"Why can't we eat in that fucking office, it's not like anyone is going to complain!" Henry thought while angrily chewing on his apple. It was his fourth month working as an unspeakable in the Departement of Mysteries; after the excitment of the first weeks, finally realising the dream he had worked so much for, he entered in somewhat of a routine.

"What do you think you're doing?" hissed a voice behind his back, interrupting his inner monologue. "It's 8:01 you should already be working! Come on now, get a grip of yourself young man!". After a few mumbled apologies to his boss, he jog discretly to the time section, where he was working today.

After a few minutes of standing in front of the unlocked door, his boredom increasing by the second, he noticed a big wooden panel above it, where was written "Si autem occidere tempore, et bene nobis facit". Whatever the fuck that meant, he quickly came to the realisation that his instructor was nowhere to be found, probably trying to sleep off his hungover, Henry thought unsurprised.

As he entered the room, he realised that he was alone in it. Before his very eyes, stood hundreds of rows of gold necklaces, from which hung tiny golden hourglasses. On top of each thin chain, there was a date, a year to be exact. He kept on walking, bewildered at all this time, the only challenge left for humanity, no one could fight time, he remembered as he started thinking about a muggle movie he saw where time was the equivalent of money, and that was just so interesting; maybe he should watch it again... The door opening, interrupting his thoughts for the second time this morning, surprised Henry so much, that he made the chain under year 1960 fall. As he panicked, he could properly visualise Mr. Manson firing him, he knew he wasn't supposed to be in here, neverthless touching anything. His hands were shaking, sweating even; he tried to pick up the necklace as quickly as he could when he heard a little click coming from what he was holding. Last thing he knew, he felt like the world and his own body were being sucked inside his belly button.

He wanted to throw up. That was his first thougt, he was on a sideway, probably muggle side of London if he recognised the streets. He needed to travel back as fast as he could, but where..? Henry spotted a narrow alley across the street, discreet enough so he could disappear unnoticed. Now he was properly panicking, and as he walked over to the spot, he was submerged by anxiety and started to talk fastly to himself "Oh sweet Merlin I'm in sooooo much shit, I'm gonna get fired, what am I going to work as ? Lord knows I can't do shit I," he was paused in his whining by a hard crush against his body, the breaking of glass and some kind of liquid, which he was now droused in; milk?

"Can't you watch where you're going!? How am I going to do my delivery now heh? Stupid boy, get out of my sight now! Come on, move!" Now the poor milk seller was screaming for real. Without a second thought, Henry almost literally fled to the place he spotted and travelled back. He didn't know that he wouldn't be fired and would spend the rest of the day worrying about nothing, what he also didn't know was that Mr. Rogers, the milkman he encoutered would go home, to his wife and not do his delivery, after all, there wasn't anything to deliver anymore.

If there is something that neither of them knew, is that on this third day of october 1960, Mr. Rogers was supposed to do his delivery in another city, he would linger all day, then he would finish his evening in a bar where he would drink a bit. He would then drive back home at night and hit another car and die in the accident, his wife would cry a lot, for him and the family he killed. In the oher car there would be a couple, engaged for two years, both wizards, travelling in a car because "Merlin you're pregnant, did you know that the baby could have hairy ears if we went with floo?". They should have both died, their first daughter should have never been born, neither did the second one they shouldn't have had and they should have never gotten a divorce a few years later, because they should have died that night.

If that's not a fucking perfect exemple of the Butterfly effect, I truly don't know what is.