Author’s Note: Thanks to Molly W for the idea of the Brit Test. Do you think you would pass if you were to take it now?

---

The Lusterbuffs entered the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning, looking as if none of them had gotten any sleep whatsoever. Ashura Rowena Dumbledore was clutching at her head, and Stephanie Brown was humming something under her breath, while Mirild Sket seemed to be driven insane by the noise.

“What happened?” asked Ally, as The Shroom sat down behind her.

“House-elves,” muttered The Shroom, sinking her head down onto the table. “The House-Elf Recording Artists Association... It was serenading us all night long...”

Stephanie Brown sat down next to The Shroom. “Chumdeleida la la la, Chumdeleidalalala, Chumdeleida de...”

“What?” Was Stephanie Brown just using nonsense words? A spell, perhaps? The tune was oddly catchy. Ally elbowed Kellie Owens next to her and pointed at Stephanie. Kellie Owens shrugged and returned to her cereal at the Canonlaw table.

“It’s the house-elf work song. I can’t get it out of my head,” Stephanie Brown apologized, noticing their perplexed glances as she dropped a slice of toast onto her plate. “They sang it all night.”

“Who made it up? That annoying elf, what’s his name, Dibby? He never used words like that in the book...”

“Maybe it’s one of those spells, you know, like Tantaflaf,” suggested Molly W, rather loudly. Everyone in the Great Hall heard and went silent.

At the Lusterbuff table, an author got to her feet, screamed, and ran from the Hall shrieking, “IT’S MY FAULT! IT’S ALL MY FAULT!”

“Ah, the sound of fangirl in the morning,” said someone by in the doorway. Meir Brin was awake.

*********

“I have some good news, and I have some bad news,” continued Meir Brin. “The good news is that Remus Lupin has been deemed ‘mentally stable’ by Madam Pomfrey.” There was a sigh of relief from the Canon Characters, and an excited squeal from the fanwriters. “The bad news for you fangirls is that it has come to my attention to add another course to the curriculum.”

A groan from the fanwriters.

“Classes have been canceled for this morning. Fanwriters will report to the front lawn immediately. Follow Mr. Filch.”

Argus Filch cackled in the Entrance Hall. “Yes, Noriss, my pretty Mini-Aragog, we shall inflict dreadful punishings... Bwahahahaha...”

Meir Brin smiled as the fanwriters got up to leave apprehensively. Argus Filch had that effect on people.

A large number of desks had been set up on the front lawn. It was the only place large enough to hold all of the students. When the group had been seated, Meir Brin took the megaphone and began with instructions.

“This is an exam to test your knowledge of British English. If you pass, you will be exempted from ‘Tea and Crumpets: British for Dummies’. Fail, and Professor Binns will have the great pleasure of having you in his class.” Meir Brin smiled fiendishly at their looks of horror. Binns was notoriously boring. “Part one: Translate this paragraph into British English. Part two: Spell these words, as they would be in Britain. Part three: Essay. Explain why the Weasley family would never, ever celebrate Thanksgiving. You have two hours. Commence.”

There was a furious scrambling to find quills and ink, and then the fanwriters began. Meir Brin leaned back in the office chair that Lockheart had kindly dragged outside. After forty minutes, Dimond got up and handed in her test, looking quite pleased.

Meir Brin opened the booklet and looked inside. Ginny Weasley had created the exam, and would be correcting the papers, but Meir Brin was curious to see how the students had done.

Part One: I put on my blue-colored raincoat and hopped into the truck. The shops on the right side of the road were splashed as we went through the town. We passed an old man selling fish sticks and French fries, and then found the lawyer’s office in the center of town. He explained how we could market every flavor of breakfast pastry if we wanted, but the bottom line was that we sell over twenty-five dollars a day.

Dimond had written:

I put on my blue-coloured macintosh and hopped into the lorry. The shops on the left side of the road were splashed as we went through the village. We passed an elderly chap selling fish and chips, then found the solicitor’s office in the centre of town. He explained how we could market every flavour of crumpet if we wanted, but at the end of the day we had to sell over _ pounds per day.

It looks good so far, thought Meir Brin. She placed the test on the stack and waited for the rest of the fangirls to finish.

Meir Brin must have dozed off in the sun. When she woke up, a stack of papers several feet high was teetering precociously to her left and something was tugging at her boot.

“Wha? Oh, the Marauders,” said Meir Brin, adjusting her spectacles.

Strange things often happened at HFA when words were misspelled. Witness the creation of the Mini-Aragogs, or the “u” and “ur” rock garden that Professor Trelawney was cultivating on the eastern slope of the lawn. In the case of the Marauders, however, words had created life.

They were green, resembling a bathroom fungus that had grown too large and simply walked away. Each was about two feet high, with little brown sacks over their heads and black masks with tiny eyeholes punched through them. They were the M-Squad, the Marauders.

Maruader1, with little wolf fangs, was lounging idly on the grass, picking at his teeth with a comma. Maurader2 was rubbing his rat-like tail and avoiding Maurderer3, who had little dog-ears and enjoyed chasing Maurader2. Maurauder4, the leader, had jumped up to sit on Meir Brin’s desk, and had sunlight glinting off his tiny deer antlers.

“There was a fangirl in Aerobics Lair,” said Maurauder4, holding up the shredded remains of a Gryffindor banner.

“Was it intentional? I thought Aerobics Lair was fortified with repelling charms? And do any of the fanwriters even know what Aerobics Lair is?” Meir Brin took the banner and noticed it had been folded into a headscarf.

“Secrecy!” called Maruader1, looking up from his dental hygiene. “Code names!”

“Sorry,” Meir Brin said, combing her memory for the secret phrases. “I though Aerobics Lair was infested with cottage cheese, and do any of the Rabid Burritos even Macarena the Aerobics Lair?”

Maurader2 looked up hungrily. “Cottage cheese?”

“Food later. Anyway, did you capture them? ... Sorry, I mean, are the Rabid Burritos dipped in fondue?”

Maurauder4 looked uneasy (well, as uneasy as sentient jelly could look). “No. We sent the Durselys after them, they’re better trackers than we are, but... Aerobics Lair is the most fortified place in the school! If they can break into the staff wing... We’re all in trouble...”