in silence.

  "Lawrence described you well," she said. "Though I'll admit I was expecting someone who looked a bit more like the dueling finalist the Prophet wrote about and a bit less like a boy who should still be in school."

  "I am a boy who should still be in school. That part Lawrence got right."

  Something in her expression eased, fractionally. "My son wants to spend his summer working with you on a business venture he won't describe in detail. I'm sure you can appreciate why I wanted to meet you before I agreed to anything."

  "Completely. And I'd rather you heard it from me than pieced it together from Lawrence." Rowan had prepared for this. He'd spent the afternoon thinking about what a responsible mother would need to hear, and he'd decided that the only approach worth trying was complete honesty. "I'll tell you everything. The business, the products, what I'm asking of Lawrence, and the risks."

  He told her. The magical luminaires, their design, function, and market potential. The shop he intended to purchase in Diagon Alley. The production process, which required the alchemical expertise he would provide and the artificing talent Lawrence had spent two years developing. The financial projections, summarised without revealing specific figures. The Prophet coverage he planned. The timeline: open before summer's end, generate enough revenue to sustain operations through the school year.

  Clara listened without interrupting. Her expression grew increasingly complex as he spoke. The look of someone hearing something far more ambitious than she'd anticipated and recalibrating accordingly.

  When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.

  "You've thought this through," she said.

  "Every angle I can think of, and a few I'm probably still missing."

  "And the risks?"

  "The product could fail to find a market. Suppliers could refuse to deal with a Muggleborn competitor. The Ministry could find a reason to shut me down." He listed them evenly. "I've accounted for setbacks but I can't eliminate them."

  "And Lawrence's role?"

  "He designs and builds the devices based on my specifications. He's genuinely talented, Mrs. Goode. The artificing work he did at Hogwarts this year was exceptional. I need his skills."

  Clara absorbed this. The protective rigidity she'd carried into the room had eased during his presentation, though her eyes remained watchful.

  "Here's my difficulty," she said. "Lawrence is thirteen. You're younger than him. I'm worried about two children alone in Diagon Alley without an adult present. I trust your competence. Lawrence has given me no reason to doubt it. But the arrangement itself concerns me."

  "You're right to be concerned. I'd feel the same way."

  That surprised her. "You would?"

  "I'd like you to be there with us."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Come to Diagon Alley. Stay for the summer while we establish the shop. You'd be there to supervise Lawrence, and I wouldn't be operating without an adult, which satisfies Professor Weasley's conditions."

  Clara shook her head. "I can't. I work at Slug & Jiggers, Monday through Saturday, half seven to six. If I leave, I lose the position, and positions for Muggleborn witches aren't exactly abundant."

  "What do they pay you?"

  The question landed oddly. Clara's expression shifted, a flicker of something that might have been embarrassment or anger or both. "That's not really your concern."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "It is if I'm about to offer you something better."

  She stared at him. "You can't be serious."

  "How much?"

  Clara's jaw worked. The embarrassment won briefly, colouring her cheeks. "Three Galleons a month."

  Three Galleons. Rowan kept his expression neutral, but the number hit harder than he showed. Slug & Jiggers was one of the most established apothecaries in Britain, and they were paying a qualified witch less than half a fair wage. Because they could. Because she was Muggleborn, and Muggleborn workers took what was offered or they took nothing at all.

  "I'll pay you eight," Rowan said. "Same work you're doing now. Managing a shop, handling customers, maintaining inventory. But for Crucible instead of Slug & Jiggers. Eight Galleons a month, paid on the first."

  "Eight Galleons." Clara repeated it as if testing whether the words made sense in sequence. "From a child."

  "From an employer who values your work at what it's worth."

  "Mr. Ashcroft—"

  "The position is storefront manager. You'd run the shop when Lawrence and I are at Hogwarts during the school year. Sales, customer relations, restocking from finished product I'll prepare before term starts. Full operational authority over daily business."

  "I appreciate the offer, but I can't take money from a child. It isn't—" She searched for the word. "It isn't appropriate."

  "It's a salary, Mrs. Goode. You'd be earning it." He leaned forward slightly. "I've been trying for weeks to find someone trustworthy to manage the shop year-round. You already know potions and apothecary work. Lawrence trusts you completely, which means I can trust you. And you'd be there to keep an eye on both of us, which is what you came here to ensure."

  Clara was quiet for a long time. The firelight played across her features, and Rowan could see the war happening behind her eyes. The mother's protectiveness against the practical reality of three Galleons a month and the knowledge that Slug and Jiggers would replace her within the week.

  "This would mean leaving my position," she said slowly. "If your business fails—"

  "Then the contract I'm offering guarantees continued payment for three months after termination, giving you time to find other work. And you'd be free of all contractual obligations at that point."

  "You have a contract prepared."

  Rowan reached into his bag and produced a scroll of parchment. "Standard employment agreement. I wrote it before Professor Weasley told me her former students had refused. It includes a confidentiality clause regarding proprietary processes, the specifics of how the luminaires are made. A non-compete clause preventing you from manufacturing or selling competing products for one year after departure. And binding terms that require me to pay your salary in full and on time for as long as you're employed, or until the three-month severance period ends."

  He unrolled it on the table between them.

  "The contract binds us equally. You're bound to confidentiality. I'm bound to fair payment. If either party violates their terms, the other is released from all obligations."

  Clara read the contract. Slowly and carefully, the way someone reads who has learned that details matter. When she reached the end, she returned to the beginning and read it again.

  "You wrote this yourself," she said.

  "Professor Weasley reviewed the legal framework. The specific terms are mine."

  Clara set the parchment down and looked at him. The assessment in her eyes had deepened into something Rowan couldn't entirely read. Wonder, perhaps, or the discomfort of an adult realising a child had outpaced her in ways that mattered.

  "There's one more thing," Rowan said. "I'd like to offer Lawrence an ownership stake in the business. A percentage of Crucible, in recognition of his ongoing contributions to product development."

  Clara's expression shifted. "Lawrence."

  "He's earned it. His artificing work is integral to what we're building. I wouldn't offer it out of charity."

  "And me? Are you offering me a stake as well?"

  "If you'd like one."

  She shook her head slowly. "No. I'm an employee. I'll do my job and earn my wage and that will be enough." She paused. "But for Lawrence, yes. I'll accept on his behalf." Something moved behind her eyes. "His father would have wanted him to build things. To make something of his own."

  "Then we have an agreement?"

  Clara Goode looked at the contract on the table, at the boy sitting across from her, and at the future that had just shifted beneath her feet.

  She picked up the quill and signed.

  "When do we start?" she asked.

  "Tomorrow. I'll need you to accompany me to Diagon Alley to begin scouting properties. Professor Weasley requires that I have an adult present."

  "Then I'll need to resign from Slug & Jiggers tonight."

  "Send an owl. Don't go in person. They'll try to make you feel guilty for leaving."

  Clara almost smiled. "You think you know everything, don't you?"

  "I know what it's like to be undervalued by people who think they're doing you a favour by employing you at all."

  The almost-smile became real, brief and sharp and genuine. "Yes," she said. "I expect you do."

  After Clara left, Rowan wrote two letters.

  The first was to Lawrence.

  Lawrence,

  Your mother has agreed to join Crucible as our storefront manager. She's formidable, which you already knew and I now understand firsthand. We begin scouting properties on Diagon Alley tomorrow. Be ready to work when you arrive.

  Rowan

  The second was to Weasley.

  Professor,

  I've secured adult supervision for the summer. Mrs. Clara Goode, Lawrence's mother, has agreed to accompany me in Diagon Alley as storefront manager for the business. She's a qualified witch, formerly employed at Slug & Jiggers, and more than capable of ensuring that I don't do anything reckless.

  I trust this satisfies your conditions.

  R. Ashcroft

  He tied both letters to two of Sirona's pub owls. Athena was asleep on her perch and would remain so for at least another day if she had anything to say about it. He watched them disappear into the evening sky.

  Then he went back to his room, opened the ledger, and began planning tomorrow.