Something was not right. Fender woke up with beads of sweat over his forehead, and sat up with a start. He couldn’t put his finger on it. The dormitory was silent, barring the occasional whimper of Buttons, who was suffering from some rather violent graffiti courtesy of LVJ, or the sound of a muffled squee from the girls’ dorms on the other side of the common room. He rubbed his face and stood up, glancing around the room for signs of a disturbance. Nothing. He tried to return to sleep, but the feelings of anxiety, panic, and fear persisted. Somewhere, perhaps somewhere not even remotely close to his current location, something dreadful was happening.

What Fender was feeling was a textbook case of Literary Idiosyncratic Neural Konnection, also known as LINK (hence the spelling) by the folks of the PPC Department of Fictional Psychology. It was a kind of innate feeling that an author had concerning the well-being of their stories, or the atmosphere of their written domain. LINK sometimes manifested itself in MST-fiction, with the presence of Mysterious-All-Knowing-Author-Voices, or malevolently as poorly typed author’s notes in badfic. Fender tossed and turned in his sleep, trying to bury his head into his pillow. No such luck. LINK would not let him be. As an interesting side note, LINK was also the attributed cause of some of the phenomena that occurred around most Official Fanfiction Universities, such as Miss Cam’s ability to know exactly which students were brewing trouble for the staff, or Miss H’s impeccable intuition. Miss Brin had been working on developing LINK as well, but after HFA’s unexpected near-death experience, had become a little touchy on the subject.

By the time the bell rang two hours before Fender’s first class, he was in a bad-tempered, irritable mood. However, as this was largely the norm for the fanwriter, no one noticed the difference. He dressed inattentively and glowered on his way up to breakfast.

Most of the school had settled into HFA after a month of getting used to the daily regimens. Narloth had even developed a taste for Tantaflaf, which her housemates could not understand in the least (“Come on, guys, after you get used to it it just tastes sort of like stale Twizzlers...”). Fender entered the Great Hall, ducking under the large pink sign that advertised the Fluff Enthusiast’s Halloween Ball. Most of the Shippers at HFA were delighted with this notion, as they could vote for their favorite pairing when they purchased a ticket. The winning ship was then to be approached by Roxy and asked to attend as well. Fender secretly hoped that the Fellowship of the Peeves would manage to rig the contest as it was rumored, and force Roxy to solicit the Giant Squid’s attendance. He chuckled darkly, then reminded himself that that wouldn’t do at all, and returned to his normal scowl.

Phayn was saving a seat for him at the Slashering table. It was hard for Fender to believe that they were actually becoming sort-of-friends, especially as he was less than welcoming concerning the whole friendship thing. That and the fact that Phayn was as close to a fangirl as one could get. He sat down and dug into the porridge (laced with Tantaflaf marshmallows à la Lucky Charms), wincing as LINK gave another twinge.

“Hey, Mr. Sunshine,” said Phayn, her usual morning greeting.

“Bugger off,” said Fender by way of reply. “What do we have today?”

“Good news, there,” said Phayn. “Madam Rosmerta and Rita Skeeter had a little row and neither one of them is in any condition to teach ‘Potterverse Fashions: How Not to Stick Out Like a Sore Thumb’, so we’re free this morning. From what Leo Haven tells me, Rosmerta’s been turned into a munchkin, and Rita’s got a nasty case of Unluck after someone slipped a Maklaw into her soup. She’s calling off all of her bets as we speak.”

“Grunt,” said Fender, trying to focus on his porridge enough to pick out the Tantaflaf marshmallows.

“You all right?” asked Phayn.

“Yeah,” said Fender, standing up shakily. “I’ll... I’ll be outside...” He stumbled to his feet, nearly walking into Ciela Night and Dido (planning the next escapade of the infamous Lusters United) as he wasn’t looking where he was going. He didn’t feel dizzy, or nauseous, just a little... disoriented. He didn’t see Phayn regard him curiously before pushing her meal aside and hurrying to catch up with him. He also didn’t see the vision of beauty until it was too late.

Fleur Delacour drifted serenely into the Great Hall, silvery hair rippling smoothly like rings on a pond. She was accompanied by Bill Weasley (and glared at by a rather resentful Stan Shunpike), and didn’t notice Fender until he stopped directly in front of her.

A rather unusual sensation took the place of Fender’s Literary Idiosyncratic Neural Konnection. He felt... giddy, and he was suddenly aware that this was the only woman he would ever love, ever. The sudden desire to smite Bill Weasley came to Fender. But Fleur... lovely, lovely Fleur... He had to win her love, he had to!

And so he did the first thing that came to mind.

He punched Bill across the face.

Almost.

A burst of golden fire hit Fender in the stomach, and before he could register what was going on, he was being thrown high into the air, appendages flailing wildly. He landed with a heavy crack on the Wantingmor table, spilling pumpkin juice all over Uchiha Itachi and the basstard, who glared and snickered, respectively.

“What was zat about?” Fleur asked Bill.

“Not sure,” said Bill.

Just as Fender’s brain registered that he wasn’t in fact dead, a horrible sensation spread over the fanwriter. Not just the red-hot embarrassment from being wiped across the floor by one of the cooler characters, but a sense of terror.

Terror long associated with the arrival of the Mini-Aragogs of HFA.

Weasly, Werasley, and Wealey had Fender in a ball of thread in no time at all, and Fender knew at once the anxious helplessness experienced by all students that fell under the wrath of the four-foot-tall spiders. He shut his eyes, and soon blacked out as his cocoon was pulled down the steps of the Entrance Hall to the lawn...

*********

He woke up with a fresh burst of pain some time later. It was very dark, and the shadows of trees were barely visible under the thick canopy of branches. Though it was nearly noon, the forest was dark. Fender had a sudden realization that he had just missed something. “Hold still,” someone was saying. “You’ve been hanging upside-down for two hours, just let me get you out of this webbing-stuff.”

Fender dazedly realized that Phayn was using a sharp sort of rock to cut open the Mini-Aragogs’ cocoon, and flushed with anger. He was the Deep Master of Fanfiction, after all; what right did she... He almost said something before his survival instinct said that he was lying in a forest full of vicious spiders and he should keep his big mouth shut. Fender’s survival instinct sounded a lot like many students at the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy.

“Can you walk? The Minis are at their MSTing Theatre for the time being; we should get out of here before they get back,” said Phayn, pulling him up with more force than he would have expected from the fangirl.

“I can walk!” hissed Fender indignantly, though his legs wobbled when he attempted to stand. “What are you—”

“No time,” said Phayn, and she grabbed his wrist and ran awkwardly.

Fender spent the twenty-minute stumble-jog expecting to hear the enraged rasping of the Mini-Aragogs (“Fffffff—click—keekeeeeennnn!”), but it didn’t come. At last the two burst from the Forbidden Forest into the bright sunlight. Fender didn’t have time to wonder how on earth Phayn had even found him, for at that moment LINK twinged painfully. Fender yelped.

“You okay?” asked Phayn, holding her arms behind her head as she tried to bring her breathing back to normal. They were standing near the lake, very close to the Hogwarts gate, actually. Wind rippled over the grass, and the two students shivered. Neither were wearing their heavy HFA-issue cloaks.

“’M fine,” growled Fender. “Bloody hell, don’t mood swings ever stop?” he burst vehemently.

“Mood swings, eh?” asked Phayn. “I thought it was just PMS.”

Fender gave her a look that would have withered mandrakes. “Fine, thanks, now will you just—”

“What’s that?” asked Phayn suddenly, cocking her head as if listening. Fender caught the end of his sentence and listened as well. “Sounds like...”

“Drilling,” said Fender.

“I was going to say ‘sawing’, but that works, too,” said Phayn. Fender couldn’t place it, but she looked more... in control... than he had ever seen her. Perhaps Phayn realized this as well, because she suddenly giggled. “Let’s go see!”

Fender hurried after her, clutching a stitch in his chest. He had never been cut out for physical activity, more by choice than ability, and HFA did seem to encourage the ‘run from death all day, every day’ lifestyle. He limped after Phayn, and the two Slasherings soon found themselves in front of the great gate that separated Hogwarts from the Hogsmeade area.

A pile of filings littered the ground, and there were fresh prints in the mud on the other side of the gate. Phayn was standing stock still before it, and as Fender caught up with her she took a step forward and touched one of the bars. It crackled slightly with magical energy, but Fender saw that this was moot compared to the sizable notch that had been made in the bar.

“This can’t... Shouldn’t magic gates be kind of, errr, impervious to normal tools?” asked Phayn, stepping back. “And who would...”

“Well, this is new,” said an amused voice darkly. “Trying to escape by sawing away the doors? I’m surprised; I thought digging a tunnel was the most ridiculous way to attempt escape from HFA.”

Fender and Phayn pivoted slowly and came face to face with Miss Brin. The tall, dark-haired woman had an eyebrow raised, but her expression wavered momentarily when she saw the faces of the two students.

Can’t believe she’s actually meeting the Deep Master of Fanfiction, preened Fender to himself.

“Miss Knarm-Doots. I believe this is your seventeenth offense this year?” said Miss Brin reproachfully. “Detainment for the two of you. Phayn, you may finish the job you had last week with Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle; I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have the help. Mr...?”

“Blackorn,” sulked Fender, his ego-bubble breaking like china falling from a seventh-floor window.

“Mr. Blackorn, you’ll be helping Mr. Filch scrape hairballs off the ceiling of his office after... someone... cursed Mrs. Norris thusly. Fanwriters, running around ruining the school...” growled Miss Brin to herself, touching the damaged door. There was a loud crack and she withdrew her fingers quickly, sucking on the spot where the magic had burned her.

“But we didn’t do anything to it!” protested Phayn. “This is so not fair, so, so, so, so—”

Fender tried to think of a good argument, but after hearing some of the stories in the common room wasn’t exactly sure if he should press his luck. Besides, Filch’s office wasn’t very public, and that would at least be better than having to scrub the Entrance Hall with all the other fanwriters around.

“Can I just say what happened?” wailed Phayn.

“Do I look like I want to hear it?” barked Miss Brin. “Detainments will be served later tonight, now get back to class!” But as the two Slasherings trudged back up to the building, Brin stayed behind to examine the door.