The Quidditch pitch was alive with chattering, giggly fanwriters when Ally took her seat on one of the lower benches. Ever since the previous day’s announcement of the ‘Truth or Dare’ reward, the whole student populace had been discussing what they wanted to dare the Canon Characters to do. Hermione8meg was going on incessantly about skinny-dipping, but knowing that just about anything involving too much skin or too much physical contact would be nixed by the staff, Ally doubted that such a thing would come to pass.

“Welcome to the Mini-Aragog Paintball League—Extreme final match of the season!” boomed Lee Jordan across the field. “We’ve had a long year, and some creative substitutes for the actual matches, but HFA is proud to present: HARRY POTTER!”

Harry Potter and five Mini-Aragogs ran onto the field, all wearing (or dyed) a violent shade of “death to the retinas” red.

“And his greatest foe, in bookverse, movieverse, or HFA: LORD... YOU-KNOW-WHO!” finished Ludo Bagman, failing to get out the Dark Lord’s name. Lord Voldemort ran onto the field, dressed in a greenish turquoise and accompanied by Tom Riddle, LVJ, and his five Mini-Aragogs.

As the ten spiders squared off at each other with their paintball cannons fixed firmly onto their backs (loaded with the last of HFA’s seemingly endless supply of Tantaflaf), Ally realized that Mini-Aragog paintball wasn’t that bad if you weren’t on buffer-duty. Or set to go on buffer-duty. Or aware that you might be put on buffer-duty.

“And there they go, Hary, Garrt, Harr, Hurry, and Hayree, ready to do business to the Lord... Thingy... team, of Voldermort, Voldemord, Vuldemort, Voldemart, and Voldermolt!” announced Lee Jordan. “And here comes our referee, who volunteered for this treacherous duty all by herself: Dolores Umbridge!”

A herd of centaurs standing around the edge of the field pitched Umbridge onto the field. Her bulging eyes were snapping with fury, but Bane swished his tail and Umbridge stomped off onto the middle of the pitch to take her place. Overhead, Elessor, Giligad, and Leoglas the Mini-Balrogs winged their way around the stadium.

“And they begin! Here’s Voldermort and Vuldemort taking a quick offensive—erg! I wouldn’t have wanted to’ve been Garrt just then, oh, but Potter’s name-mistakes are retaliating, look at that Tantaflaf fly! Voldemart’s taken a hit to the head! Or is that his body? Does anyone really know?”

Ally laughed as Hurry paused from his chase to lob a ball of Tantaflaf at Professor Umbridge. It seemed that in the past three days Umbridge had taken her place with Peter Pettigrew on the “Most Despised Characters of Potterverse” list.

“And Hayree’s off again, going for Voldermolt, but look at that! Look at that! He’s been triple-hit by Voldermort! Now, Voldermort’s a very powerful Mini-Aragog, you see him in a lot of stories, and I mean a lot. Right up there with Hermoine, but—Oh, this is new... Vuldemort’s gone and latched himself onto Harr’s back, he’s spinning a web, and—I don’t believe it! He’s yo-yoing Harr back and forth across the pitch! What a low blow! What a comedown!” said Lee Jordan, his voice filled with disappointment.

On the Voldemort sidelines, the senior Dark Lord cackled fiendishly, performing his trademark “Happy Dance” while Tom Riddle sulked nearby. Harry Potter was waving furiously to Garrt and Hayree to rescue their comrade, but both were indisposed with Voldermolt and Voldemord, respectively.

“The hit-tally is going up! Remember, folks, once they hit one hundred the match is over—here’s eighty-four, eighty-five... If Harry Potter doesn’t hurry up, Lord... Thingy... is going to have him; come on, Harry...” chanted Bagman.

In a burst of eight spidery legs, Harr threw off Vuldemort’s bindings and leapt at the turquoise spider. There was a brief tussle, and Harr bolted down the field, Vuldemort right behind him (“at his heels” would be the best way to describe it, but considering the anatomy of Mini-Aragogs...).

“Oh, here’s Hary, Hurry, and Garrt going in with a Hawkshead Attack formation, we’ve seen that before, haven’t we? Look at that, Voldemord’s blown away, the hit-tally’s rising! Potter’s got up to seventy! But will You-Know-Who beat him to one hundred? He’s at ninety-four, Lord... Thingy... is!” Lee Jordan exclaimed.

Never before had the Mini-Aragogs fought so viciously. Usually the time limit of one hour ended the game, but with Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort the point cut-off might just be the deciding factor. Ally didn’t know how one could go from just fighting a battle with fanfiction renegades to paintball games, but it occurred to her that the spiders might have a lot of pent-up rage after their tenure in Bob the Builder‒verse.

“I don’t think Potter’s going to pull out of this one, but, oh! Wicked repeated splat! Voldermolt’s down for the game! Watch out, Umbridge, I wouldn’t go near him when he’s hurt like that... Oh, too late. Neck and neck, You-Know-Who’s up to ninety-seven, but Potter’s got ninety-one... Come on, Harry Potter!” urged Lee Jordan.

Lucius Malfoy leaned over and said quite clearly into the megaphone, “You’re not to be taking sides, boy.” After a pause he said, “Go, Master!”

Then the stadium erupted in a roar of disappointment, glee, or enthusiasm, depending upon which Canon Character one was supporting. Some of the fanwriters around Ally sighed, others laughed happily. A brass cup made of Selaria was carried out onto the field, where it was eagerly claimed by the winning Mini-Aragogs.

And Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, and LVJ had permanent grins on their faces for the rest of the school year.

*********

“Well, I guess you can’t win them all,” consoled Hermione, passing Harry a bottle of Butterbeer. “It was a good game, though.”

“Yes, very exciting; did you see when Voldermolt hit Umbridge? Ha! That was the best,” said Ron Weasley. The Whinging Scab was packed to full capacity, with bottles and bottles of Butterbeer and other beverages stacked on top of each other on every table.

Harry shrugged, patting Hayree on the head. “I’d rather lose at this than in the story,” said the youngest Potter. Ever since his release from the Canon Bunker, Harry had been downcast and a bit apathetic. But then again, no one could really blame him.

“‘Dare Oliver Wood to go skinny-dipping with his favorite fan, Hermione8meg’,” read Salsa, picking the piece of paper out of the Goblet of Fire.

“Denied,” said Shadowphyre.

“Next,” said Klose.

“‘Truth: is Sevvie in “luv” with anyone?’” read Salsa.

“Passable,” said Shadowphyre. “Put it near the back for the use of the word ‘luv’. And I had so thought we had stamped that out of them,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

“What’ve you got there, Meir?” asked Klose as Meir Brin bit the end of her quill, staring at a piece of parchment.

“List of possible ECGs,” she said, scratching off a name and scribbling in something above it. “Do you think twenty will be enough?”

“Should be. We won’t have a Canon shift coming up,” replied Klose thoughtfully. “Have anyone in mind for the head?”

“Yes,” said Meir Brin. “I think I’ve narrowed it down sufficiently.” She took a swig of Butterbeer and went back to her list, boots propped up on one of the small circular tables.

Salsa sputtered and turned white. “‘We want to see Remus shirtless’. It’s signed by the whole of Lusterbuff house. Oh, and here’s one for Draco, too... Black leather?”

“The Elves in Black must have given them that idea. Tried to convert Dobby to the cause as well, from what I hear. He was overjoyed, but the rest of the house-elves... Well, you know how they feel about clothing,” said Shadowphyre. “Better go ask Lucius about it before we say anything definite.”

Salsa nodded, still shaking her head. The Goblet of Fire spit out another small strip of parchment. “‘Dare Ron to...’” Salsa gulped. “For the sake of my sanity, that’s out. Oh, flaming fangirls... Is that...? Filch...?”

Argus Filch walked into the bar. The Ironic Over-power woke up and grinned down at the thunderstruck denizens of HFA. Klose sputtered and choked on her drink, while Fred and George simultaneously ducked under a table. Meir Brin, balanced on the back legs of her chair, looked up and promptly fell over backwards in shock.

“What’s the big fuss?” snarled Filch, cracking the whip in his hand. A snide look of satisfaction crossed his unshaven face. He smirked. “You think I’m sexy...” he said, displaying crooked teeth. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

With one hand over her eyes, Hermione Granger stood up slowly and took Filch’s arm, leading him away from the gathering. “It’s not that we don’t like you, Mr. Filch,” she began tentatively. “It’s just that... some people should not wear black leather...”