Stupid HFA, stupid suitcase-thingy, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! thought Fender, lugging his granite-hewn textbooks to “Potterverse Fashion: When a Tankini Just Won’t Do.” Why was this all happening to him? He wrote goodfic, unlike the mindless idiots frequenting the Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy. His stories were deep, meaningful, full of revelations and angst about the inner workings of his soul... Well, at least they were better than that evil little plotbunny that had been on the loose since start of term, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione go to the beach.”

I’m so misunderstood, he thought, steeling his features stoically as he entered the chamber near the Wantingmor dormitory (the canon Gryffindor locale, as it was, except that the Fat Lady had been replaced with a portrait of Mirkola Black-Lupin-Black, famed for her short-lived hunger strike in protest of Sirius’ death. She was also Famous Fangirl #53, for those collecting the cards). The room, magically expanded to accommodate the Slashering and Canonlaw group, was roughly the same shape as an amphitheater, the only major exception being the large catwalk that ran from one end to the other, with a couple of loops in between, and the heavy oaken wardrobe closets which covered the walls.

Upon entering, he was immediately spotted by Phayn, who started to wave her arms as if competing in a Junior Semaphore Enthusiast program. Grudgingly, yet without internal debate, he slouched over to where she was sandwiched between Raisin Berry Louis and Sarah, arguing over which was better, Marauder-era or Harry-era fictions.

“The word in the halls is that Madam Rosmerta’s teaching this one,” said Rhiannon, the Canonlaw student, once greetings (or lack thereof) had been exchanged. “Could go either way, if you ask me.”

“I hope Sevvie’s modeling,” said Amazon J. “He’s way too sexy, if y’know what I mean.”

Phayn laughed, poking Fender when the miffed and misguided gothic rolled his eyes. “I know who Fender wants to see on the catwalk...” she said in a sing-song voice.

“Will you shut up?” said Fender with a snarl, rounding on her.

A few of the girls laughed, and Phayn tuned him out, striking up a conversation one part lusting and two parts giggling. Fender thought it would never end when the curtains at the end of the catwalk parted and Rita Skeeter strutted out, fitted with outrageous turquoise and yellow traveling robes that edged on blello.

“Glad to see you could all make it,” she said, adjusting a pair of horrible glasses upon her nose. “Especially with such short notice.”

“Yes, we’re very glad you all found your way here, with those last-minute changes caused by some callous individual,” said Madam Rosmerta. She was, indeed, a curvy woman, which earned her a few approving looks from the few male students (minus Fender, who liked to think himself above such things).

“Yes, what a shame, Lusterbuff House suddenly coming down with that horrible rash,” said Skeeter with a dry laugh. “I’m writing an article about it, especially that interesting bit where the boils spell ‘Sirius/Remus is my OTP’. Though you did forget the other O, you know.”

“It’s not supposed to be ‘OoTP’,” said Jade Kirk indignantly. “OTP—‘one true pair’—I thought everybody knew that! Stupid Lusterbuffs, don’t even know the basics of—”

“That’s all we needed to hear; take her away, Hedwit, Goodrich,” said a wry voice from the corner. Dethryl of the Order of the Sphinx detached himself from the shadows, just in time for Jade Kirk to see her captor. “Been tracking this for days, now,” said Dethryl. “All clear; go back to your teaching.”

Jade Kirk’s screams and protests of innocence were heard echoing down the corridor, along with the Mini-Aragogs’ telltale hiss of “Fffff—click—keekeeen!”

“Back to the subject at hand,” said Madam Rosmerta, clasping her hands and pointedly ignoring the yells of “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! NooOOO! Not the Tonks Love Triangle! Yaargh!”

“For today’s lesson, we’re going to have a bit of a dress-up day. Note the wardrobes all around you? You will be given twenty minutes to select proper wizarding gear suitable for wear during the seven years that Harry spends at Hogwarts. Take your pick from the closets, change into it, and return to your seats. Gentlemen, as you have the lesser numbers, you’ll be changing in the back room.” Skeeter indicated a wardrobe panel in the back, which swung open to reveal a snow-covered pine forest. The sound of sleigh bells drifted through the amphitheater.

“Continuum breach! Continuum breach!” Neshomeh ran into the classroom with a giant pair of knitting needles, and started to—for lack of a better word—sew the wall together. Skeeter and Rosmerta paused, waiting until Neshomeh had swung the wardrobe door shut and reopened it to reveal a rather musty cloak room. “Much better,” said the Order of the Sphinx member, padding away.

[content lost] said Rita, her patience tried. “Go to it, young’ns.”

Wading through the benches of giddy girls—Fender assumed this was rather like a shopping spree for them—the Slashering boy found his way to the partitioned room in the back. Des Metallium and The Joiner were there already, examining a James Dean jacket with amusement bordering on reverence.

“Could be one of Sirius’s coats,” said The Joiner, setting it aside. “Motorbike, y’know.”

Further perusal of the closets revealed a wide selection of black leather, some grubby habits stained in several places, earmuffs, and vintage T-shirts advocating everything from Abercrombie to Puddlemere United. There were a couple sweaters similar to those sported by the Weasleys, and a fine array of robes that looked to have once been Gilderoy Lockhart’s, judging from the amount of lilac trim. Fender opened one wardrobe to see a hat rack pop out at him, holding top hats, pointed wizard hats (one, glittery and rather lopsided, even had the word misspelled on it), caps with feathers long enough to tickle one’s back, and even two lime-green bowlers, of the sort worn by Cornelius Fudge.

Des Metallium paused when he came to a rack full of boots, loafers, and pointed shoes with bells on the end. “Think these are real dragon hide?” he asked, pulling a scaly one pair and trying it on. It fit, which Fender decided probably had something to do with magic, and X-Smasher 3 came over to select his own shoes. Fender, recalling Bill Weasley’s attire, selected a similar pair, and went about the process of finding suitable robes.

Ten minutes later, a bell chimed, and the male fanwriters were expelled (quite literally expelled, similar to phlegm from the lungs during a hacking cough) from their dressing room back into the amphitheater. Fender trooped over to Phayn, and mutual appraisal of apparel ensued.

“Nice boots, Bumper,” she said, smoothing her hair.

“Very... pink,” he grunted, sitting down.

Indeed, it was true. Phayn’s get-up would have been appropriate at a teenybopper concert, with pink sparkly capri pants, pink chucks with pompom laces, a purple sleeveless top with the words “I heart my Sev-Sev” in gold glitter, and a choker with a tooth of some kind in it. This at least Fender would have approved of, had the tooth not appeared to be a molar of some kind, probably from a large grazing mammal. In deference to the books, she also wore a cape with paisley print. This, too, was pink.

A few of the other fanwriters, though, appeared to have done a better job at costuming themselves than Phayn. A number of girls, including Jessalae and Diana, had chosen to follow the movies’ take on Hogwarts attire, sporting gray vests and skirts. Some had gone for the more drastic approach, with floor-length dresses and robes, along with elaborate witches’ hats. Ciardra had even found one with a crown of thistles, and was being admired by a few other McGonagall fans.

Rita Skeeter and Madam Rosmerta appeared once again, to be ignored by a student populace far too enraptured by their new clothing.

“I wonder, do they ever cease their inane conversation?” said a deep, velvety voice. The Canonlaws and Slasherings turned to see Bellatrix Black leaning nonchalantly against the lecturer’s podium, her dark eyes proud and disdainful. The “Sirius Black Is My Hero” crowd hissed.

“Nah. It’s their nature. Chatty tramps.” Argus Filch had come out to join her. More hissing.

The appearance of Bellatrix, though, had succeeded in quieting the crowd, and Rosmerta took the opportunity to begin speaking.

“Sadly to say, I’m afraid a few of you have not come up to par. We four”—she indicated herself, Rita Skeeter, Bellatrix Black, and Argus Filch—“will be critiquing those at fault. Go on, Fodfather. Be the Fashion Police.”

A lump at the edge of the catwalk that Fender hadn’t noticed before began to move. The Fodfather stood up. It descended into the crowd, sniffing each of the students, choosing a few miscreants, and closing his mouth around their necks to fling them onto the stage area.

The Fodfather, a rather unfortunate typo that had found its way to HFA, was about the size of a small cow, with the mentality of a herding dog, possibly in deference to Sirius Black, its originator as a misspelling of “godfather.” Instead of fur, though, the Fodfather was covered in—for lack of a better word—fodder. It seemed to be going oriental this week, and had a coat of rice, with noodles forming a tail rather like a horse. With a head of pork and egg rolls for ears, it was a very bizarre sight, and had scared many a fangirl away from glomping Harry Potter, which was its day job when not assisting with classes.

Fender was not in the least bit surprised when it stopped before Phayn and launched her onto the catwalk with Rohan and lauren saunders. It paused to sniff Fender’s shoes, but passed him over in favor of Marie Leona, who had opted to wear her feathery boa underneath a traveler’s cloak.

Once the Fodfather finished its rounds, the judging began.

[content lost] said Bellatrix Black, taking one look at Theaphelia. “You are to be dressing for the 1990s, not the 2000s.”

“The sword isn’t Godric Gryffindor’s, so you’re wrong. This is Potterverse, not some Anime samurai epic,” growled Filch. Pyrite shrugged, and went back to her seat. She had only really wanted to keep the katana, anyway. Unfortunately, Dursly and Bonns the Mini-Aragogs were there to disarm her upon leaving the stage area, causing the Slashering to retreat for imminent revenge–plotting.

And then it was Phayn’s turn.

Bellatrix, Rita, Rosmerta, and Filch paused their individual judging to watch the uncomfortable fangirl totter over to the bench.

“Miss Knarm-Doots,” hissed Black, anger flashing in her dark eyes.

“This is the worst ensemble I’ve seen in my life, and we get a mad crowd down at the Three Broomsticks—”

“What were you thinking, girlie? ’Snot even fit for a Sue to wear—”

“Can’t be so dumb as to think ‘Sev-Sev’ is canonical—”

“Not even matching the paisley with stripes and—”

“Color choice? Color choice? When I went to Hogwarts, I at least—”

Phayn, blushing as to match her shirt, tripped down the stairs and quick-walked to the seat next to Fender as the four canons commented on Hilary Snapple Cap Armstrong’s choice of witch hat with puff-ball on the tip that spouted random Shakespearean phrases. Phayn’s eyes were downcast, and her mortification appeared to be so intense that she didn’t even try to annoy Fender.

And he could have matched her for discomfort, too, especially when the fangirl—desperately trying to hold back tears—blew her nose on his robes.