There are some rules that are not meant to be broken. “Never tickle a sleeping dragon” comes to mind, especially considering that Madam Pomfrey had had to reattach Manda’s arm after that one time with Norbert. In HFA, there are several unwritten rules that should be followed just as closely. For example, streaking through the Great Hall in Gryffindor-themed body paint and little else while shrieking “Ron! I heart you, Ron! Ronnieronnieronnieronnieronnie!” always resulted in the perpetrator sitting in Professor Trelawney’s detention center while balancing an egg on her nose. If Miss Brin took kindly to said perpetrator, she would be allowed to retrieve her clothing beforehand.

Some rules, however, do not have consequences. They have Effects, which warrant the capital letter just as much as Glomping or Wilver. When a major canon lust-object is insane, or worse, missing, the whole school panics. The lusters chomp and stamp and wail and whine and oh, but if only he could see his one true love then surely he would be better, surely I must nurse him back to health... The Order of the Sphinx had enough to do with preventing the whole of HFA from degenerating into a hurt/comfort fic without looking for the character himself. That task falls to the uncanon staff, and, in some situations, the lusters who have managed to fake unconcern at said lust-object’s whereabouts.

“Extra, extra, read all about it! Professor Snape madder than Luna!” said Isaac Callow, proprietor of the HFA Daily Profit. After the printing press had manifested in Callow’s dorm (a sort of half-spider/half-machine, with a tendency to gibber when in the presence of semicolons), he had seized upon the idea of the new school-wide newspaper. Anything to keep the Daily Profit from joining the ranks of the regular Mini-Aragogs. They did not need a Mini with the power to knock you out cold then run you through the press reels.

“I object to that,” said Luna, looking up from her scrapbook of “Great Sockpuppet Conspiracies Through the Ages.”

Nevertheless, Professor Snape was on the lips (and, it must be said, in the hearts) of HFA’s fanwriters that morning at breakfast.

“I heard the Order of the Sphinx drugged him and locked him up,” said Ghostling37.

“No, I heard they’re keeping him on ice in case he wakes up in one of those fits of burning rage that are going around,” said Elladora D. Jobberknoll.

“Ooo, I heard about that. My friend had one and we had to throw her bed in the lake!” said Tomato Greens.

“Poor Kris AngelsTouch,” said Lunas. “After all that trouble with Trelawney pronouncing her Moaning Myrtle’s evil twin, too.”

Fender kept his eyes firmly on his bowl of Semi-Fortuitous Charms (HFA was strictly against giving its fanwriters anything that might bring them luck). He had a pretty good idea of what had happened to Snape, but confronting Phayn and making her lead him to her secret love-dungeon was not on the top of his list of things to do. Oh, right, Phayn. Sure, you’ve changed. Sure, you’re a Remus fangirl. Sure, let’s see what happens when we dump semi-conscious Snape at your feet. Let’s see how deep your new lustings lie.

“Well, I heard that he’s vanished,” said Oracle.

“Ooo,” chorused the Slasherings.

“But you can’t Apparate within Hogwarts grounds!” said Malathyne, resident Hermione wannabe.

But before Fender could move himself to voice his disdain, a silence spread over the Great Hall. An outsider might have attributed this to the majestic presence of Horace Slughorn as he moved to the front of the staff table and cleared his throat, but an insider would say it was a silencing charm. Rather, they would scribble the word on their arm or write it in the remains of their eggs, because all of the fanwriters had simultaneously lost the ability to speak.

“Well, well, well,” said Slughorn, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Suppose you’ll be wanting to know what this is all about. Well, those of you who haven’t guessed will probably think we’re crazy, but there you have it, must move on with the times and this new ‘symbiotic relationship with fanwriters’... Load of tosh you ask me, but there you have it...

“Ahem. The staff of HFA is offering a reward to anybody with information about the location of Professor Severus Snape.”

If it had been possible for the fanwriters to whisper excitedly among themselves, they would have. As it was, they settled for wide-eyed expressions and giddy jitters of such force that they knocked over a pepper pot, two crocks of marmalade and Winky the house-elf, who had never been very stable on her feet to begin with.

“You might have noticed that he’s gone crazy and ceased to exist, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you hadn’t. All busy with your homework and your trying to get into young Mr. Malfoy’s pants, right?” He laughed jovially. “Ah, yes, and we’ll be considering issuing the lucky minx who finds him a fanwriter’s probationary fanfiction permit,” finished Slughorn. “Got to give you lot some incentive, now, don’t we?”

Elladora D. Jobberknoll fell over, too, before Slughorn remembered to release the silencing spell on the fanwriters.

The first reaction was a stampede from the Wantingmor table, coupled with the manifestation of bags, lassos, tripwires and, in Aurora Berry’s case, a giant butterfly net.

While the Slashering table got its bearings in the mad scramble taking place all around them, Fender got slowly to his feet and sidled out one of the lesser doors. A chance to write fanfiction? Well, as HFA was condoning the criminal act of restraining his blessed genius with the quill, he would have to show them some other way that he was not just another lazy fanwriter. The Wantingmors were already headed for the dungeons. Oh, really, thought Fender. You know Canon so you think that’s where he’ll be? He smiled smugly and sauntered off toward the kitchens.

Fender was already spinning an outline for the first piece in his triumphant return to fanfiction as he reached the Ticklish Pear. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he stood on his tiptoes and scratched the canvas. The pear shook, and a banana nearby shrugged, as if to say, “look who’s getting their jollies once again...”

But the painting swung open, and Fender stared.

Thoughts flashed across his brain:

1.) What are they—

2.) Is that Snape—

3.) Oh, good god, those are going to be—

4.) Sevvie’s Angels are going to be in so much trouble—

5.) I’m in so much trouble—

6.) ... where did they get that much whipped cream?

But predominantly: Oh. Shit.

They had seen him. He bolted. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this would be enough to get his fanwriting permit, but the instinctual part—the part that had long ago warned his ancestors that playing with the huge furry kitty with the long sharp teeth would not be a good way to ensure their survival long enough to become ancestors—ran. It said, You know they never forget a face. You know they’re going to kill you before you take away their lust-object. You know you’re screwed. You know—wait, were those the same plates we eat off of?

He turned a corner, thinking he might be sick, when an arm grabbed him.

At HFA, there are two common reactions to this occurrence. Either you spin around and find Lucius Malfoy, all cold smiles and frosty hauteur, whispering, “I know what you wrote about me last summer.” That, or it is in fact a random disembodied body part that happens to be lying around as a result of the kind of careless narrative that appears in the previous paragraph.

In this case, though, it was Phayn.

“A-ha! I found you!” she squeaked. “I should kill you for leaving me with You-Know-Them! You know they made me listen to Peter Pettigrew’s therapy session? You know what that man’s issues are?”

For the first time, Fender regretted leaving her. But mostly because she was the only thing stopping him from running outside and hiding in the forest from the tide of Sevvie’s Angels who would assuredly be flooding around the corner at any minute, ready to garrote him with a Slytherin scarf and a roll of undeveloped film.

“Let me go, Phayn,” shrieked Fender.

“Not until you apologize! I had to listen to him yammer about how demeaning the name ‘Worm—’”

“Gnnarrgh—”

“Fender, you’re going to hurt yourself if you try to jump out that window, but it won’t be anything compared to what I’m going—”

He fell back to the ground, panting. What to do, what to do, what to do—

In the distance he heard, “He must’ve gone that way, girls! After him!”

Oh, right, push Phayn’s buttons. “They’ve got Snape!” he said. “In the kitchens! They’re after me!”

Phayn’s ears perked up, and a semi-serious look crossed her face. “We’ve got to rescue him!”

Fender was just himself enough to utter, “Going back on Lupin so soon, are you?” before Phayn kicked him in the stomach and dragged him behind a nearby tapestry.

“Shut up, Bumper. They’ve got Snape? Which one?” hissed Phayn.

Fender didn’t answer until the sound of Sevvie’s Angels had receded on the other side of the tapestry. He whispered, “How the hell should I know?”

Phayn rolled her eyes. Fender pouted, because in many ways that was his trademark move.

“It’s serious, isn’t it,” said Phayn. “Hmm. We ought to go save him.”

Fender bit back an obvious “No, it’s Severus,” as he was too much the solemn and haunted Deep Master of Fanfiction to employ such puns. However, there was plenty of fear still left for an “Oh, no, not me, you are not going to drag me into a ring of slavering fangirls and expect me to run out with their lust-object! Do it yourself, if you’re so keen.”

“You owe me,” said Phayn. “For last night.”

“You didn’t do anything for me last night!” said Fender.

“That’s right! I could have told the Voldemorts that it was all your idea!” snarled Phayn.

Fender stopped short. “Why didn’t you?”

Phayn looked away. “I... don’t know.”

He recovered his composure, trying not to show Phayn how much she had unsettled him. “Good thing for you, then; you know what they think about traitors. This whole Canon’s got a lot to say about traitors.”

“I know,” said Phayn, her eyes narrowing.

He sighed. “Well, we can’t stay here much longer. Sevvie’s Angels are sure to come back this way... soon.” Another sigh. “If we hurry, we can probably get Snape out of there before they all get back.”

It was, Fender decided as they crept back to the Ticklish Pear, the action of a whim. Nothing else. After all, Snape was one of his characters, one of the characters that spoke to his soul, stick it to the Man, yeah, right on, Snape! He shook his head. Anyway, he hated fangirls more than he hated the staff of HFA, and he might as well stick it to the fangirls while he was at it. There. Perfect sense.

“Right, so you run in and distract them and I’ll get Snape,” said Phayn, glancing at him as she raised her hand to the painting.

“Huh. I don’t think so. You rush in and distract them, and I’ll get Snape. I don’t trust you to not go to bits when you see the get-up they’ve got him in.”

Phayn glowered, but nodded, and soon the pear was squirming in its fruit cup. She took a deep breath, then reached for the edge of the picture. Then she paused and grabbed Fender’s wrist. “If you run out on me again, you will regret it to the day you die then back around again until before you were born.”

The painting swung open.

In the spirit of common decency, the author will not describe the scene that greeted Phayn’s eyes. She will not remark upon the leather pants or the velvet couch. She will not explain what whipped cream and honey look like when they appear to have been shampooed into an unconscious man’s scalp. She will say absolutely nothing about the nipple clamps.

Suffice to say that two very startled fangirls were suddenly looking out at them from a makeshift darkroom in a cloud of Fred and George’s Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, holding half-developed wizarding photographs and a collapsible tripod.

Phayn did, in many respects, the thing she did best, and tackled them to the floor. A group of house-elves whooped and whistled, and gave her a 9.7 for form (though Dobby later admitted to Ally that she would always be the best glomper in his book). Tables and basins of developing photographs scattered everywhere, coating the floor in ink and ruined paper.

Fender, feeling slightly ill, took off his cloak and threw it over the unconscious Potions master. This was not so much a gesture of compassion as a desire not to touch the older man in a way that would inevitably supply the Slasherings with gossip for the next twelve years. However, it must be said that Fender was not a big guy, nor was he an especially strong one. He only managed to get Snape off of the velvet couch and five feet toward the door before collapsing under his weight.

“Get up, Fender, I can’t hold them forever,” shouted Phayn.

“He’s not made of feathers, you know!” shouted Fender, trying to hitch Snape over his shoulder.

“No, I don’t think so. Bones, I imagine, and assorted organs.” Miss Brin was smiling like a cat as she stood in the portal next to Sirius Black and Professor McGonagall. “Oh, my. I am going to love hearing this one explained.”