Fender found himself in the Slytherin dormitory the following morning nursing a bruised ego. Tearing aside the curtains of his bed, he stumbled out to the common area (dressed most unbecomingly in a pale green cloak. So unlike the Deep Master of Fanfiction).

“What happened?” he asked blearily, addressing the full room.

“We all got Sorted,” said Cillie Holm. “Welcome to Slashering.”

Fender sniffed and found an armchair in which to pout. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be made the master of this place. His writing skills were phenomenal, incomprehensible to the trite human mind...

“Hey! Bumper, wasn’t it?” said a loud, bubbly voice. Phayn tripped over a low study table and placed herself directly in front of him, smiling uncontrollably.

“That’s Fender—” said the fanwriter irritably, trying to shrug her off.

“I knew you’d be in Slashering,” said Phayn, “Saw it a mile away. Want some breakfast?” She shoved a plate full of round, bubblegum-pink sausage links under his nose. “House for slash and angsty dark-ficcers,” she explained. “Fits you perfectly.”

“Yuck, no,” he said, pushing away the foul-smelling food. “What is that, anyway? And how did you get in here, if it’s for dark fics and slash? You don’t look like a slasher to me,” he said suspiciously.

“That’s Tantaflaf,” supplied Black Ice, indicating the pink taffy-like substance. She burped, and up came a few canary feathers. “Note to self: anything left out in gift baskets should definitely not be eaten.”

“Tantaflaf, hmm?” said Phayn. She popped one of the sausage links into her mouth and chewed. “Not bad.” Her eyes unfocused, and Fender looked at her suspiciously.

“You all right?”

The girl’s face suddenly turned a bright shade of purple. “I... think I’m going to be sick...” she moaned, running for the girls’ dormitories on the other side of the cavern.

It was thus that Fender didn’t eat much for breakfast, and was quite hungry when the bell rang for the first class. He was swept up in a mass exodus from the dormitory, the students’ fear of the Mini-Aragogs compromised by the pervading desire to find their lust-objects.

The fanwriters eventually formed a sort of collective in the Entrance Hall, not sure where they were to go, but, according to Ye Olde Law of Strength in Numbers, were sticking together better than gum that has been in a back pocket for days on end. Cotume27 and Hermione8meg were bonding almost solely on the principle that both had numbers in their names, while Kaylin had commandeered a corner of the hall and was practicing martial arts in a manner that caused a passing Beauxbatons exchange student to comment, “I’m glad she’s not one of my lusters.”

“Woo!” said an excited voice suddenly. The clatter of hooves filled the hall, and the fanwriters bunched together. A few excited Wantingmors started squealing about Firenze. They were sadly disappointed, though, when Luna Lovegood rode into the area on the back of a... Well, it was most definitely equine...

“Luna! What do you bloody well think you’re doing?” Ron appeared on the second level, accompanied by his usual fanfare of girlish sighs from the crowd gathered below. He was carrying a broomstick on his shoulder, and appeared to have just come back from the Quidditch pitch. Abby attempted to dash up after him (though whether her target was Ron or the broomstick was unclear), but caught her foot in the trick step and was subsequently dragged out by Ran and Weasily the Mini-Aragogs. “’S dangerous down there,” continued Ron. “You could get glomped! And what did you do to that Abraxan?”

It was some sort of flying horse, thought Fender weakly. Some sort of flying horse with paper maché on its head and dishpans hanging off of it.

“It’s a Crumple-Horned Snorkack!” said Luna excitedly. “My dad and I caught him outside!”

An unreadable look crossed Ron’s face (unreadable at least to Fender. Those who socialized regularly knew that it said “you’re mental” quite plainly). “Just come up here before that thing hurts itself,” said Ron.

The sound of evil giggling caught Fender’s attention, and he saw Lord Voldemort Sr. standing in the shadows of an alcove. “I ask myself, how did that work so well? And then I tell myself, surely I could not have thought up a better plan. But then I realize that I am Lord Vold—”

Tom Riddle elbowed him sharply in the stomach. He had a sort of baby-carrier strapped over his chest, and didn’t look too pleased about it, especially as LVJ (Lord Voldemort Jr.) was currently occupying the harness. “What was the point of letting the Lovegoods capture some beast we dressed up as a Cormple-whatsits?”

“In the form of a question,” gurgled LVJ.

“That was a question,” Riddle shot back.

“Not a rhetorical question,” babbled LVJ.

“I wanted it answered,” said Riddle heatedly. “It can’t be a rhetorical question if I want him to answer it.” He pointed to Lord Voldemort Sr. roughly.

“I ask myself, did we not agree on a unified mode of speech? And then I wonder, why does young Tom not comply with things we have already discussed? He is not dissatisfied, certainly?” condescended the (relatively) elder Voldemort.

Riddle clenched and unclenched his fists, then said in a perfect monotone, “I ask myself, why did we dress up that wretched horse-creature as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

“I ask myself the same question,” replied Lord Voldemort Sr. pensively.

“Fanwriters! Fanwriters!” called Professor McGonagall’s strict voice. “Come, we are holding your first class en masse on the lawn, hurry up, you there, stop leering at Mr. Weasley...” Fender was jerked out of his state of audience and pulled along with the crowd into the crisp air.

He was sure to take his seat a little apart from the other fanwriters. He was waiting for someone to discover that he was no mere author of fanfiction, but one of the greats. And one could not do that when one was squashed between Kat the Confident (covertly plotting to capture Snape) and Diana (covertly plotting to do away with Kat).

“Attention, attention all of you. Settle down,” said Percy Weasley imperiously (a low hiss went through the assembled masses). Percy became temporarily deaf and continued on with what was probably the first page of their textbooks, if anyone had bothered to look.

“You are about to embark upon a class that will be a great asset to you in the future. If you don’t think that this class is an asset, then you are obviously an idiot, and shall be become the ‘living diver’ for the Mini-Aragogs’ Skrewt aquarium. This class is the cornerstone of all good fanfiction—”

“Get on with it,” yelled A Watcher Formerly Known as Europa impatiently. It was a Suzine, a renegade Percy-luster, however, that caught her first (in place of the Mini-Aragogs), and Weazly and Wealey instead sat by, giving marks for speed, accuracy, and pain. In HFA, if the Mini-Aragogs didn’t get you, the rival lusters did.

Percy readjusted his glasses importantly and shuffled his papers. “As I was saying. This class is known as ‘Planning Your Plots’, and will focus on coming up with story ideas, fleshing them out, and creating a decent fanfiction. It is not time to plot your ‘plans’ for catching your lust-idols, and any fanwriter caught doing something not conducive to this course will be launched into the lake via Those-Who-Must-Snigger-Incessantly-When-One-Is-Trying-To-Concentrate’s trebuchet.”

Fender tapped his foot on the wet ground boredly. When would they skip the threats and get to the good stuff? Preferably the part about him being made Lord-On-High of Fanfiction.

The squeeing of a large portion of the fangirls broke Fender’s delusional reverie, and he looked up at the platform to see what had caused the problem. Curses. For a second he had thought something interesting had happened, but it was just Charlie Weasley and Hagrid carrying a large, reinforced wooden crate. Charlie nodded coldly to Percy, and started to put on large, dragonhide gloves. The box rocked ominously. A hush fell over the crowd.

“In this crate,” began Percy, reveling in his audience’s rapt attention, “the staff of HFA have managed to procure the coalesced forms of stories. Stories that have remained unwritten for so long that they have become wild and ferocious. The more... vicious... creatures we have kept under lock and key, as fanwriters such as yourselves could never hope to handle such frightening monsters. Here is a moderate one, and it is still a terror to all who see it. Behold and tremble!” he said dramatically, in a gesture reminiscent of Lockhart. “The plotbunnies of despair!”

Hagrid reached his hand into the box and pulled out a large, gray-speckled rabbit with glowing white eyes. Holding it by its scruff far from his body, he passed it carefully to Charlie, who cradled it delicately in his arms.

Someone snorted. Kinsey and Cat giggled. Percy looked down at the crowd, outraged. Charlie turned the plotbunny’s face from the group so that its face was buried in his shirt. More laughter ensued.

“It’s just a wee little bunny!” said Des Metallium.

“Well, if you think it’s such a walk in the park, then you surely won’t find it difficult to capture,” sniffed Percy haughtily. “In fact, if any of you manage to catch this plotbunny, I’ll even waive the rules and let you write the story it inspires!”

A flurry of whispers rose up from the crowd of fanwriters. Dragonlet, Nienna Clear-Light, and Geminii huddled together and started outlining a plan. Fender sneered. He didn’t need to catch a plotbunny to write a story; he was divinely inspired to write wonderful fanfiction to begin with.

“Are ye sure about this?” whispered Hagrid to Percy, who ignored him.

“Release the bunny!” announced Percy, throwing his arms wide as if about to dive into the lake. Charlie shrugged and placed the plotbunny next to his feet. It sniffed the air, and hopped less than a foot away from its original position.

The fanwriters surged forward. There were a couple muffled screams as some of the more aggressive students trampled the others.

“It might be a good Snape/OC story!” exclaimed Juliet Norrington, running down Lily Took in an attempt to reach the plotbunny.

“Forget the original character; it could be a plausible Draco/Ron!” cried Annonomouse.

De Vil and Moria managed to scramble onto the platform where the plotbunny was still sitting docilely. De Vil reached moved to tackle the creature, but before she could get a firm hold, it had evaded her completely, causing the fanwriter to overbalance and topple into the lake. With a superhuman leap (especially mighty for such a small creature), the plotbunny soared over the heads of the fanwriters and landed on the ground near the entrance. As soon as it hit the earth it became a white blur that dashed into the castle and was not seen again until a much later date.

“I would have thought that would be a simple one for them to catch,” said Bill Weasley casually, climbing up onto the platform with his brothers. “That was ‘Harry, Ron, and Hermione Go to the Beach’, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Charlie, a tad disappointed that “Harry, Ron, and Hermione Go to the Beach” had run off. “I doubt we’ll find it now.”

“That’s not a very rare one, though,” said Bill. “The fanwriters should have had no trouble at all catching it. In fact, it should have bitten them.”

Percy adjusted his glasses smugly. “Plotbunnies don’t bite fanwriters, they bite their muses. And that won’t be happening at all after we handicapped the things. No fanfiction-writing means no fanfiction-writing. Whenever the fanwriters sit down to write Potterverse fanfiction, their muses go on vacation. They can write other things if they like, of course, but their muses have direct orders, for the good of the fandom—”

Bill held up his hand to cut Percy off. “Hold a minute. Is that even possible? Restricting a person’s muse?”

Percy’s smugness became a palpable aura. “We have it here. Of course it can be done.”