It was dark when Ally crawled out of bed that Wednesday morning. Lightning lashed its forked tongue outside through the blizzard, casting bizarre shadows through the curtains of her four-poster bed. Ally moaned and rubbed her back, looking to see if any of the other girls in her dorm were awake. Nope, still sleeping.

It’s okay... If I don’t think about... it...

She padded down the stairs into the Canonlaw (or Ravenclaw, for those purely interested in the architectural layout of Hogwarts) common room, and checked over her Bane of Filch essay one last time. Fred and George had been teaching them how slapstick comedy resulted in the ideal prank, and had demonstrated this by causing Terra to grow antlers, then fins, then gills, all in slow motion. Ally shuddered inwardly. Were all the classes meant to cause panic to the students?

Stupid! cried Ally mentally. You know that the classes are meant to be painful! Shut up! Do you want the Ironic Over-power after you?

The Ironic Over-power, which had been previously hovering next to Ally with two fingers in its mouth with which to summon Peeves, turned away and snapped its fingers dejectedly. There cannot be irony if the victim already knows that there will be irony.

“G’morning,” said Molly W, coming down from the dorms. “Is there any cocoa left?”

“Confiscated by Ron Weasley for ‘Numeric Mesopotamian Field Study’.”

“Coffee?”

“The Mini-Aragogs learned what power caffeine has over sugar-high’d authors and took it to run experiments on.”

“Tea?”

“The Bloody Baron stole it to woo Moaning Myrtle with.”

“Orange juice?!”

“Penelope Ross used the last bit up trying to make Alka-Seltzer and polish that toaster of hers.”

“Water?!”

“Do you want to create a Punctuation Downpour?!” cried Ally.

Molly W clapped a hand over her mouth and clutched at her useless wand.

Ally bent back over her Bane of Filch essay and replied, “But no, there is no water left. Europa needed the last bit after Brin made her work with the HERAA. You know, the House-Elf Recording Artist Association.”

Molly W looked concerned and sat down next to Ally. “What’s that all about?”

“Europa tried to sneak into the Headmistress’ office and, you know, the Mini-Aragogs caught her,” said Ally, putting her quill back into her book bag. “So Brin looked through her student records and it said ‘singing with Elves’...”

Molly W put a hand over her mouth. “Chumdeleidalalala...”

Ally nodded. “I only just got away.”

It was then that Andtauriel Longwood came down the stairs, having abandoned her stilts after Nevil the Mini-Aragog had tripped her while running to The Commitment of Evilness. “Is it time for class?” she yawned, climbing into the chair next to them.

“No, we’ve got an hour before breakfast,” replied Molly W, checking the luminous chronometer hanging from the ceiling. Percy Weasley had installed one in every common room to ensure that no one was ever late to class. “But wait, Ally, you were there? I heard the Lusters United disbanded?”

“No, this wasn’t an L.U. thing. Everyone just wants to get a hold of Book Five, so...”

“Did you get it?” asked Andtauriel, her squeaky house-elf voice rising even higher.

“No.” Ally hung her head and jutted her chin out angrily. “Europa was caught, Eibbor Nakrus left before we could move in for the theft, and I...”

“Yes?” prompted Andtauriel.

Ally shook her head in the manner of one trying to lose a mental image. “I got dragged off to Rawling’s lair, and that little Mini-Aragog didn’t make me read eons of Bad Harry Potter/Severus Snape slash!”

*********

An aura of impeding doom hung over Aerobics Lair, the HFA staff section. Actually, it wasn’t impending doom, as the trouble had already occurred. And it really wasn’t an aura either, more like a light mist that waited in the back of everyone’s mind, whispering, “You’ll be next... Bring me soda...” In any case, the Canon Characters were sorely distressed, and that fact was immediately obvious to Meir Brin when she walked into the Aerobics Lair with Lockheart and Elessor.

Incense was burning somewhere, and Professor Trelawney was holding a “spiritual group prayer resuscitation séance.” Fred and George Weasley were selling protective talismans to Gilderoy Lockhart, while Rita Skeeter wept on the couch next to him.

“We may never see each other again!” she cried, sobbing on Gilderoy’s shoulder.

The fraudulent wizard patted her back awkwardly. “Of course we will. I’m just going to the dentist’s.”

About four yards away Mr. and Mrs. Granger prepared a gruesome shot of Novocaine.

“Gilderoy... Please don’t leave me! It might... get me, too... I feel so much safer with you here, and your Five-Time Winning Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile!”

Lockhart smiled. “This attack on Miss Granger will be the last, I know it will! I’m the author of Break with a Banshee, after all!”

Rita sniffed and wiped her nose on Gilderoy’s shoulder. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Gilderoy shrugged. “I thought it sounded nice.”

Meir Brin shook her head. Miss Granger had been attacked? By what? Surely not a fanwriter. And the Basilisk was wearing sunglasses, so it couldn’t be that. She quickened her step and turned a corner into the second corridor of Aerobics Lair.

Now there was the problem. Canon Characters were milling about, some with masks held to their faces. Harry and Ron were nowhere to be seen, but Ginny Weasley was slumped next to a pillar, looking as if she might cry.

“What is going on here?” asked Meir Brin, coming to a halt in front of the group. Elessor spread his wings behind her flew off in search of bacon.

Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang both stood forward, detaching themselves from the group. “It’s Hermione,” sobbed Cho. Cedric gripped her hand tightly. “Hermione has Vambiolaria.”

Meir Brin blinked. That was easily fixed. “Where’s Professor Snape? Why don’t we have any Kuswort being brewed?”

Snape was pushed out of the crowd, most likely by a sniggering Sirius Black. He straightened his robes irritably and frowned when Salazar the kitten rubbed against his leg, purring. The Canon Characters laughed collectively, though it was a bit forced. Severus growled and grabbed the kitten, sticking it in his pocket so that only Salazar’s tail poked out. “There is no Kuswort left. It is best cultivated naturally, and we can hardly grow it with the weather as it is,” said Snape, gesturing to the thunderstorm-blizzard outside.

“Can we try—” Meir Brin was cut off by a loud creaking sound. The denizens of Potterverse turned to look at the open door.

“Hermione...” whispered Neville Longbottom. “She’s back...”

There was a pause for dramatic artistry. Draco tapped his foot impatiently on the stone floor, saying, “We’re waiting...” But they did not have to wait long.

Standing in the doorframe was Hermione, except that it wasn’t Hermione at all. She was taller, thinner, and had been transformed into a flawless beauty. Viktor Krum, standing next to the door, glowered at the Canon Characters ogling his girlfriend. Hermione wavered on the threshold, then threw herself into the arms of...

Unfortunately, that thought must remain unfinished, as Hermione never actually made it into anyone’s arms. She was intercepted by a solid smack to the head of Klose’ Selaria cricket bat. “I’m very sorry,” said the Sue-Dispatcher to Hermione-Sue. “But it’s my job.”

“As I was saying,” continued Meir Brin, “could we not try growing Kuswort in the greenhouses?”

“S’worth h’a try,” offered Hagrid. “Are yer up fer h’it, Professor Sprout?”

The short witch with the flyaway hair walked forward and nodded at the half-giant. “Of course. Come, we’ll start right now.”

Twenty minutes later, Hagrid, Professor Sprout, and Meir Brin were huddled in Greenhouse Two, attempting to plant the frozen Kuswort spores.

“Bloody fan-created spell,” cursed Professor Sprout as the fifth spore exploded into vomit-smelling mist. “FCSes are getting far to numerous, and I doubt we’ll ever be rid of them.”

“May’ap if we put ’em in th’ dirt before usin’ th’ dragon dung fertilizer,” suggested Hagrid, dropping a handful of spores into a pot and shoving in some mud and dung. There was a bang and the pot imploded upon itself. “An’ maybe not,” conceded Hagrid.

“Perhaps you could just leave some in your compost heap and see if they’d germinate on their own?” asked Meir Brin, waving her cloak back and forth to try and clear the barf-smelling mist.

Hagrid was confused. “An’ how would tha’ help? Th’ mandrakes ’ud jus’ get ’em!” He pointed to the soundproof wall that had been installed on the far side of the greenhouse. Inside, the Mandrake Family (think The Osbournes, only less drugged and more mischievous) were arguing over when the Hose Elf was next going to attempt escape. The small garden gnomish–elf creature was currently gazing longingly through the Bubotubers, as if saying “kill me now...”

Meir Brin shrugged and sat back down on the icy-cold greenhouse bench. Hagrid and Professor Sprout bustled over the gardening trolley, speaking in whispers. Every so often the coordinator would hear bits such as “Th’ pods aren’t ready fer cuttin’, though,” and “Pass me those fangirl-hide gloves.” Interspersed with this, of course, were small bangs, pops, and at one point a very nasty rendition of “Frosty the Snowman.” Kuswort spores seemed to be rather creative in how they tormented those trying to plant them.

Forty minutes later, Meir Brin was absentmindedly banging her head against the glass wall and wondering if Hermione-Sue had revived and/or seduced the whole of HFA’s male staff. “Are we done yet?”

There was no reply. Suddenly, Meir Brin was aware of a change in the air around the gardeners.

“Oooo!”

“Ahhh!”

“Preetty...”

Meir Brin blinked and looked over her shoulder at Hagrid and Professor Sprout. Miniature silent fireworks were exploding in the air above the table. “Is this... what’s supposed to happen?” she asked.

The answer was clearly “No.” Four minutes later, Hagrid and Sprout were in the midst of a drug-induced hallucination, and Meir Brin had to use the Mini-Aragog whistle to call the spiders and remove the two professors from the noxious Kuswort fumes.

Grumbling about accursed Vambiolaria, the HFA coordinator stomped back up to the castle, wondering if the dratted Mary Sue disease would wear off on its own. Knowing the Ironic Over-power, it probably wouldn’t.

And it was in that occupied state of mind that Meir Brin made a great mistake. Leaving Kuswort with the Mandrake Family was like setting suet out for finches: they were drawn to it. Thus the HFA staff was not aware of the wild narcotic party held in Greenhouse Two that evening until the Mandrake Family broke through the glass of their greenhouse and put several fanwriters into a coma with their yells.