Fender Blackorn liked to think of himself as a worldly, cynical person who had seen everything and didn’t care. He was incorrect, partly because wealthy suburbia is hardly everything, and no one who doesn’t care spends four hours each day trying to appear so.

It was very late in the evening when Fender sat down at his computer and clicked onto the Internet, intending to check his mail to see if his latest story (concerning the angst-ridden account of Professor Snape’s tortured childhood) had received any more rave reviews. Not that he really cared about reviews, he reassured himself. None of his readers would really understand that Fender was writing from experience, and that Professor Snape’s life was a mirror of his own. Yeah. Sure.

From: Oooie Ooie Snape’s My Cutie (anonymous)

Wow, that was lik soooo deep. Gotta see what SNape does when he finds oout that his puppy’s been run over by his own movin van. I luv ur story, u r such a good writr. Rite more soon

~Snapie’s Gurl

Fender rolled his eyes, trying not to look pleased. Of course he was a good writer, of course his stories had depth. He was, after all, the Deep Master of Fanfiction (a self-bestowed title). Adjusting his chair to be more comfortable, Fender was about to read the rest of his mail when something large and feathery alighted on his head.

“Yargh!” exclaimed the fanwriter, trying to swat the bird away and upsetting his chair in the process. The disgruntled teenager picked himself up and looked over at his computer, where sat a large horned owl, talons defiantly curled over his mouse.

“Who left a window open?” asked Fender to no one in particular, trying to swat the bird away. It wouldn’t budge, but instead dropped a heavy envelope that appeared from nowhere onto Fender’s lap.

“Definitely had too much pop and nachos at that party,” said Fender, wondering, as most do, if he were hallucinating. “I have a letter,” he said, voice somewhat higher than usual. After considering this for a moment, Fender changed his statement.

“I do not have a letter,” he said firmly, tossing the envelope into his trash can.

The owl chucked another envelope in his direction, this one beaning him on the top of his head. Fender started to say “Oww!”, but caught himself and tossed the second letter away. Then a third came, and a fourth. Then, it was a barrage of letters.

“Stop doing that!” screamed Fender as the twentieth envelope landed in his hand. He stood up, nearly tripping over his chair as he hurried out of the room. The owl, not to be deterred, flew after him. Fender had reached the foot of the stairs when the owl sent another envelope straight at the fanwriter. The letter zoomed through the air like a ninja throwing star, and impaled itself into the wall right beside Fender’s hand. But unlike the other envelopes of yellow parchment, this one was bright red.

Fender backed away. Smoking, the envelope tore itself open and formed a mouth.

FENDER BLACKORN,

AFTER IGNORING OUR FIRST TWENTY LETTERS, WE FELT THAT SOMETHING VOCAL MIGHT BE IN ORDER. YOUR FANFICTION IS TERRIBLE. YOU ARE CHARGED WITH MANGLING CHARACTERS TO SUIT YOUR OWN PURPOSE, AND FOR BLATANT DISREGARD OF CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. BAD FANWRITER. NO SOUP FOR YOU.

TO REMEDY SAID PROBLEM, YOU ARE HEREBY ENROLLED IN THE HOGWARTS FANFICTION ACADEMY (HFA). UPON GRADUATION YOU WILL BE PERMITTED TO WRITE ONCE MORE. THAT IS, IF YOU GRADUATE. PLEASE FILL OUT THE ATTACHED QUESTIONNAIRE SO THAT THE FACULTY AND STAFF OF HFA MAY ADEQUATELY CATER TO YOUR NEEDS AS A WRITER.

DISREGARD OF THIS NOTICE WILL RESULT IN A PERMANENT LISP HEX AND FOUR YEARS EXPLAINING WHY YOU DECIDED TO ATTEND SCHOOL DRESSED AS PEE-WEE HERMAN. HAVE A SPLENDID DAY.

SINCERELY,

MISS MEIR BRIN,
HFA COORDINATOR; NOT YOUR FRIEND

Whimpering slightly, Fender shakily took the envelope in his hands and opened it. A transcript of the Howler’s message was inside, complete with little side notes of his own actions in purple ink in the margins (“At this point, Fender started shaking”; “After this was said, Fender wanted his mommy”; and “When he heard this, Fender nearly wet himself”).

The persistent owl threw a pen at Fender’s head, just as the fanwriter came to a section filled with questions.

“Why do they want to know my preferred method of healing?” mumbled Fender as he bypassed a section full of jargon that seemed to make no sense whatsoever. (“In terms of quails, we will say that you are a quail. HFA reserves the right to do what is best for the quail community, such as confine the quail, penalize the quail, or remove the quail from the quail community. The sentinel spiders of HFA like roast quail with garlic.”)

The owl was looking at him again. Fender tried to edge away, but found a very sharp ballpoint pen nailing the hem of his jeans to the floor. Fender looked at the owl. The owl looked at Fender.

Fender really hoped that those nachos he had had hadn’t been ultra-barbecue or something, because hallucinations like the one he was having surely came with very large stomachaches the next day.

Tentatively, the fanwriter picked up one of the pens and sat down on the first step, not removing his eyes from the owl. Fender had never seen a live owl this close before. In fact, he couldn’t even recall if he had ever seen an owl before.

Fender really, really hoped that this was a bad dream.

Still, he was being forced to fill out the form. He scribbled his Internet handle, Fender Blackorn, onto the line that requested one’s name (he always referred to himself as that, mostly because only wussy people were called Herbert, even if it was their grandfather’s name), and continued down the list of questions.

There were many indeed, and most seemed to refer to Harry Potter in some way or the other. Fender was perfectly fine with that; he knew the books (even the fifth one) like the back of his hand. Whether he chose to incorporate this knowledge into his stories was another matter, but, then again, no one was perfect.

“Preferred ship?” wondered Fender. “What are they talking about?”

A cloud appeared over the parchment, looking like a Windows help menu as designed by medieval scribes. “Your ship is who you would like to see in the sack...” read Fender painstakingly. The text was quite small, and seemed to be in Olde Englishe font.

Well, he had always liked the idea of Snape and Hermione, and sometimes low-key Harry/Ron was quite good...

“Why am I even doing this?” asked Fender out loud, throwing the letters aside. The owl hooted ominously from Fender’s lintel. He had had it, this was just too ridiculous, entirely untrue, and he would wake up the next morning with a headache. Then he would bemoan the fact that a worldly person like himself had fallen victim to the common mistake of having too many nachos and Coke before bed.

The owl tsk tsked strangely, then fluttered down to the carpet where lay the discarded form. It was mostly filled out, so the owl picked it up in its claws and beak, then flew out the window. As soon as it had reached the open air, it vanished with a small pop, returning to the world from whence it had come.

It would appear a little while later in the Oedipus Inferno, the covert secret headquarters of the Order of the Sphinx, where the letter would be processed and carefully filed away by Rhiannon and Neshomeh. The owl, in turn, would return to the Owlery, where Hedwig and Crookshanks were scheduled to lead a seminar on how to recognize and dispose of Cute Animal Friends. Painfully. As in, with a screwdriver.

Fender, in the meantime, was able to fall asleep fully clothed on his bed for two hours of restless sleep. It was probably a good thing that he did sleep for those couple of hours, because he would never receive such rest in the year to come. It would be stretching it, though, to say that in the year to come he would never receive any rest, though, because such times would occur when Fender would be found lying down to recover.

... But then again, being unconscious or in a coma cannot be truly termed rest.