Arthur Weasley picked his way down High Street towards the Hog’s Head, all the while fiddling with a piece of parchment he had received, which had called for the outing. The paper had been nervously folded back and forth on the crease so that a tear was beginning to make its way along the fold. With his eyes trained on the pub and his hands keeping a firm hold on the parchment, he could not avoid bumping into a number of people. All the way along the street, Arthur kept up a steady stream of “Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” and “Sorry.”

The only thing he did not run into was the pub itself. He stood before it and shook his cloak of excess water, then grabbed the doorknob. Wringing out his hat, he glanced around the gloomy-looking room. Whoever sent the note in his hand could have been any one of the shady characters around the pub. No, wait. There was a ghost in the corner. Arthur was pretty sure they couldn’t write. There were also some rodents who were not of the usual size. Arthur ruled them out too. (At least, he hoped it wasn't them. He hadn't liked rodents of any kind since the "Scabbers" incident.) That left the barman, who he knew from the Second War against Voldemort, the hag chugging Firewhisky at the bar, or the hooded figure to Arthur’s right. Instinctively, he chose the last.

“Hello? Did you send this?” he asked, holding out the slip of paper.

The hood moved up and down slowly and dramatically.

Arthur waited for the figure to say something, but when he didn’t, he cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It says to come here to receive something, er�”” he referred to the paper, “ ‘of monumental importance.’ As you see, I’m here.” Arthur closed his fist around the parchment and said, “What’s this about?”

A small white hand held out a heavy envelope. Taking it, Arthur brushed his fingers against the figure’s own cold digits. He shivered as the hand withdrew. Opening the envelope, Arthur recognized the sprawling handwriting from the note.

“Arthur A. Weasley,
I am offering you a very generous choice. You, of course, are familiar with William A. Weasley, who prefers to be called ‘Bill.’ You are to kill him. That is your first choice. The other one is not as pleasant as the first. I will kill your whole family. And you will watch as they die. But you will not be harmed. I will take you to the Muggle village near your house and you will watch every one of the savages die. Then, only after the last little baby girl is dead, I will kill you.
--B”

Arthur finished the letter, his grip vise-like and his hand trembling. He looked up at the hood, trying to imagine how cold the eyes staring back at him must be.

“Wha�”er�”why?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

The hood bent down and the figure swept out of the room theatrically, cape billowing behind him, and random bursts of electricity welcoming him onto the street beyond.

* * * * * *

It was raining cats, dogs, and (unfortunately literally, thanks to a particularly nasty bit of bungled spellwork) electric eels. Hastily peeling one of the serpentine fish off of my jacket, I made a mad dash for the nearest place of shelter, all the while swearing under my breath in a really dignified, gentlemanly manner. I was thoroughly drenched by the time I reached the Hog’s Head, but at least I’d avoided getting electrocuted. And the Hog’s Head was a good place to rest, dry off, knock off a couple of brain cells, and avoid shopping for baby stuff for an hour or two.

I loved my wife Fleur dearly, and I was absolutely thrilled that I was going to be a father in a few months, but if I had to look at one more pair of baby shoes or a mobile featuring plush pastel hippogriffs, I’d probably go utterly spare. So, to avoid waking up next morning in a Tibetan monastery wearing a “Phantom of the Opera” baseball hat and nothing else, a break from shopping was in order. Fleur was at home, feeling a little too groggy from morning sickness to do anything much, and I’m sure she’d understand my delay. It’s not every day you’re stalled by a shower of eels.

I shook myself off like a dog as I stepped inside the Hog’s Head, earning me a couple of glares and a hairdo best described as “Tarzan on an off day.” The Hog’s Head had really picked up in popularity since its involvement in Voldemort’s defeat a few months ago. So in addition to the usual shady clientele, there were a few fussy patrons who were put off by things like a little Billspray.

Aberforth always acted all cranky about the extra business and resulting work, but I could tell he was thrilled in his own cantankerous way�”both from all of the attention and, of course, the money. I heard him once or twice muttering that he hadn’t had such good business since “the whole France shindig,” whatever that meant. Even with the new customers, though, there were still a lot of awfully strange types loitering around the bar, and many of them didn’t seem quite… human.

I caught sight of my reflection in the darkened, eel-splattered window and burst out laughing. I fit right in with this crowd. Sometimes, even then, I completely forgot about my exciting new disfigurements. I settled down at the bar and called out, “Hey, Abe!”

Aberforth Dumbledore turned and looked at me with leery eyes. “I wouldn’t recommend callin’ me ‘Abe’ if I was you,” he growled, “Unless I really wanted a spritzer of goat pee in my drink.”

“Nice to see you, too, Abe,” I said congenially, matching Aberforth’s glower with a dazzling grin. “I’ll have a glass or two of something�”nothing too strong, I’ve got to Apparate home tonight.”

I found myself looking absentmindedly around the room, noting a cluster of women who had to be vampires (one was eating a blood lolly, while another had a bad case of the uglies and the name ‘Ed’ tattooed on her arm in sparkly letters), a man who most definitely had more eyes than was customary, and a distinguished-looking gent who periodically began barking or scratching an ear with his long, curved toenails. Some of the people seemed as peculiar and incongruous as the lizard I noticed floating in one of the customer’s glasses. And most of them were wearing hoods or cloaks of some kind, and completely minding their own business.

There was one rather notable standout in the crowd, though, and believe it or not, it wasn’t me. Just as I took my first sip of my suspiciously yellow drink, the door banged open, accompanied by a mighty gust of wind. A shower of heavy rain and electric eels introduced itself to the floor. Standing in the doorway was… a person.

I had no idea who this person was�”man or woman, young or old. The person seemed slightly under average height and was probably average weight as well, but he or she was so completely enveloped by his or her hooded cloak that it was impossible to tell. Now, I already said that hooded cloaks were the rule rather than the exception at the Hog’s Head, but this particular person’s cloak would make an impression anywhere. Far from the usual sombre grey-black, it was neon magenta with vast, pale green flowers. And it didn’t much help that it was accompanied by a muddy pair of cherry-red wellies.

Having already made a dramatic, head-turning entrance, this genius decided to take a step inside, then proceed to fall down smack on his or her behind and knock over a table in the process.

“Thanks!” growled Aberforth as the person struggled to get to… its feet. “I needed to replace that table anyway. Glad you’ll be paying for it.” In response, the interesting new arrival took the opportunity to vomit onto the floor, slip in it, and then fall down yet again.

I am so glad I don’t know that person, I couldn’t help but think to myself. And that was precisely when the strange person plopped right down next to me like we were the oldest and best of buddies. And maybe we were. I had some pretty weird friends back at Hogwarts, and some even weirder ones down in Egypt.

“Er, hey,” I said awkwardly.

The person did not reply, but it turned its hood toward me for quite awhile, which probably meant it was treating me to a long, creepy stare. Then, it carefully handed me an envelope with one thin, gloved hand, then tore out of the pub as though lions would burst out of the walls the second I opened the letter. The cloaked person had a strange gait, like a tiptoeing lawnmower, and managed to smash twice into the door on its way out. Not exactly your typical cloaked spectre.

I shook my head, feeling extremely cool and suave in comparison, and slit the envelope open with my wand. A single sheet of paper fell out, reading:

“DEAR WILLIAM A. WEASLEY,
Congratulations on your marriage!”

I snorted. Fleur and I had already been married for over a year. But then, the kind of person who runs around town in a floral magenta cloak would send letters like that.

However, the smile slid off my face like runny molasses in an upside-down jar when I got to the next part of the letter:

“Although we naturally wish you and your bride many years of marital felicity, we regret to inform you that an unhappy task lies before you. In his investigations of Muggle technology, your father, Mr. Arthur Aurelianus Weasley, stumbled across some highly dangerous, classified information that may under absolutely no circumstances be viewed by civilians. He must be quietly disposed of to ensure the safety of the human race. Unfortunately, he has installed nearly impenetrable security since the second war against Voldemort, and no one yet has been able to accomplish this task.

“We have decided that the only way for our mission to succeed is to pass the task to someone close to him. We believe that you, William, are the right man for the job. Although the task of committing patricide may be frightening and daunting, rest assured that you will be rewarded handsomely for your pains, and that performing this deed will be beneficial to the greater good.

“In addition to this, we also have reason to believe that you will carry out this mission. We have discovered your wife’s secret, and unless you wish it to be shared with the rest of the world, you will find it satisfactory to oblige.

Most sincerely,
C.”

I think that was probably when I passed out.

* * * * * *

Arthur had not been expecting that, to say the very least. It seemed surreal. After the phantom had left, the first thing Arthur did was pull out his wand and ignite the horrible message, trying to burn away the memory. It hadn’t worked.

If anything, the action had burned the letter’s contents into his memory. Arthur decided to visit the Three Broomsticks to enjoy, or at least drink, a butterbeer that was promised to not be contaminated. He drank his drink, paid his bill, left the pub, and immediately saw Bill in the street amid the cascades of eels. He started forward to talk to his son, but pulled back. What did he think he was going to say?

“Hello, son! It’s great to see you! You know what? Funny thing . . . I have to kill you otherwise something really bad will happen and I don’t know why. So if you’ll just stand still . . .”

Yeah, that’s a great father-son conversation.

Arthur decided to follow his son and was surprised when his final destination turned out to be the Hog’s Head. Instead of following Bill in, he waited outside. He sat down on a damp bench partially protected by the old tattered awnning that hung of the door, trying not to think about the letter and failing stupendously.

Arthur's mind churned with unpleasant thouhts and horrendous scenarios that his imagination produced mercilessly.

Why would someone need to kill Bill?

Why did they need his own father to do it?

The only time his thoughts were pulled away from the message was when a . . . person in magenta robes came prancing down the street in the direction of the pub.

After nearly getting electrocuted twice, he decided he would seek a better and more welcoming refuge back at the Three Broomsticks. As he stood up from the wet bench, the cloaked person from before, now reeking of vomit, burst out the door and pounced down the street. Catching a glimpse of his son within the pub, Arthur ducked out of Bill’s view.

* * * * * *

Forget “I have to Apparate home.” My new goal was to get utterly hammered. Fleur would not approve, but, with respect to all of the wives out there in the world, there were a lot more important things on my mind than making her happy at the moment.

Two Firewhiskies later, when the room was spinning most distractingly and even Aberforth’s goats were starting to look attractive, I remembered just how bad I was at holding my liquor and had to excuse myself for a moment. Feeling very much like the magenta-cloaked thing I’d just seen, I stumbled my way into the bathroom and slid down the wall onto the floor. The spiders on the dusty floor politely scuttled out of my way as I flopped down, clutching my head.

I’d never been the crying type. Yes, I know that since arriving at the pub, I’d already passed out and did a very poor job of handling getting drunk, but even I had limits. So I didn’t cry as I sat there in a sad heap in the loo, but I didn’t look so fantastic, either. I could see in the small, grimy mirror that my face was a rather fetching shade of pale green, contrasting nicely with the angry red scars criss-crossing it. I looked like a Christmas stocking, only not very festive.

I uncrumpled the letter still balled in my fist and reread it, as though I’d been hoping it would say something different this time around. For some reason, the part that caught my eye was the very top of the letter, where my name was written. William Arthur Weasley was my full name (though my parents had always hastily instructed me to tell one of my uncles that Bill was short for ‘Bilius’), really just my dad’s name with a ‘William’ tacked onto the front. How was I supposed to go out and kill the person I was named for?

It wasn’t as if it had never been done before�”Voldemort and Barty Crouch, Jr. had done just that to their own fathers�”but there was at least one major difference between them and me. I was not a psychopath�”yet, at least.

I imagined myself springing from the shadows, brandishing my wand, seeing the look of betrayal and confused anger on my dad’s face, the flash of green light, and the expressionless mask of horror that replaced any emotion he’d felt before. I imagined my family, already reeling with shock, when they heard the news of just who had killed Daddy. I imagined Fleur and our nonexistent child turning away from me, and even the goblins at Gringotts looking at me with disgust. But most of all, I imagined my dad staring up at me from the middle of my name every time I wrote it, one more guilty accusation on every form and document.

I hugged my knees to my chest and buried my face in them, forming a rather smaller ball than I would have thought possible. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, silently poring through a dark tangle of melodramatic thoughts that made Hermione Granger’s hair look perfectly manageable by contrast. But after some time, I started to notice a subtle change in the atmosphere. The bizarre storm of eels was lightening up, and the sun was beginning to shine through the clouds. All at once, I realized how sticky I was, how cramped and claustrophobic the bathroom was. I needed a couple of breaths of fresh air, even if it meant inhaling an eel or two.

I got extremely unsteadily to my feet (I’d forgotten the bit about me being slightly inebriated) and composed myself as much as possible before making my way out to the street. The weather was considerably nicer, if chilly, and people were filing out into the streets again.

I had no idea what to do now. Still reeling a bit, I wandered around like a madwoman. (I know you’re thinking it should be ‘madman,’ since I’m of that gender and all. But madwomen tend to make the same sort of frantic high-pitched whimpering noises that I probably was at the time, so the term seemed to fit.) I let the slowing rain soak me through, and I paced around like a caged hippogriff in need of a few tranquilizer darts. I have a feeling I scared people. I must have looked pretty wild.

Suddenly, I saw a familiar sight not too far in front of me�”pale sunlight glinting off of the humorously shiny dome of a bald head. To differentiate this head from Voldemort’s, it was helpfully scattered with the odd wisp of eye-burningly bright red hair.

It was my dad. I’d only been that scared to see him one time before, and that was when I did my first bit of magic and exploded two toilets and a chicken coop, and my mother said, ‘Wait ‘till your father gets home.’ I was terrified all day, but in the end, when he did get home, he was actually thrilled by my first actual magic and found it hilarious that Percy had been using one of the toilets when the explosion occurred. But this time, I wasn’t scared of what my dad was going to do to me. I was scared of what I was going to do to him.

I couldn’t kill him, I knew that, but what was I going to do? What could he have possibly read that was so bad that he needed to be killed, and why couldn’t they just modify his memory? Why on Bob’s green earth did I have to be the one to do it? I slowly approached my dad, not knowing exactly what I was going to do, and drew my wand. I knew that killing him was not an option, but I wasn’t exactly sure what was an option. My strategy relied on the possibility of coming up with a brilliant plan in the fifteen seconds it took to reach him. I was lucky, though, that he couldn’t see me. Maybe if he didn’t know it was me, I�”

He turned around.

* * * * * *

A cloaked figure ducked into a murky back alley-way. Trash cans in varying states of fetidity and a yowling, one-eyed cat with a kink in its tail and less hair than Arthur Weasley added to the decidedly unprepossessing ambience. Behind a particularly vile dustbin waited another cloaked figure, managing to look extremely unhappy despite the fact that his face was totally obscured by his cloak.

“Charlton,” the figure hissed the instant the first figure made his way inside the alleyway. “It’s not that hard. I told you to deliver the letter to the boy and get the heck out of there. I even sent you a special cloak to wear. How could you possibly screw this up?” He eyed the other figure’s cloak with great distaste, taking into consideration the bright magenta background splotched with vast green flowers and the occasional vomit stain. He prided himself on buying only clothing marked with Grade Double O, for ostentatiously ominous, and he considered such attire no less than an affront.

“Come on, Bartholomew,” said the first figure, Charlton, in a strange, untraceable accent. “I really think this one is more ‘me,’ don’t you? And besides, I’m really sick. Give me a break. You know I shouldn’t be out of the house.”

The second figure, Bartholomew, folded his arms. “Don’t you realize this is serious?” he said.

“Of course it’s serious,” sighed Charlton, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “It’s always serious with the boss. You don’t need to turn into a clone of her.”

Bartholomew would have glared, were his eyes visible. “I just want you to realize that this is a very hit-and-miss project. There’s a lot more lives on the line than just Arthur and Bill Weasley. Come on, I saw the lad go down that street. We’d better not let him leave our sight.”

And with a well-placed kick at the sickly cat, the two cloaked figures skulked off into the shadows and disappeared around the corner. Charlton was not a particularly skilled skulker, but there were more important things to worry about.

* * * * * *

Arthur waited just outside the door for so long that the eels began to subside. Just when it seemed that there might be some normal precipitation, Arthur decided that if he was even going to face his son and know what to say to him, not even harming him, he would need a week to collect his thoughts�”either that or a nice memory charm to make him forget the note.

Arthur walked away from the pub, realizing he would need complete silence if he was ever going to muster enough concentration for Apparition. He turned, ready to Apparate but found himself distracted by something on the ground; it was Bill’s shoes. Surprised, he was thrown off his balance, which he had spent the last hour trying to keep, and landed on the ground, right before the biggest shock came.

A bolt of green light shot over Arthur’s head. There was a squawk from behind Arthur, and he turned to see an owl fall down dead. He would have paused to wonder if owls normally squawked but he was more preoccupied as to why a Killing Curse had just come from somebody wearing his son’s shoes. It couldn’t have been Bill. Bill never would have done that. He never would have used an Unforgivable Curse--the Killing Curse--on his own father. No, that couldn’t be Bill.

Arthur wished he had never looked up into the almost-murderer’s face. He would never forget it. It was worst thing he had ever seen.

It was his son.

It was Bill.

Arthur did nothing. Then, he grabbed for his wand, rose quickly to his feet, fueled by intense hatred.

He shoved the man who had almost been his assassin into the wall of the Hog’s Head with as much force as he could muster. Jabbing his wand at the villain’s throat, he growled, “Who are you, and why do you look like my son?” His eyes were full of fire.

Before he could do anything more though, Bill grabbed hold of his father’s shoulders and forced him to the ground as another jet of green light shot passed them.

“Get down!” Bill commanded Arthur, who was still very much enraged and now very much confused.

* * * * * *

My first thought had been, “Oh, good, for a second, I was afraid I’d accidentally Avada Kedavra’d my dad.”

My second thought was, “Oh, Godric, if I didn’t set that spell off… someone else did.”

The second beam of green light narrowly missed my dad and me, and I felt my hair ruffled by the breeze as it whooshed overhead. A strange, hysterical part of me wanted to burst out laughing, but the rest of me managed to collect itself and said, “Dad�”are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, with all sorts of adverbs like ‘weakly’ and ‘slowly’ and ‘confusedly’ vying to describe his tone. He looked okay, in a physical sense of the word, but he was clearly pale and shaken, unsure whether to be afraid or angry. “But what was�””

“It’s a massacre,” I said, my mouth going dry. The inside of my mouth tasted bitter, chalky, and leathery, as though I’d eaten lunch at a hardware store and not the Leaky Cauldron. Seemingly the second I’d begun to approach my dad, the world had turned upside down and an explosion of sound and fury took over the street. A mad, tangled chaos of people raced back and forth in front of the shop fronts, brandishing wands or just running for their lives. Killing Curses punctuated the air like fireworks, illuminating dead bodies lying unceremoniously in the middle of the road, and screams of horror and incantations made it impossible to hear my own thoughts. And cloaked figures spilled out from nearly every alleyway, standing calmly amid the horrific carnage, some calmly writing on clipboards or in notebooks.

Then I looked even more closely at the violence and insanity occupying the streets and my blood started to run even colder. I knew these people. Though some were obvious Death Eaters and scumbags, most of them were just average, everyday people, many of them people I knew. And for some reason, they were all in Hogsmeade at the same time… killing each other.

I quickly averted my eyes, not wanting to know exactly which of my friends had been murdered… or, come to think of it, which of my friends had been murderers. Slowly and suddenly, it dawned on me, like a whack on the head with a slow-motion Bludger.

“Dad,” I said, whipping around at once, “did you get a letter today?”

My dad made his ‘I’m-Being-Dishonest’ face, the face that made him so bad at Exploding Poker, keeping mum’s secrets, and doing anything that involved being surreptitious. “A letter,” he repeated.

“Yeah, one that said you had to kill me,” I replied, not giving him the time to stammer out an excuse. “Because I got one. Whoa�”wait�”don’t get any ideas, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not that stupid.”

Wordlessly, Dad nodded. Then, looking about the same colour as old gym socks, he said, “Bill, let’s get out of here. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not something to get tangled up in.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. Voldemort was gone. Why was this happening? Public massacres weren’t supposed to happen after the ‘happily ever after;’ it would be like Prince Charming murdering Cinderella and eating her liver with a side of fava beans. It was unthinkable.

I’d been so busy bemoaning my predicament that I hadn’t even thought about the possibility that maybe I hadn’t been the only one to receive a letter from a cloaked figure that day. I hadn’t paid any attention to anything but the bottom of my glass of Firewhisky and my angsty ‘tortured hero’ thoughts. But someone wanted to kill off wizards, lots of them, and someone had distributed letters to nearly everyone in Hogsmeade. My letter said that dad had read top-secret papers and had to be killed for his own safety. I could only wonder what kinds of naughty things dad’s letter said I had done.

“What I want to know is, who’s behind all this?” I muttered darkly. My question was answered extremely shortly thereafter, because just then, I heard a cloaked figure bark, “Charlton! Get over here!” A tall, preternaturally graceful person all in fastidious black was gliding swiftly toward us, followed by a much shorter and much clumsier person in a filthy magenta cloak.

“I thought I told you to deliver the letter!” the tall one snapped under his breath.

“I did deliver it!” whined the short one, Charlton, stumbling over its muddy feet in the futile effort to catch up with its colleague. “Have a little faith, Mew-Mew.”

“It is Bartholomew,” hissed the tall one, then came to an abrupt halt in front of my dad and me, assuming a mysterious and authoritative pose. “You�””

Instantly, Dad and I sprang into action. Dad was on his feet and pointing his wand straight at Bartholomew faster than you could say ‘rheumatism,’ but I had other plans. I jumped up from the ground in one quick motion, grabbed Charlton by the throat, and pinned him against the wall. “Who are you?” I growled. “What’s going on?”

I’ve been told that I can look a little bit intimidating to people who don’t know me (okay, I’ve actually been told that I make children cry, but whatever), and now, I was using that to my advantage. It helped that I wasn’t exactly looking my best�”I was still drenched, and my wet, tangled hair was falling out of its ponytail and over my face. I was unshaven, my face was dirty from lying on the ground, and there were thirty-one flavours of wild fury in my slightly bloodshot eyes. To add to all this, I had conveniently positioned my face about an inch away from Charlton’s and was breathing heavily (and, unfortunately, stinkily) down his neck. I couldn’t see his face, but the frantic whimpers he was emitting gave me a pretty good idea of his terror.

“We’re friends of Fleur’s!” squeaked Charlton.

I let out a harsh, humourless laugh. “Yeah, some friends, trying to do in her family,” I snarled, the bitterness in my voice managing to intimidate even me for a second.

“From work,” Bartholomew added coolly.

These two words caused an Olympic shudder to run down my spine, and I was so shaken, I forgot to squeeze Charlton’s windpipe. “From her night job?” I said softly.

“Bill, what’s going on?” demanded my dad.

I could tell that under his hood, Bartholomew was smirking at me. “Yes, Bill,” he said. “Why don’t you tell us about where your wife works when she’s not at Gringotts with you. I know, I know, it’s illegal, but you’re about to die anyway, so you might as well say.”

I felt the distinct sensation of a large, slimy lizard crawling up my throat. Don’t let anything happen to Fleur, I thought frantically. Don’t let anyone touch a hair on her head. “Well,” I began, “er, well, Dad, Fleur works for this… this secret branch of the Department of Mysteries. Even the other Unspeakables don’t know what they do. And if anyone found out that Fleur worked for them, they’d fire her, and then they’d kill her so she couldn’t reveal any secrets. That’s pretty much all I know. The night I got married, some guy in a cloak came over and made me sign a form that said she worked for this place and I couldn’t tell anyone, but since Fleur never talks about it, I don’t know what she does.”

By now, Charlton had long since wriggled out from underneath my grasp. “We call ourselves the MNFF,” he said. “You should know all about us, Arthur, I know you ran across our archives by mistake not too long ago. That’s short for something else, but it’s none of your business. Basically, we specialize in creating, maintaining, and organizing universes.”

“Universes?” my dad repeated, squinting. Clearly, if he’d seen anything, he hadn’t understood what it really was.

“Well of course!” drawled Bartholomew. “It is the Department of Mysteries, after all. What could be a bigger mystery than the universe itself? That’s where our area of expertise comes in.”

Charlton nodded. “I’ve seen it all,” he said. “I’ve even eaten at the restaurant at the end of it. And the main thing you’ve got to know about the universe is that it’s made up of a bunch of little universes, sort of alternate realities. And we build them and keep them straight and keep tabs on them. There’s worlds where Malfoy and Granger are in love, and worlds where Longbottom was the chosen one, and worlds where Potter lost his memory completely or got killed in the final battle… the only thing they all have in common is, Voldemort is dead in all of them.”

“And good riddance,” Bartholomew added vehemently.

I must have been making my, ‘how can a creep like you not love Voldemort?’ face, because Bartholomew made an exasperated noise and said, “He used to work for us�”that’s how he got so powerful and successful, of course�”but then he just went too far, making up these strange little worlds where everyone was dead except for him, and threw in all of theses strange, incoherent bits about toasters and Muggle pop music and something called Power Rangers. So then the other M.O.D.s�”that means Microcosm/Omniverse Designers�”we voted to crack down, and we deleted him from all of the universes.”

“Well, we had Harry Potter do it in most of them,” Charlton reminded him. “Though I think a cement mixer flattened Voldemort in at least one. We can’t directly interfere with universes other than our own, see?” He touched the wall of a nearby building, and his hand passed right through it like a ghost’s. “Your wife’s from this reality, of course�” unless you’re used to her doing that whenever she wants to touch something�”but me and Bartholomew, we’re not from around here. Which is why we had to send letters to so many people. We could hardly run around doing people in ourselves.”

I stared up at the two cloaked men. They meant to tell me that they controlled all of our lives, that they decided who lived and who died and when and why? And now they were killing practically the entire wizarding world? How was Fleur involved with these people? Fleur was… just Fleur, my Fleur, not some ridiculously powerful universe-building… goddess or what have you. And I knew that Fleur would certainly not plan to have me killed… okay, she’d been a little hormonal ever since she’d gotten pregnant, but even so, having my own dad hired to kill me seemed a little drastic.

And the worst part about this was that Charlton and Bartholomew seemed so chatty, so eager, all casual and relaxed like we were a bunch of good mates meeting for a drink or something. They knew there was nothing Dad or I could possibly do when they were so irrevocably powerful compared to us, so they didn’t have anything to worry about. It was like watching a kid with a magnifying glass holding a genteel conversation with the ants he was burning.

“How does no one know about this?” spluttered my dad. “How can the Ministry let this h--?” He caught himself quickly. He knew as well as anyone that the Ministry had never been very good at preventing anything, and as great a guy as Kingsley Shacklebolt was, he was just learning the ropes. Kingsley probably didn’t know what half of his departments even did, let alone the top-secret ones that not even the other Unspeakables were aware of.

Bartholomew was probably smiling wryly under the obscurity of his hood. I knew his type. “We’re sworn to the strictest secrecy, naturally. Do you think people would take it calmly if they knew exactly what the MNFF does? People are so preoccupied with free will. They can’t bear to think that everything they do is remotely controlled. I mean, a lot of people have accepted that God provides the basic framework, but we control the minutia. We micro-manage the individual actions and ideas. And if that got out, well, it wouldn’t be good.”

“That’s why we always wear cloaks,” Charlton chipped in, “For anonymity.” Bartholomew snorted; anonymity was probably the last thing that Charlton was achieving in his ridiculous floral cloak. “Not even most of our coworkers know what we look like in real life, and we all use aliases. Mine’s Schmerg_The_Impaler.”

“I’m… Nevilles Girl,” Bartholomew said bashfully through clenched teeth, shooting a glare at Charlton when the latter couldn’t hold back his giggles. “I was very young when I chose it,” he muttered darkly. “Like you’ve ever impaled anything other than a cheese cube, Charlton.”

Charlton giggled again. “Methinks the Mew-Mew doth protest too much,” he said. “In any case, managing everything�”secrecy, control, all of that�”was getting really time-consuming and expensive. And then they upped the ante on requirements, making sure that everything people did was in-character after the whole Voldemort business, and eventually, the boss decided that it was all a little impractical. So all of the extra universes are being abandoned, and we’re closing them down. The people in them have to die, of course. Couldn’t have thousands of Harry Potters existing in one universe. There can only be one.”

“Zero, actually,” said Bartholomew. “Charlton and my universe is the only one that we’re going to both maintaining from now on. And in our universe, Harry Potter never existed. The wizarding world never existed. It’s all fiction, dreamed up by a famous writer… we call her the boss. Most of the people who work for the MNFF come from our world, and it’s the only one with no magic at all. Now that the whole Harry Potter saga’s drawn to a close and Voldemort’s gone in every universe, it’s the ideal time to end this MNFF business.”

My dad and I stared at each other. The world was ending, just because of some bureaucratic budget issues. Not just one world, every world. Every possible world except for one�”one where there was no magic and apparently, Bill and Arthur Weasley were beloved fictional characters. And one way or another, everyone was going to die.

“There’s no way Fleur would agree to this,” I said.

“Well, she, er, doesn’t know,” murmured Charlton, kicking the ground.

“What?” I growled.

Bartholomew let out an uncomfortable sigh. “It’s unfortunate, but she’s the only current MNFF member from this universe, and given her pregnancy, the M.O.D.s voted not to divulge the�””

I lunged forward, fully prepared to grab Charlton’s throat again and cause some serious damage this time, when I realized something very strange�”so strange that I forgot all about my thoughts of butt-kicking with a vengeance. “Wait a minute…” I murmured, my voice sounding high and weak in my ears, “I… grabbed your neck earlier.”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Charlton grumbled, massaging said area. “I’ll give you that.”

“You said that it’s impossible to touch things from a different universe,” I said. “So… how come my hand didn’t go right through you? I thought you weren’t from around here.” Keep them talking, I thought. As disturbing as this all is, it’s better than dying. And maybe Dad and I can think up a plan while they’re occupied.

Bartholomew let out yet another one of his long-suffering sighs, the sighs of someone so ridiculously competent that condescending to an ignorant underling was nearly unthinkable. Man, I hate guys like that. “I said we, the MNFF employees, can’t touch things from another universe. It’s part of the contract we signed, a charm on all of us. Unless it slipped your mind that you really do work for the MNFF, then it shouldn’t apply to you.”

“Oh.” I nodded calmly, exchanging glances with my dad. “So, you mean, we can do this.” And having absolutely no idea what I was trying to do, I pinned Charlton up against the wall again. His feet were actually dangling a good four or five inches above the ground. Now, reality check, I am a banker, and a former Prefect and Head Boy of Hogwarts. I’ve never exactly been a fighter�”in fact, I used to lose fights to my brother Charlie ever since he was three years old�”but I did have the advantage of that psychological factor. I was fortunate enough to look like someone who was planning on seriously messing up Charlton.

I’ll give it to the little guy, he fought back for all he was worth, kicking and hitting and even trying to bite me (I guess figuring that biting seemed to have worked on me before), but every attempt passed straight through me. It was an incredibly surreal experience, having a perfectly solid-looking and solid-feeling human arm reach straight through my stomach, and although it didn’t feel like anything, it was immeasurably creepy.

Just then, my dad did something extremely clever, even though I have to admit I thought it was idiotic at the time. He snatched the clipboard right out of Bartholomew’s hands.

“What are you doing?” I hissed as Charlton’s insubstantial foot jabbed awkwardly through a rather personal spot.

But something unexpected happened. Bartholomew froze, and even Charlton stopped attempting to fight back. “Give that back,” Bartholomew said in a low, deadly voice, a voice that would have been menacing had I not noticed it quivering slightly. “I said, give that back! What do you think you’re doing?”

“We’ll get the boss,” squawked Charlton. “We’ll get the boss, and she’ll put things right. You two are just delaying the inevitable here. And you know it doesn’t matter where you go�”we can make you do whatever we want.”

“Without this?” Dad said calmly, holding up the clipboard.

Charlton and Bartholomew exchanged panicked glances, then high-tailed it out of there like a taxidermist’s pet dog.

I stared with amazement and more than a little confusion. “Dad, what exactly did you do?” I asked, shaking my head in amazement. “Isn’t that just a clipboard?”

Dad was studying the clipboard and the sheaf of parchment clipped to it like it was a rare artifact, turning it over and over in his hands. “I think you better look at this, Bill,” he said at last, holding it out to me.

It was about fifteen pages long, fifteen pages of dense, spidery handwriting and all kinds of cross-outs and margin notes. Written across the top in red ink was “CHOPPY AND TOO MANY ADVERBS. BILL’S CHARACTERIZATION INCONSISTENT; ARTHUR NEEDS TO CONTRIBUTE MORE. INTERESTING CONCEPT.”

I scanned over the first paragraph, starting with “Arthur Weasley picked his way down High Street towards The Hogs Head, all the while fiddling with a piece of parchment he had received, which had called for the outing.” “This is weird,” I said. “This is really, really weird.”

It got weirder. By the time I reached the second page, I started finding sentences like, “I loved my wife Fleur dearly, and I was absolutely thrilled that I was going to be a father in a few months, but if I had to look at one more pair of baby shoes or a mobile featuring plush pastel hippogriffs, I’d probably go utterly spare.” This was me. These were my thoughts, this was my weird, twisted way of phrasing things, this was… written in first-person… it was all too much for my poor little brain. I skipped ahead to the end of the document, and then my brain really started hurting.

The page read: “These were my thoughts, this was my weird, twisted way of phrasing things, this was… written in first-person… it was all too much for my poor little brain. I skipped ahead to the end of the document, and then my brain really started hurting.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Those blokes weren’t kidding… they really do micromanage everything…” As soon as I said the words, they appeared on the page. “Okay, this is too weird even for me,” I muttered.

A small crease had appeared between Dad’s eyebrows, and he shook his head confusedly. “There’s just one thing that’s confusing me,” he said. “If those men, if… Charlton and Bartholomew… were writing all of this, how come I was able to take the clipboard like that? I’d think it was part of their plan or something if they didn’t look so scared.”

The sudden realization seized me by the throat like I’d seized Charlton. “I think Fleur’s picked up a quill of her own,” I replied, a broad grin spreading across my face. “She must’ve caught on to what the MNFF’s doing�”she’s not dumb. Okay, and now I know she’s writing this, because I suddenly want to buy her a lot of expensive shoes and jewelry.”

“See, I always told you it pays to marry a manipulative woman,” said Dad. I laughed, starting to feel a little bit giddy now. I’m not sure I’d ever felt quite so much in love with Fleur before, or as scared of her.

“I think I’ve got a plan,” I announced. “I’ll find Fleur�”you look for the rest of the family… let’s hope they’re all alive still.” I swallowed for a moment, trying to banish the thought from my mind. There wasn’t time to get all emotional when I was coming up with the grand master plan that would determine my whole (hopefully long) future. “I don’t know how we’re going to get there, but I think I know where we’ve got to go.”

* * * * * *

Fleur sat at the Burrow's crowded kitchen table. Around her sat the whole Weasley family, plus a few close friends: Bill, Mr Weasley, Mme Weasley, Charlie, Harry, Percy, Ron, Hermione--

"You don't need to write everyone's name," interjected Ginny.

"Sh! She hasn't written mine yet," said George.

"Or Teddy's!" added Harry.

Ginny shot a look at Harry who said, "I just wanted to make she doesn't forget anyone and leave them here. Besides, she hasn't written your name yet, either."

Fleur, who had been reading aloud as she wrote so everyone would know what was being written down, sat with her quill scratching away at the paper.

"Hey, everybody, stop talking! Whatever you do or whatever you say, she writes it down, and it wastes our time, and we don't even know how much time we have," Bill instructed.

No one decided to tell Bill he'd said the most of any of them so far.

"Now everyone, listen to me," Bill announced, putting on his Man Voice. "We're here because we have to--er--migrate to another universe."

His father stepped in to further explain the phenomenon. He had already told everyone about the MNFF's plan to end their universe.

"What we've decided to do is have Fleur write us out of this universe and into the other."

"And how does that work exactly?" asked Mme Weasley.

"Mum, it would really help us out alot if you just let us talk. Remember, she writes down everything."

"Two words," said Hermione, who had been reading over Fleur's shoulder. Everyone paused to look at her.

"What?" Fleur asked in her melodious voice.

"'A lot' is two separate words," she explained, pointing to the still-gleaming ink.

Rolling her eyes, Fleur rewrote the line.

"Mum, it would really help us a lot it you just let us talk. Remember, she writes down everything."

"Right," Mr Weasley said. "Fleur is going to write all of us out of this reality and into a reality with no magic. No, I don't know exactly how it's going to work, Molly."

"All we know," said Bill, "is that we want to get there before they shut this one down."

Mr Weasley stepped forward once more. "We--that is, Bill and I--were thinking we would all Apparate and Fleur's writing would help guide us to the other world."

"But, Arthur, Teddy can't Apparate!" declared Mme Weasley.

"My dear, do you really have to call out all the time? You can bring him along using Side-Along Apparition," Mr Weasley reassured her.

"I don't want to do that to a baby! That would be such a horrible thing to do to him!" protested Mme Weasley.

"Molly, I see no other alternative." Before anyone could say anything else, he announced, "Because this new world has no magic, I expect it will be all Muggles. It will be important that you listen to Harry, Hermione, or myself when we get there, because Muggle culture can be confusing.

"If any of you would like to bring something along with you, put it in this trunk and we'll send it along ahead of us."

Chairs were pushed back as people came up to place Galleons, Sickles, Knuts, pounds, clothes, Chudley Cannon posters, books, knitting needles, and all different kinds of memories in the trunk.

Everyone had kept his or her wand, but Arthur was the one who stepped forward and locked the trunk. He glanced at Fleur, who nodded to him. Then, he sent it on its way to the new universe, and Fleur directed it to the green hill that she knew was waiting there.

* * * * * *

Arthur knew that it wasn’t going to be easy. There was a good chance that their plan would fail and they’d be apprehended by the MNFF in no time. And even if they did succeed… living in a world where magic didn’t exist, where no one that they’d known had ever existed, would be a strange and difficult task. But it was the only option, the only chance of survival, before the “boss” got to him, whoever that was. But there was also a good chance that they might just pull through. He was lucky enough to have a son who wasn’t afraid to do the unconventional, and a daughter-in-law who frankly had more power than he was comfortable thinking about.

Not knowing what exactly was ahead of him, but knowing that he’d be telling his own story from now on, he looked down at the document in his hands for a moment. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he tore it neatly in ha�”