Fender had never been to Aerobics Lair before. Though this was true of the majority of the student population, it must be noted that Fender hadn’t even tried to get in, either. He realized that he could probably make a pocketful of cash—or of the assorted cosmetics, chocolate, and bootleg Evanescence CDs that the fanwriters relied on as currency—by keeping track of ways Miss Brin used to enter.

He was a little surprised that there wasn’t more secrecy. The narrator will adopt a smidge of omnipotence and relate why this was the case.

First they came to the main portrait hole, which was more of a portrait wall in any case. When a place has been designed for easy entrance by everyone from Dobby to Fridwulfa, the architects had aimed big. Miss Brin said “Hallows,” and the painting—one of Arabella Figg’s creations, of a faceless fanwriter pursued by a horde of Death Eaters and hinkypunks—swung open.

‘Hallows’, noted Fender. Must remember that.

In truth, “Hallows” was the “I have a fanwriter with me” password adopted by the canon and uncanon staff. If a fanwriter by themself tried to gain entrance with it, the portrait instead opened to the Mini-Aragog MST amphitheater, which, along with the Mini-Aragogs, had the added bonus of being half a mile into the Forbidden Forest and privy to some of the worst tripe ever to call itself fanfiction.

Yet when the portrait swung open this time, it was not to a dark forest full of disdainfully chittering spiders. There were three tunnels, with a desk set right in the middle of them. Someone had taken pains to write the word “Receptionist” into its oak paneling, and a small silver bell was perched on its right-hand corner.

Behind the desk sat Grawp, who had done rather well for himself at HFA. The giant, semi-literate though he was, managed a pile of paperwork the size of a small mountain (it looked even smaller next to Grawp, though) and wore a suit and a horrible gingham bow-tie. He was ideal for a job that required him to say little, and, when vexed, smash someone over the head with his fist.

Miss Brin took the right fork of the tunnel. The wrong fork lead to Dolores Umbridge’s Pit of Sadism, and the one with ambiguous moral character lead to Oedipus Inferno. Many a fangirl sneaking in the portrait hole behind Neville Longbottom, eluding Grawp, and about to taste victory had managed to take the incorrect path and ended up dangling from her fingernails from a ledge over a pit of lava, or worse, a pit of feral technicolor kittens with fangs the size of steak knives.

Then they were in Aerobics Lair. It was rather like an amphitheater with collapsible staircases crawling up and down the walls like worms, coming to the call of any canon character that required passage to a different floor. Phayn glanced around noncommittally, then did a double-take and gaped at the place. Fender assumed his best “I am totally above this all” face. Miss Brin had a tight grip on both their shoulders, though, and steered them into a couple of chairs before they could run off. These were Ministry of Magic–grade chairs, though, and Fender found himself buckled in place before he could blink.

Not that they would particularly want to run off. The ground floor of Aerobics Lair was a sort of meeting ground for the assembled canon characters. On the far side of the open commons, a hanging sign proclaimed that “the Whinging Scab” was open for business and would no longer be accepting Famous Fangirl Cards as currency. Draco Malfoy was lounging outside with a pint of something suspicious and bubbly, while Remus Lupin perused the faculty edition of the Daily Profit over a plate of shepherd’s pie. Lupin looked up when he spotted Miss Brin, then raised an eyebrow at Phayn. Phayn grinned, and, Fender was surprised to see, winked.

What was even more surprising was that Lupin winked back.

But Fender could not bother to contemplate just what Phayn had done to Lupin, because just then Professor McGonagall came in dragging Professor Snape. Well, not quite dragging in the sense that Fender had tried to drag Snape. The Potions professor had been cleaned up and properly robed, and seemed to be trying to escape McGonagall in favor of killing fangirls.

“This is inappropriate conduct, taking advantage of my uncertain state and moral ambiguity! I will not tolerate this! They must be disciplined!” rasped Snape.

“And surely they will be, Severus. But not while you still smell of honey,” said McGonagall.

“As if things were not already confusing enough,” said Miss Brin, keeping a firm grip on Fender and Phayn. “I am assured by the PPC that our timeline will straighten out in the next couple days... or months.”

“It better,” said Draco. “The fanwriters age triple in a year, we only manage to change a year’s worth every four, and even when that happens we go from being fifteen to sixteen in the space of a day. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“You’re not the only one,” spat Snape.

Miss Brin seemed to be hearing this conversation for the hundredth time. She released her grip on Fender and Phayn, letting the buckles do the brunt of the work. Fender shrugged her off anxiously. He did not like to be touched. Especially not by the very offensive person who was enslaving him at HFA, trampling on his genius, breaking his soul—

“Oh, quit monologuing,” said Miss Brin. “This place is enough of a mess without you rehashing the same gripes day-in, day-out.”

Phayn glanced at Fender and stuck out her tongue.

Just then, Sirius Black arrived. He looked inordinately pleased with himself. Fender thought that he might have just come from brutalizing the fangirls who had kept Snape hostage. In fact, he had just given them some tips. Such as Snape’s teaching schedule. And the location of a secluded corridor that would be perfect for tormenting—no, Sirius meant, admiring Snape. Canon character camaraderie can only go so far.

“Sent the whole pack of them to Lily,” said Sirius. “Snape always attracts the sick ones, doesn’t he?”

“That is patently unfair,” said Snape. He burst into tears. “Just because I can’t decide if I’m a sufferingly noble antihero or a devious villain, you’re all taking advantage of me! I’m not the first one who has had mor-mor-morality issues!”

“There, there,” said McGonagall.

“Are you sure this is the real Snape?” said Miss Brin. “He’s awfully weepy.”

“Now I don’t have a right to my feelings?” bawled Snape. “I’m so mis-mis-misunderstood!”

“He’s talking like a bad angst fic,” said Miss Brin. “Are you sure he’s our Snape? Not one from the fanficto-realities?”

“He’s the only one we’ve found,” said McGonagall. “I’m told that map of ours doesn’t lie.” She shot a glance at Lupin.

Miss Brin sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I just hope that it’s only the Deathly Hallows stress. I don’t want to think that we have another OOC flu going around. Not at a time like this. Why don’t you take Severus to his chambers, Professor?” said Miss Brin. “He can sleep it off; I expect we can deal with these two well enough without him.”

Fender glared back haughtily. This was not his fault. He had never wanted to get messed up in this. They had promised him a permit, not to be dragged around like a common miscreant fanwriter. Where was his reward? He had found Snape. He wanted his fanfiction permit. That had been the reward, hadn’t it?

“I want a writing permit,” said Fender stubbornly.

“Really,” said Miss Brin.

“You said anyone who brought back Snape would get a fanfiction permit,” said Fender. “He’s back, isn’t he?”

“And you’re going to take the credit for that, Mr. I’m Too Good To Get Involved With Anything?” said Phayn. “If anything, I should get the permit. I’m the one who decided that we should save Snape!”

“You just want to jump his bones,” said Fender. He turned to Miss Brin angrily. “Do you really want a bunch of Snape/Mary Sue fics running around because of her?”

“I’m in love with Remus now!” said Phayn hotly.

“Oh, great,” said Lupin, flipping to the Quidditch section of the Daily Profit (“Five fanwriters hit by Bludgers! Oliver Wood says, ‘I am astounded anyone would leave a crate of Bludgers open in the Lusterbuff dormitory, right where anyone could open it. Anyone at all. Especially my fangirls.’”).

“There you are, Meir,” said a girl in a silver-trimmed uniform. Fender recognized her as Pineapple Queen from the Order of the Sphinx. She had once kicked him in the shins. Then hexed him to have five legs, so she could kick all of them in the shins. It had been a royal pain getting Nurse Pomfrey to amputate the extra ones. Fender scowled at her. Pineapple Queen grinned. “The PPC just finished fortifying Aerobics Lair with protective buffers. We’re all set for Deathly Hallows.”

“Deathly Hallows? Isn’t that a few months away?” asked Miss Brin.

“Nah, ’s tomorrow,” said Pineapple Queen. “Timeline changed ten minutes ago.”

“Damn,” said Miss Brin. “Did we ever figure out who was screwing with that thing?”

“It’s not me,” said Phayn.

“What are these fanwriters doing here?” asked Neshomeh, coming up behind Pineapple Queen.

“They kidnapped Snape,” said Remus.

“Did not!” said Phayn.

“What a shame,” said Sirius, wandering over to Lupin. He took the empty chair beside the werewolf and looked pointedly at Lupin’s half-eaten pie. Lupin sighed and pushed the plate towards Sirius, who tucked in heartily. Then he passed Sirius the comics section.

“Shouldn’t have fanwriters in here,” said Neshomeh. “We’re sealing everybody in for the shift in just a few minu—”

It went dark. When the torches flickered back, the common area was crowded with canon characters. “Crowded” is perhaps too soft a word. “Sardined” would be more appropriate. Hagrid was wedged up against the wall between Gilderoy Lockhart and Hannah Abbott. Dobby had managed to get himself on Vernon Dursley’s shoulders, and was clinging to the man’s mustache. Cho Chang had landed beside the basilisk, and was, with her eyes pressed shut, trying to locate the giant reptile’s sunglasses on the floor. Four of the Voldemort co-op had appeared on the canopy above the Whinging Scab, while LVJ tottered too near a staircase and almost took a nasty fall before being scooped up by Ginny Weasley. It was loud, and angry, and Fender had an unpleasant view of Firenze before Phayn pulled him out of the way.

“What hap—”

“How did they all get—”

Another member of the Order of the Sphinx ran in. It was Em. More accurately, she ran into Cornelius Fudge. “I had to Portkey them all here!” wailed Em. “There was no time, what with the timelines going nuts! We’re all locked in!”

Miss Brin disentangled herself from Mosag’s funeral weeds and captured Phayn before she could sneak off. In the melee, she seemed to have been able to slip through her bindings. Fender wriggled against his own straps before Mad-Eye Moody got him by the ear.

“Y’hear that, fanwriter?” said Moody. “They’ve sealed us in for the Canon change. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Don’t you even think about causing mischief.”