Disclaimer: I own only the plot, Mortimer, and Liz. The rest belongs to JK Rowling.

Killing Arthur Weasley

Mortimer groaned as he pulled the file toward him. This was his fourth assignment that week and it was starting to get to him. Liz gave him a small, knowing smile before walking on to the next desk. He flipped it open, feeling a massive headache coming on. In case you hadn't noticed, Mortimer did not like his job. It was not as if he had a particularly desirable job or that he had any reason to be excited about coming to work each day, but the fact remained that the young reaper hated his job more than any other in the netherworld.

That week alone, he had had the still born of a woman who had spent six years trying to get pregnant, a father of five and then, two days later, his wife, and a day after that, a seven-year-old leukemia patient. He honestly didn't think he could take much more heartache. Arthur Septimus Weasley, wizard, 116 years old. Ottery St. Catchpole, England. Well, at least he wasn't six. He got up and pulled on his jacket, sliding the file into his briefcase before moving toward the portals.

Hell really wasn't what it used to be. Lucifer and The Holy Father (or HF for short) had made up centuries before, both admitting a bit of hastiness on both their parts. HF had apologized for throwing Lucifer and the dark angels out of heaven and Lucifer apologized for the whole Garden of Eden thing.

"See ya," he shouted over his shoulder. Liz waved at him vaguely. He stepped into the portal and soon materialized in front of a very odd-looking house. He took a deep breath and then stepped toward the door. He self-consciously ran a hand over his hair, trying to smooth down his uncooperative dark curls.

Stepping into the entry-way, he looked around. The walls were covered with pictures, all with an abundance of red-heads. He stepped up to the first one, obviously a family photo. There was a proud father who he recognized as Arthur with a one-year-old boy hiding bashfully in his robes, and a plump woman with a pink blanketed baby in her arms. There were five other boys standing around the parents. Two identical toddlers were chasing a slightly older boy with horn-rimmed glasses and two older boys were standing to the side, looking at their brothers with mingled disgust and amusement.

He chuckled as the twins finally clobbered the older boy. The plump woman handed the baby to the eldest boy and went to break up the wrestling match. Mortimer laughed. Just as he was moving on to another picture, a much older version of the man in the family picture appeared. He was leaning heavily on an elaborately carved cane. His head was almost completely bald, the only hair left on his head, a small ring of white at the very top. He looked up at Mortimer with soft, gentle blue eyes. "Hello, may I help you?" he greeted. Mortimer spun around.

"Uh-uh."

"What's your name my boy? Are you a friend of Colin's?"

"Colin's? Well, no, not exactly. You see, you see-"

"You seem very distressed. Is there anything I can help you with . . ."

"Mortimer."

"Tim, can I call you Tim?" Mortimer nodded. No one had called him Tim since his grandfather when he was twelve. "Would you like some tea? My wife could make us up a pot. I think we could even get some biscuits out of the bargain."

"Your wife is not going to be able to see me," Mortimer admitted guiltily, staring at his shoes. Arthur let out a low breath. "You see, I'm the Grim-"

"Reaper." Arthur finished. Mortimer nodded. "I thought you all wore black robes and carried scythes."

"That's one guy!" Mortimer exclaimed. It was what almost everyone said. Honestly, you get one weird guy with a hood fetish! "Anyway . . . that's why your wife can't see me. Only you."

"Only me," Arthur breathed. "How long do I have?" he asked. Mortimer looked at him, his eyes beginning to water.

"A month." The words felt like acid on his lips. Arthur nodded and looked over at the younger man over the top of his glasses.

"Good, I'll be able to get everything in order." Mortimer looked up at him, surprised. "You look shocked. I am 116 years old! I've had a good long life. You needn't feel sorry for me."

"But you're dying; you're dying in a month! Aren't you scared?" Mortimer asked.

"Come take a walk with me Tim," Arthur started toward the door, not waiting for an answer. Mortimer nodded and followed him. "I'm out for a walk Mollywobbles!" Arthur called over his shoulder. Mortimer slowed his step to match Arthur's halting ones. "So you're the Grim Reaper?" Arthur asked conversationally.

"One of them," Mortimer answered simply. "There are a whole bunch of us; it's kind of a job."

"I can't imagine it is a very pleasant sort of job."

"No, no but I didn't really have much of a choice. So you're not upset about your death?" he asked.

"I wouldn't say I'm particularly happy about it but, well, I'm . . . it's time. You see," at this point a small smile crept onto Arthur's face. "To someone who has lived a long life, a full life like mine, death is like going to sleep after a very, very long day without setting the alarm clock." The corners of Mortimer's mouth turned up a bit as well.

"I've never heard it like that but, well, aren't you going to miss everyone, your wife, your kids?"

"Of course I'll miss them! But I can't live forever and my son, my Fred died so young. I haven't seen him in decades. That's something I've been looking forward to for some time. Molly won't come long after that and my children are now grandparents, some of them great-grandparents. They will miss me but they don't need me anymore."

"Don't you have things you want to do still?"

"There are a few things but, for the most part, I've done everything I've wanted to do. The other things are small, inconsequential and I still have a month right?" Mortimer nodded.

"No one has ever responded to me this way before."

"Really? Well, I don't want you to feel bad Tim. It's not your fault; it's just your job. You know I once made out a list of all of the things I wanted to do before I died. I found it a couple of years ago in an old trunk and I'd done every single thing on it without even trying."

"Everything?" Mortimer asked incredulously. Arthur chuckled. He sank down onto an old garden bench and patted the seat next to him.

"Everything that counts," Arthur conceded. Mortimer looked around, suddenly catching a very familiar scent. They were in a graveyard. Arthur was studying him closely over the top of his glasses. "I've been coming here a lot lately. I feel closer to them than with anyone else. That's my father's grave," he pointed to a small, stone grey tombstone. "My mother's is right next to him. We're all to be buried here, on the land we've had for centuries. When it first came into my family, there were no muggles near us at all." Mortimer nodded, his eyes combing the tombstones. His eyes fell on one in particular. It had two bouquets sitting on the grassy grave, one of sunflowers, the other white roses. He got up and walked over to it, studying it closely.

Fredric (Fred) Gideon Weasley

Son, Brother, Friend, Prankster Extraordinaire

You Are Missed. You Are Loved. You Live On.

April 1, 1978-May 2, 1998

"That's my son. He died at the Battle of Hogwarts. His twin, George, has never been the same," Arthur explained softly. "I am really looking forward to holding my boy again." Mortimer smiled. It was all starting to make sense. "Do you know if I'm, well, in, you know . . ."

"If you've gotten into heaven?" Mortimer asked, looking at the older man with raised eyebrows. "No, they'll decide that on arrival but, well, I could put in a good word for you. I don't think you have anything to worry about. I've seen your file and it takes quite a bit to get you into hell these days."

"Is Fred?"

"Heaven; it says it on your file."

"Good," Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. "He was a good boy really. He always had a good heart but, well, he had a penchant for mischief." Mortimer smiled. Humans were so strange, fooled into thinking that they could earn an eternity of hell fire for the slightest infraction.

"God's just as game for pranks as the next person. He turned all of the Angel's wings magenta last April Fool's Day." Arthur snorted.

"Are muggles and wizards in the same heaven or are we to be separated?"

"Everyone's together." Arthur's face split into a grin.

"I think I'm going to enjoy the after-life immensely." Mortimer looked down at his watch.

"I've really enjoyed our chat but-"

"You and I both have things to do," Arthur finished, smiling at the young reaper. Mortimer returned the smile. He was caught off guard when Arthur embraced him loosely. "Don't despair on my account young man. I am ready to go, as ready as I will ever be. Thank you for the fore-warning." Mortimer nodded again.

"I'll be back in a month." He was about to leave but turned around suddenly. "Mr. Weasley-"

"Arthur."

"Arthur, do you think, would it be possible to, maybe . . . talk another time." Arthur gave him a warm smile and nodded.

"We've got all of eternity right?"

"That's right. Thank you Arthur, thanks for everything." He disappeared, reappearing in the crowded office. A feeling of contentment he had not known since his long-ago childhood had settled itself over him. Perhaps this job wasn't as bad as it seemed . . .

Arthur died in the night after a large, delicious meal shared with his now gargantuan family. It was peaceful, simple, no-fuss, much like Arthur himself. All of his loose ends were tied up, leading his beloved wife to murmur in bewilderment to their eldest: "He knew Bill. I don't know how but he knew he was going to pass." Many tears were shed at his funeral but they were not bitter; they all knew he was off to a better place. After all, if anyone deserved heaven, it was Arthur Weasley.

A/N: I love MBP's story about Arthur's passing but I couldn't bring myself to write something so sad. This came to me (when else) when I was supposed to be writing a Psychology report and I decided to plug it out. I hope you all enjoyed it! The next chapter of Free Agent should be coming soon but I'm not making any promises. REVIEW!!