This is a crossover with Jasper Fforde's amazing Thursday Next series (The Eyre Affair, Lost in a Good Book, The Well of Lost Plots, Something Rotten, and now First Among Sequels). Thursday Next essentially investigates literary crimes and also has the power to jump within books themselves. Certain things will make a lot more sense if you have read the books. (Go on. You know you want to. I'll wait.) Also, since this story takes place roughly 20 years after the last TN book, there are spoilers for the series, if such a thing troubles you. (Naturally, you can expect spoilers for the Harry Potter series through Half-Blood Prince.)

On that note, I made up the character of Thursday's daughter Saturday, but her existence was (sort of) consistent with canon at the point when I started writing the story.

One final caveat: Within the TN series, characters in books often act differently when they're not in a book scene, much like actors. So the definition of "in character" is quite a bit more flexible, but I tried to respect the essence of the Harry Potter characters. Enjoy the occasionally ludicrous outbursts, but do let me know of any unduly flagrant character violations.

Thanks to all my readers. Errors in the first chapter have now been corrected.


It was almost never good news when I got called into Norman Braddock's office, and today was no exception. He gestured to a chair as I shut the door behind me. I placed my hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. "Well?"

Braddock sighed. "Look, Thursday, you know it's been a hard year for SO-27. With public interest in literature waning, most of the big gangs and petty criminals have moved on to more profitable activities. And since there's not much of a threat anymore, and since what little threat exists is only to literature—"

He sensed my impending outburst and moved quickly to deflect it. "I know, I know. Those in power are young and foolish—they don't know how important literature is. Which makes it increasingly difficult to get funding…"

"So, no raise," I interrupted. My fingers tightened around the chair. I'd been looking forward to a nice, relaxing vacation with Landen—a Greek island, perhaps, or somewhere in the South Pacific. Somewhere warm, exotic, and completely book-free.

"It's more than that," Braddock said. "We have to cut back, both on resources and… personnel."

"You can't fire me!" I shouted. "I've been here for almost thirty years! Which has to be at least three times as long as you've been here. And while you've been sitting here counting pennies, I've been risking my life, my sanity and my family every day out in the field. I saved Jane Eyre, or had you forgotten that? I arrested 283 Shakespeare forgers, rescued priceless Dickens manuscripts from a terrorist fire, and single-handedly forced the government to reverse its embargo on foreign literature seven years ago! Damn it, Braddock, I'm a good literary detective—more than that, I'm the best you've got, and if you think—"

"Thursday," Braddock said. His voice had a mournful, resigned tone to it. I stopped mid-tirade, took a deep breath, and sat down. I had a feeling I'd need to be sitting for this.

"It doesn't matter, Thursday," he said. "It's not even up to me anymore. Five months from now, we won't have the money to pay a single employee, much less run the office. SO-27 is shutting down."

"But…" My mind reeled from the shock. "There has to be something we can do. We could band together, get a loan—I think I have some savings…"

Braddock looked at me as though I were a child offering water wings to a man drowning in the middle of the ocean. "We can't fight the good fight anymore, Thursday," he said. "The war is over, and we've lost."

-----

I slammed the door and collapsed on the couch with my pet dodo Pickwick, determined to watch as many mind-deadening episodes of Celebrity Name that Fruit! as I could stomach. As luck would have it, the show was preempted for ineptly edited music videos to songs I couldn't stand, and followed by a Heaps of Humiliation marathon. Three hours later, I was in a fouler mood than before. Even the lower forms of entertainment seemed to have grown lower and crasser with each passing year. It seemed as though the world was changing just to spite me… or was I just getting old?

"Bad day?" Saturday asked, poking her head into the room. It always startled me how much my youngest daughter looked like me, although she tried to offset her plainness by dyeing her hair dark blue and getting a new piercing every few months.

"They're disbanding Spec-Ops," I said.

"Well," she said, "at least Dad's still making money."

"Hmph!" I said sourly. "He won't be for long, since the public isn't interested in literature anymore. Good thing you got that job at Smiley Burger."

"I think the public's interest may peak again," Saturday said. "Jo just died."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "It'd be all over the news if she had. You can't believe everything you read on the Internet."

The telly suddenly cut to a special report. "This just in!" said a breathless reporter with a hairstyle that looked like it had been set with shellac. "The phenomenally popular children's book author J.K. Rowling has just been found dead inside her Edinburgh home. We now go live to the scene with Scotland Yard investigator Lawrence Ealing. Officer Ealing, what can you tell us about this tragedy?"

Officer Ealing seemed about as happy to talk to the reporter as I had usually been. "We have to keep some things mum for investigative reasons," he said.

"But do you suspect foul play?" the reporter asked eagerly.

"Can't comment on that," said Officer Ealing.

The reporter lowered her eyelashes and leaned in furtively. "You know she died without finishing the seventh Harry Potter book," she said. "What do you think would have happened?"

"I don't know," Officer Ealing said. He sighed. "But I will say—off the record, mind—that if she killed off anyone else besides Voldemort, I would've been rather put out."

I turned off the telly and looked over at Saturday. She smirked. "Score one for the Internet," she said.

"Even a broken clock's right twice a day," I said. But the news story had given me an idea. I pulled a duffel out of a cupboard and began throwing items into it haphazardly. "Anyway, once your dad comes out of the den, tell him I'll be in Edinburgh, will you?"

-----

I parked my car and pushed aside the police caution tape. An officer stopped me and I held up my Spec-Ops badge. "Thursday Next, Spec-Ops 27," I said.

"What's that, then?" asked the officer.

"Literary detective division. This might be our jurisdiction. Mind if I have a look?"

The officer barred my way. "Don't think so."

I tried another tack. "Look, Jo was a friend of my husband's. Landen Park-Laine. Have you heard of him?"

"I'll take it from here, Guillen," Officer Ealing said. His sharp grey eyes scrutinized me. "I've heard of him, and I've heard of you."

"Well then, it shouldn't be a problem," I said, putting on my most charming smile.

"I've heard you're a pain in the arse," he said.

"That's true, I'm afraid," I said.

"Well, so am I," he said. "So we should get on fine." He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. "Lawrence Ealing. Come on in."

He led me upstairs to Jo's writing room. She was splayed out on the floor, blood clotted on her long blonde hair. I grimaced. "What have you got so far?"

He flipped through a small notebook. "Bullet wound through the skull, but no bullet and no sign of the weapon. Also—"

I suddenly heard the strains of heavy metal music. Turning around, I noticed a group of young men in grungy black shirts and shredded leather pants jamming away on dilapidated instruments.

"I cut myself cuz you don't love me,

Despair is my knife.

If only you weren't so far above me,

I could have a happy life.

Despair! Despair! Despair!"

I covered my ears against the high-pitched growls that passed as vocalization. "Did you let them in?" I asked.

"No," Ealing said. "They were already here when the police got here."

"Hey!" I shouted. "Did you all see anything?"

They paused mid-screech and turned to me. "Shit, lady," the guitarist said. "All I know is we were jamming in Mace's garage, and then we were here with this corpseola."

"And that didn't strike you as odd?" I asked, my eyebrows raised slightly.

"Hey, can't stop the music, man," he said. "Plus, I mean, we're on crazy-ass amounts of drugs, y'know, heroin, meth, LDS. No, wait, LSD. LCD? Whatever makes you see colored lights and weird shit like that."

"Well, that could be LSD or LCD, but I think you mean LSD," I said.

"Right," he said. "So I've seen weirder, and anyway, it's probably just a trip and all."

"Probably so," I said. Although I knew they had to have gotten into Jo's house somehow, their brains obviously weren't up to the task of figuring out how. I turned back to Ealing. "What else?"

"Well, there's a scorch mark on her chest," he said. "But again, no weapon. And this is strange too. Look at this."

He pointed to the head wound, which was covered with a stringy, sticky substance. I sniffed delicately. "Spearmint," I said. "That's…" I had a nagging feeling that I knew what this meant, and that it was trouble, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

My mobile rang. I looked at the number: Saturday. "What is it?" I asked.

"The 'Net's going crazy," she said. "Someone leaked a copy of Jo's manuscript."

"What? Who would have done that? Who even could have?"

"I don't know—inside job, maybe, or a hacker. Anyway, I'm wondering if it wasn't one of the fan groups who did her in. I mean, some people weren't happy with where it was going—the pro-Pures, the Harmonians…"

"In my mind, I go over the rainbow

Where the puppies fly,

Where the puppies die,

Cuz everything dies,

Even over the rainbow."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that last bit," I said, covering my ears against the sudden influx of amplified dissonance.

"Is that Agony?" Saturday asked excitedly.

"Sure feels like it," I said, wincing.

"No, I mean that's them, that's Agony! Playing 'Reality Over the Rainbow.' Are they over there right now? Seriously, they're like my favorite band! You are so lucky, you know that?"

"Band… of course! Call you back, Sat!" I hung up and turned to Ealing excitedly. "I think I know what happened here. I've seen this before. It's a mispeling vyrus. Very early stages. But two people were here: one with a gun and one with a wand. After being misspelled, the gun became gum, and the wand became a band. That's why you can't find the weapons!"

"But then… you're implying…"

"Yes, I think a fictional character was in some way involved. Or someone who has been in the fictional world enough to bring the infection with him or her."

Ealing looked at me sympathetically. "Look, Ms. Next, I appreciate that you're trying to help. But I think you want to help, you want to solve the death of your friend, and so you're seeing things that aren't there. I think that even if fiction had that power over reality once, it doesn't anymore." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Look, we'll get to the bottom of this. Leave it to us."

Over the years, I'd learned better than to argue with well-meaning people hopelessly mired in their own limited view of the world. "All right," I said. "But do you mind if I look through Jo's manuscript before I go? Just to see if there's anything helpful there?"

"Of course," Ealing said. "It's right there on her computer. Just… don't give me any spoilers, all right?"

"No problem," I said. I dialed Saturday's mobile number. "Sat, find the manuscript and read your way in. I'll meet you in the Great Hall."

I double-clicked on the manuscript and began reading. Within seconds, I had jumped straight into Hogwart's.

-----

The scene at the Great Hall could only be described as anarchic. Students, witches and wizards gathered, along with centaurs, unicorns, giants and house elves. Everyone was talking loudly and worriedly. I scanned the room, looking for someone who might be in charge. I missed the days when Miss Havisham would pop in and take over. But I'd done all right for myself in all the years since. Still, she had a certain flair I could never quite duplicate.

"What are you doing?" asked a bushy-haired girl suspiciously. "Everybody knows you can't apparate inside Hogwart's." She held her wand at ready.

"I didn't apparate, Hermione," I said. "I read in. I'm an Outlander."

"Oh, well, that's different then," she said, tucking her wand back into the sleeve of her robe. "Can't be too careful, though, especially after what's happened."

"I understand," I said. "How's everybody taking it? By the way, I'm Thursday Next."

"A pleasure, Ms. Next," Hermione said. "Well, you can see everyone's concerned. We're afraid of being salvaged or reduced to text—I mean, I know the books are best-sellers and all, but no one's safe really, are they?"

"I suppose not," I said.

"Of course, now we don't know how the story will turn out," Hermione said, biting her lip apprehensively. "So a lot of people have started getting their own ideas…"

I heard a voice from an area where several students had gathered. "Well, bugger all, I don't see why we shouldn't have an orgy, if only to pass the time," said a tall red-haired boy.

An athletic Gryffindor girl smirked at him. "Right then, go ahead and get naked."

"Ladies first," he said.

"Absolutely," said another identical boy. "We're nothing if not chivalrous."

"Chivalrous, right." She rolled her eyes. "Any more knightly bullshit and you're getting another bludger to the head."

Another voice caught my ear. This one came from a corner, and it had a sensuous, serpentine tone to it. "Naturally, Ms. Rowling intended that I win the final battle," a cloaked figure said. "You've noticed, of course, her more sympathetic portrayal of me as the books progressed… I had her within my grasp, and this had to happen."

"I think V-Voldemort's a bit daft, frankly," Hermione whispered. "Of course, everyone's feeling the pressure."

"OF ALL THE TIMES FOR J.K. ROWLING TO DIE!" shouted a dark-haired young wizard with a distinctive lightning-shaped scar. He stormed down the stairs, and everyone scuttled out of his way as he paced across the Great Hall, his robes streaming behind him. "SIX YEARS OF GROWTH AND TRIALS AND EVERYONE I LOOK UP TO DYING, AND FOR WHAT? WHY DIDN'T SHE JUST LEAVE ME IN THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS? THAT INSENSITIVE BITCH!"

"How do you think I feel?" yelled a red-haired boy in ratty robes. "No one even noticed me for four years except as your friend! And now I'm right back to nothing! Bloody hell!"

"SHUT UP! NO ONE SUFFERS AS MUCH AS I DO!"

"I hope you're getting a good view of your arse, because it looks like your head's stuck there!"

"Ron! Harry!" Hermione shouted as the two began punching each other. "Excuse me," she said hastily. "I'd better… Boys! Honestly!"

Saturday appeared suddenly, right in the middle of the fight. Ron pushed Harry into her, nearly knocking her over, but neither he nor Harry seemed to notice. Saturday picked herself up with a grin and waved to me. I hurried over to her.

"Well," she said. "Looks like I got here just in time."

"I expected you earlier," I said. "I was beginning to worry."

"Well, I haven't done this as often as you have," she said with a hint of irritation. "Besides, I'm a slow reader."

"Never mind," I said. "We just need to get this mess straightened up. If we're lucky, there's already someone here from Jurisfiction; if not, I'll have to footnoterphone Text Grand Central and get someone over here."

Saturday nodded briskly and looked over the room, appraising the situation. I could tell she was trying not to get too overwhelmed, or to squeal any time she saw one of her favorite characters. In the meantime, it looked like no one was in any hurry to stop the brawl between Harry and Ron, which left it up to me.

"Jurisfiction!" I shouted at them. "Stop what you're doing and put your hands behind your head!" They didn't seem to hear me. Either that or I didn't quite inspire mortal terror like I used to.

A tall, pale man with stringy black hair grabbed Harry and Ron by the ears. "Fighting? Fifty points from Gryffindor. And, I think, another seventy for failing to heed an order from Jurisfiction." He released them roughly. "If you cause any more trouble, I will put in an extermination request with Text Grand Central. Barring that, I'll take an eraserhead to you myself."

The two grumbled and ambled away. The man turned to me. "My apologies," he said. "I'm Severus Snape. I'm a Jurisfiction agent as well. I regret you arrived to find things so… out of hand."

"I've seen worse," I assured him. "Anyway, that's not really why I'm here. I found evidence suggesting Jo—I mean, J.K. Rowling—was murdered by someone with ties to the fictional world."

Snape's jaw tightened. "A serious accusation, Agent…?"

"Next," I said. "Thursday Next. And I know. That's why my daughter Saturday and I are here to investigate."

"Very well. I shall assist you, assuming a quid pro quo."

"Naturally," I said. I knew he was too proud to ask for help containing the situation, but I could tell he needed it. This was a difficult situation under the best of circumstances, and Snape couldn't have been a Jurisfiction agent for very long. "If you could just get everyone's attention?"

Snape nodded and shot a flurry of white sparks up with his wand. Everyone turned toward him. Gathering all the confidence I could muster, I addressed the crowd. "As you all know, your author has died. But what you might not know is that she was murdered, probably by someone with ties to the Outland."

Shocked murmurs greeted my pronouncement. "I know it's shocking," I said. "But that does mean that while the crime is under investigation, the books are safe from salvage. And once we find the murderer, it's possible we'll know the plot the murderer was trying to sabotage by killing the author. And then we'll have an ending."

Spontaneous bursts of applause came from a few sections of the room. "I can't guarantee it'll be published," I said. "But at least you'll have an idea of what it is. You'll have a future. So if I can enlist your cooperation, it's in everyone's best interest. Are you with me?"

I heard several yeses; not an overwhelming plurality, but at least most of the characters seemed calmer and less apt to riot. "Good," I said. "Bring any information to me, to Professor Snape, or to Saturday, the girl with the blue hair. I promise we'll get to the bottom of this. Jo was a good friend and a good writer. You all deserve the truth, at least."

I stepped down, and everyone resumed their activities. The room seemed to take on a more serious tone. Saturday walked up to me. "Just one thing you seem to have forgotten," she said. "What are we going to tell Dad?"

I had forgotten about Landen, and it pricked at my conscience. When he was eradicated for three years, I swore to myself I'd never forget him. But the book world was as much my life as Landen was, and with SO-27 shutting down, this might be my last chance to do any good for the written world.

"We'll send him a note so he doesn't worry," I said. I hugged Saturday, much to her annoyance. "And we're going to tell him… it's girl's night out."