Dr. Weasley and the United Nations

I

n the year 2009, there lived a young couple in a small country home on the outskirts of London, England. The home was not too fancy, a simple two-story brick woodwork, with a pleasant little garden and a white-picket fence that enclosed the lawn and separated it from the farmland on surrounding sides. There were four windows and one door on the front of the house, four plain glass windows and one brown, wooden door. The dark green, slanted roof sloped forward with swift, architectural perfection and every corner was perfectly angled. The black asphalt driveway was unassuming; the pale blue mailbox, Number 366, was inconspicuous. As far as any normal passerby was concerned, this house was the epitome of normality and conformity. Everything was in its place. But the inside of the house and its inhabitants were far from normal. Quite the contrary, they were abnormal, a witch and a wizard. This was the home of Dr. Ronald B. Weasley and his wife Hermione G. Weasley. This is where their story continues.

Dr. Ronald B. Weasley was no longer the Junior Potion Research Investigator in Division 9 of Donald Trump Cosmetology Enterprises. Actually, Donald Trump Cosmetology Enterprises had declared Chapter 11 Bankruptcy four years prior, not long after Dr. Weasley's departure. But no matter, Mr. Trump was still a multi-millionaire, and was not terribly bothered by the collapse. Magnus Copperfield, the Division 9 supervisor and Mr. Trump's right-hand man was also spared unemployment, but that story shall come later. Anyway, Dr. Weasley instead now worked for the British Ministry of Magic, in the Department of Magical Potions Formulation (or DMPF, as it is commonly known), writing formulas for the synthesis of new, unprecedented potions, typically healing solutions. Dr. Weasley quite enjoyed his new job.

Presently, Dr. Weasley (but we all know him as Ron) was sitting in his baby blue-bedecked kitchen, nibbling at a plate of eggs and bacon and reading the morning's copy of the Dailey Prophet. Next to his breakfast plate sat the New York Times; Ron may have returned to Britain, but he had known better than to give up his precious American stock in BB&T. While the Times held marvelous news of a six-point rise on Wall Street, news in the wizarding world was not so fine. Two Ministry officials had disappeared while on a peacekeeping trip to the jungles of Ecuador, where a tribe of primitively violent wizards dwelt. Percy Weasley, Ron's own brother, was being indicted on charges of embezzling thousands of Galleons from his department and spending them at a strip club in the south of France. Worst of all, Britain had once again lost the Quidditch World Cup to Russia. But on the bright side, Harry's monastery had successfully translated the Bible, the Qur'an, and the Torah into Mermish (although they hadn't yet determined how these books would remain intact underwater). Numerous other international problems had kept the Ministry in a tizzy for the past several months. The whole wizarding world seemed about to split at the seams. It was no surprise to Ron that Hermione, who worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was stressed to the breaking point.

Ron was quite understanding and sympathetic to his wife's predicament, and did not object to the minor amount of time they had to spend together. Eating breakfast alone as he was now was quite common, as Hermione was usually working in her office every morning up until time to depart for the Ministry, taking only a moment to shower, dress, and grab an apple to tie her over until lunch. It was currently 7:55, and any second now Hermione would come speeding down the hallway, bag dangling from her shoulder, kiss Ron goodbye, and Disapparate. Shortly thereafter, Ron would leave for work himself. Today, she did not fail him. At precisely 7:56, Hermione bounded into the kitchen, and Ron turned to get a full view of the only beautiful sight he would receive that day. Wavy chestnut hair that fell to mid-back cradling a gorgeous shinning face. Big, brown eyes that made you want to stare into them forever. As stunning as she was now, it was nothing compared to what lay beneath those layers of black robes--an area exclusively reserved for Ron. It pleased him to know that those pleasing curves, the plush behind, the slender thighs and flat stomach, the large breasts to rival Pamela Anderson's, were all a special treat that he alone could explore. Shame the intensity of Hermione's work lately had suspended such explorations.

It had been Ron's wayward experiment four years back that had made her this way. Previously, she had been a small, petite, angular figure with nothing special to speak of, but with on cup of spiked tea he had changed all of that. She had been transformed, via a woman enhancer potion concocted by Ron himself, into the voluptuous vixen that now stood before him. Since then, Hermione had been approached by numerous news agents attempting to draft her as the UK's representative in the Mrs. World Pageant, but Hermione was a woman of principle and refused to partake in such exploitations of women for men's pleasure. She further dismayed the agents with her supposedly amazing ability to disappear around corners. It was times such as this that she scolded Ron for what he had turned her into, though she had generally come to accept her new self and had long since forgiven Ron for his misdemeanor. In fact, on more than one occasion, he had considered giving her another dose of the potion. For you see, he still had the entire formula memorized in his head, the only place it was to be found.

"Good morning, Ron," she said exasperatedly.

"Good morning to you too, love," Ron replied, rising to meet her (he granted himself thankful that he was still taller than her despite the potion's modification of her height, although he would have been worried if she exceeded 6'4").

He summoned an apple from the bowl across the bar and presented it to her.

"Thank you, honey," she said, shoving it in her bag. "I'm going to have to run."

She reached up and kissed him sweetly on the lips. Ron moved to put his arms around her, in hopes to lengthen the kiss, but she slipped between his fingers.

"I've got to go. Love you. Bye."

And in a flash, she was gone.

Ron sighed, folding up his paper and placing it in his briefcase. He was really starting to get antsy over Hermione's inability to be with him, and he wasn't sure how much longer his sensual desires could be denied. After all, men have needs.

As he was preparing to Disapparate, he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, left ajar by his wife. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, as he viewed the Ministry robes hanging off the rail-thin lanky body. Surely he and Hermione must look like the odd couple to strangers, with her so voluptuous and he so skinny.

Note to self, he thought. Either start working out or make an enhancement potion for yourself.

With that final thought, he left for work.

***

"Top of the morning, Jan," Ron greeted his secretary genially as he inserted the key into the lock on his laboratory door.

"Good morning this morning!" Jan beamed, swiping her tongue across her crooked teeth. "Good to see you, Dr. Weasley, sir."

"Thank you, Jan," Ron returned. Unfortunately, Ron was not one of the lucky ones like Seamus or Dean who had managed to land 18-year-old, buxom young blonde witches as their secretaries (lucky bastards, Ron noted). Hermione had made sure of that. On the contrary, Jan was a 55-year-old, red headed, slightly eccentric widow from the Scotland (and a distant cousin of Ms. Oogly). She had moved to London after her husband had passed away two years ago, and when she went to apply for a Ministry position, Hermione had found the "perfect" place for her--Ron's secretary. Though she was hardly the sexy little excuse for single men to make unnecessary appointments with Dr. Weasley, her somewhat diminished sanity often kept Ron entertained. In addition, she was an impeccable file-keeper and organizer.

Ron's key finally managed to perform its magic (quite literally, that is) and he entered the lab.

The computers hummed slowly, still in sleep mode from the previous night. In a few moments, all of them would be geared up and flashing fully-functional. Everything was exactly as Ron had left it the previous night before, and he was entirely ready to continue with his most recent experiment--a Dry Mouth Draught, which would relieve excessive salivation.

He worked like a dog, barely stopping for breath as he churned along with the day's work, writing formulas, experimenting with various chemicals and compounds, and observing reactions from these various tests. Two years under the supervision of Magnus Copperfield and four years of marriage to Hermione (not to mention the much longer period he had known her) had broken him of his procrastination habits, and he was now nearly as obsessive over work as Percy used to be. All the same, his routine was not that different from his days as a scientist working in Chicago, but now he could carry on with a smile on his face. Taking only half an hour for lunch, and jotting down notes in his record book as he did so, he returned around 12:30 to carry on with his tasks.

No sooner had he set his briefcase upon his cluttered metal desk than a small, white memo flew into the room and circled around to land atop a filing cabinet. A moment later, Jan appeared in behind it, wielding a butterfly net in her wrinkled grasp. She looked livid.

"Dodgy little things!" she hissed. "They never want to stop at my desk. Always think they have to go straight to the man without stopping to see his secretary! This is why Muggles us e-mail!"

She made a giant swoop at the stationary memo with her net, but the clever slip of paper dashed off at the last second. Jan's net missed entirely, causing her to lose her balance and slam into the filing cabinet with a loud thud."

"Oooh, dear mother of King George!" she cried, rubbing her head.

Ron sighed and shook his head.

"Don't worry about it Jan. You just run along back to your desk and work on those papers from the Head of Department."

"Aye, sir," Jan said, stumbling to her feet.

The redheaded (though a slightly darker and more brownish shade than Ron's) secretary exited the room, broken butterfly net in hand. Once she had closed the door behind her, Ron reached out and snatched the fluttering memo, which had taken nest in the paper tray on his desk. He opened it up and read the large, loopy lettering of the sender's secretary.

Dear Dr. Weasley,

The Minister has requested your presence in his office at precisely12:45 in his office, or roughly five minutes after this memo should arrive. It is urgent that you meet his calling, due to the fact that he has some very important business with you. Drop whatever you are doing and report promptly.

Sincerely,

Lauren G. Sostén

Ron crumpled the letter and tossed it into the recycling bin. What on earth could Frank want with him now? He had only just arrived from lunch, and was being called off before his he could even pick up an Erlenmeyer flask. Moreover, it was highly unusual for Frank's secretary to send letters; he typically referred to personalize letters with his closest colleagues, such as Dr. Weasley. And why, he asked, was there a ladybug in the top right-hand corner of the paper? All these questions, in fact, the entire situation, puzzled Ron, and he wasted no time in figuring them out. Flipping the lights back off after scarcely more than ten minutes in function, he left the laboratory.

"Jan, hold my calls," he said. "I'll be back later."

"Yes, sir!" she exclaimed, a little too overenthusiastically.

Ron hurried down the hall, passing by the various offices of the research laboratories. Occasionally, another scientist would step out of his lab with a clipboard in hand and bid Ron good morning, but all of them appeared to be as busy as Ron would surely be if the Minister kept him too long. Boarding the golden-grated elevator, Ron leaned up against the oak-paneled walls and began to fiddle with the lapels on his white coat. It was apparently a bad day for messengers, given the few people around and the massive cluster of memos floating about. Slowly the elevator made its way up. 7^th level, 8^th level, 9^th level, until finally it ground to a halt at the tenth level, which housed the Minister's office and all other high-ranking officials. Ron had rarely been to this sector (but more than most, given his close relationship with the Minister), and he personally disliked going there. Although it received the best artificial light from the magically imaged sky outside, the sheer size and emptiness of the corridor made it cold, shadowy, and uninviting. Worse, the walls had all been painted the most appalling shade of puce.

The Minister's office, a sizeable three-room study, small library, and conference area complex, stood behind a large oak door at the end of the corridor. Inside the small, enclosed reception cubicle sat a pneumatic, black-haired secretary whom Ron greatly doubted had obtained her position because of her business credentials. As she was one of the most attractive female workers in the Ministry, perhaps in all of London, it was easy to believe the rumors off and affair between her and the Minister. However, even this gorgeous sex-machine was envious of Mrs. Hermione G. Weasley.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sostén," Ron greeted politely (for it was not proper etiquette to refer to the Minister's secretary/mistress by her first name).

She nodded. "Likewise, Dr. Weasley. The Minister is expecting you, but I'm afraid he's just stepped out for a moment and asks that you wait in his study."

Ron frowned.

"But you said it was urgent."

"Yes," Ms. Sostén replied, pursing her ruby lips. "But as you can imagine, the Minister is a very busy man, and he received an important call only moments ago. Now if you would," she moved her hands and leaned her chest forward slightly, exposing a generous amount of cleavage, "please wait inside."

Hypnotized by the amazing and erotic sight before him, as any heterosexual man in his position would be, Ron gulped and obeyed. Then he remembered that he had his own personal set of huge, perky breasts, better known as Hermione, that he could enjoy anytime, and shouldn't have been so easily manipulated by that view. Anyway, as he stepped into the Minister's wood-paneled study, his mind drifted back to the situation at hand. If the Minister had urgent business with Ron, then why had he left before the redhead had arrived? It was simply bizarre. Frank was not one to be late meeting someone, whether business was urgent or not. Moreover, Ron and Frank were exceptionally close friends, and it was highly unlikely that the latter would call Ron too him and then leave without so much as an "I'll be back in five minutes, emergency in the Department of Magical Games and Sports" memo.

Then again, Ron noted, Frank had become a bit erratic in the past several years due to a freak accident at the National Kellogg Convention of 2005, the details of which Ron did not really like to discuss. Suffices to say, someone didn't, "Leggo of his Eggo." But more importantly, the accident had caused some minor cerebral damage; not amnesia or mental retardation; no Frank was still as sharp as a tack. However, his did tend to perform strange stunts at times and make random comments about global warming, communist China, and the anatomical structure of Jay Leno's chin. It could be that Frank merely decided to walk out for a moment and have a cup of tea with the Duke of York's pet cat. It wouldn't be the first time.

Meanwhile, Ron paced around the comfortable carpeted study, admiring the numerous antique wizarding instruments and oil paintings that adorned the walls. One of the four walls was completely covered by bookcases, filled to the ceiling with ever type of book imaginable, from The History of Witchcraft in Great Britain to Advanced Spells for the Intellectual and even some so peculiar as Francisco Franco's Guide to Modern Fascism and So You Want to be a Candlestick Maker? Ron simply assumed tomes such as these were the result of on of Frank's more acute psychological malfunctions, but then again, one can never truly know a person until they see what kinds of books they read.

At the far end of the room stood a large walnut desk covered with stacks of parchment as well as a few smaller instruments the Frank probably used for his daily work. Facing the two plush blue chairs in front of the desk, as well as the rest of the room itself was a five by six inch golden frame that contained Frank's favorite picture. It depicted the Minister standing with James Brown, former U.S. president William Jefferson Clinton, Jackie Chan, and French president Jacques Chirac at the opening of St. Pulperhoozen's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries in Istanbul. All wizards in their own right, Frank had been lucky enough to meet them all and cut the ribbon to open the new center; Ron envied him terribly.

It was then that Ron noticed the only out of place item on the desk. Atop a stack of reports on the latest developments in architectural spells was perched a small ceramic Buddha, smiling benignly up at Ron's bewildered face.

Strange, Ron thought. I thought Frank was a scientologist.

He reached out slowly to touch the Buddha, but before his fingers reached it, the door behind him creaked open. Ron turned, expecting to see Frank's wiry form enter, but instead it was a pair of breasts, followed by his wife, Hermione. He gaped at her (not so much from her stunning beauty as her unexpected arrival).

"Hermione!" he exclaimed. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Despite the fact that he was not at all upset about it, he still found her appearance quite odd.

"Nice to see you too," she returned rather tartly. "And I don't know why I'm here. I just received a memo from the Minister shortly after I got to work. Said it was urgent."

"So did I!" cried Ron, finding it all the more confusing. "What do you suppose he wants to se both of us about that's so urgent?"

Hermione's brow furrowed.

"I'm not sure. But it certainly better not be another photo-shoot for Playwizard magazine."

Ron laughed and shook his head. "Not after the last time. I hear that last photographer is still in St. Mungo's from where you transfigured his arse into a lawnmower. Then again, they say he's got the most clean cut feces you'll ever-"

"Ronald!" Hermione snapped. "Honestly, you're the most crude, dung-mouthed excuse for a scientist I've ever known."

"Yeah," Ron snickered. "But you still love me."

"Yes," Hermione smiled. "I do."

Then, swiveling her head around as if to inspect the room, she said, "You know, we're all alone in here."

Ron's eyes grew wide.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

In answer, Hermione surged forward and grabbed Ron's labcoat, using her extraordinary feminine strength to pull his body against her own and crushed her lips against his. Ron, oh to happily obliged her, grabbed her waist and returning the kiss with a fiery passion. Hermione began to finger her hands through Ron's thick auburn locks, causing his glasses to fall askew. Surprisingly forceful for a woman of her reserved nature, she managed to drive Ron backwards. The red-haired scientists stumbled backward into the desk, throwing his arm back for support, feeling something cold and hard hit his hand, and then...

He felt a familiar yet unexpected jerk behind his navel. Although he could still feel Hermione clinging to his chest, the floor beneath him disappeared and the walls began to dissolve, swirling around into a massive, shapeless vortex, spinning and spinning around until Ron's glasses actually realigned themselves properly. And as soon as it had begun, it ceased. Ron felt himself fall hard against a surface, whether it was ground or floor, he could not be sure of. His wife had lost hold of him and scooted across the surface. The small ceramic Buddha clattered to a halt beside him.

Even though he had not opened his eyes, Ron could tell they had been transported a great distance. The vortex had been far more intense and lasted several seconds longer than usual, a sure sign that this had been no small journey. Finally chancing to open his eyes and sit up, he was amazed to find himself once again in an office, but quite a different one from that which he had just departed. Gone were the dark, wood-paneled walls adorned with ancient portraits and décor. In their place was solid white sheetrock, bare but for few pieces of abstract artwork by Picasso and Van Gough. There was only one bookshelf, stacked mostly with reference books and photo albums. Instead of the antique, comfortable looking furniture of Frank's study, Ron was surrounded by gray-colored metal and Plexiglas furnishings, including a modern, clear glass desk in one corner with a leather office chair situated behind it. A minute British flag was perched atop the desk, as well as a highly advanced Apple computer, a printer, and an assortment of file folders. One of the walls was made entirely of glass; it was an enormous window facing the city outside, a city that Ron had yet to identify. The office appeared to belong to some type of business executive, but who, Ron could not be sure.

Nearby, still lying on the floor, Hermione stirred. Her husband quickly crawled over to her to provide assistance, and together they rose to their feet.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked rather wearily.

"I have a hunch," Ron answered, strolling over to the window.

Outside, he could see the enormous steel structures of countless skyscrapers rising into sky. Literally hundreds of buildings, large and small, tall and short, brick and steel spread across the landscape to the horizon. Far below, an array of parallel and perpendicular streets formed a complex grid of transportation, dotted by many small automobiles and pedestrians. Nearby, a great blue river flooded along many miles until it dumped into an ocean to the south. Far away, barely visible in the morning twilight, a tall green statue stood prominently on an island in the bay, welcoming new arrivals to the city. Even though he'd only been there once, Ron recognized the metropolis immediately--New York City.

Ron stepped back. He had been right--something, he was sorry to note, that rarely occurred. The Buddha portkey had indeed transported them an unusually long distance--3,470 miles to be exact (5,584 kilometers).

"Well?" Hermione persisted.

"New York," Ron answered simply.

"What?"

"New York City!" he exclaimed. "NYC? The Big Apple? The City that Never Sleeps?"

"I know what it is, Ronald!" she snapped. "I'm just curious as to how we ended up here."

"The port-"

"Quiet!"

There was a moment of heated tension, and then Hermione spoke again, more softly this time.

"Look, the portkey was obviously meant for the Minister. We've already established that we are in New York. Now what we need to know is, what building are we in and why was the Minister coming here?"

Ron continued to stare out the window at the skyline. The skeletal form of the new Freedom Tower pierced the purplish sky at the other end of Manhattan, embraced by the Empire State Building in the foreground. He took a moment to appreciate the wonder that was man's achievement in architecture.

"Well," he said. "There's only one way to find out."