Fender had a scream half-way out of his mouth before it hit him. He was in HFA. The crazed, freckly girl with pink hair poking him was just Phayn. “WHA—at do you want,” he said, relaxing slightly.

Phayn looked older. Her face was drawn and there were circles under her eyes. “We have to go back to the dormitory,” she said.

It was then that he realized what was wrong. He was upside-down. “What happened?” said Fender, trying to free his hands from his sides.

“You got tossed in with the Gary Stus,” said Phayn. “I think you owe me again; I had to give Mudblooed all of my Famous Fangirl Cards to get in here to find you.”

Fender was speechless. He knew how much the Tara Gilesbie card went for on the underground student market.

“I’m going to cut you down, so hold still,” said Phayn. She produced a wand from her school robes. Fender closed his eyes. Please, let this be quick and painless...

But then he was on the ground, Phayn was pulling the Mini-Aragog web off of him, and Fender knew, at that moment, that Something Had to Be Done.

“You know I don’t like you very much?” he said in a rush. Then a blush.

Phayn shrugged. “I don’t like you very much, either.”

Deep in the Oedipus Inferno, the Order of the Sphinx had crafted a device to measure the strength of an awkward silence. This one registered as sixteen milli-Murdocks.

“Well... I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” said Fender, brushing himself off. He risked a glance at Phayn.

She blinked, sighed, then smiled. “But guess wha-at?” she said in her usual sing-song voice.

“What,” said Fender, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We have fanfiction licenses!”

Fender practically cut the card from Phayn’s hand. Sure enough, it was a little square of parchment initialed by both Ally White and Pansy Parkinson (Head of HFA’s Illegal Fanfiction Watch). At last! His glory was here, or shortly to be here. He would write a piece so magnificent that the bumbling fools that ran HFA would have no choice but to admit to his prowess and elevate him to the victorious pedestal that he most certainly deserved. But he—No, he would shun such publicity. He was a master of the shadows, the angst and heartbreak that coated the world in despair; he would ignore the call of the bright and fawning public and immerse himself in his—

Fender’s happy truck skidded to a halt.

“What do you mean, we have fanfiction licenses?”

Phayn grinned manically. “Just what I said! I’m going to write a story about Remus! Isn’t that going to be perfect? It’ll be all about me and him living forevers with our ten thousand kids on a happy farm! He won’t hurt me ’cause I’m part wolf, so we’ll be together forevers!”

Fender sighed. Of course that’s how it would be. He pulled himself together and started to pick his way toward what appeared to be the exit. He presumed they were in the Mini-Aragogs’ MST Theatre, which meant the Forbidden Forest, which meant that he was probably going to be conked on the head, beaten, and eaten within the next ten minutes. He quickened his pace, hearing Phayn trip after him.

“Fender, you know what your problem is?” said Phayn, skipping clumsily next to Our Protagonist. “You’re too gloomy. You need to enjoy stuff more! Like, you have to have a fantasy, don’t you? Something you really want to enjoy?”

A few things flitted through Fender’s mind. Fleur Delacour. 2,000 reviews. Not getting eaten. Phayn. A really nice journ—

No.

No no no no.

NO.

He stopped dead, then pivoted to look at the girl. She smiled at him, then poked him in the ribs. “Come on, you silly softy. You can tell me.”

Fender swallowed. “No.”

“Oooh, I’m going to guess it! I bet it’s Snape!”

That caused his jaw to drop. In Oedipus Inferno, the Flabbergastometer pinged in at a steady 342 deci-Woosters.

“You... think I want Snape?”

Phayn giggled. “I think you want to be Snape, all secretly tormented and then redeemed by True Love!”

That snapped him. “Wait, redeemed? Snape? What are you—”

Phayn had clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry I forgot you haven’t done Deathly Hallows yet!”

“And you have? How long have I been out?”

“You mean how long have I been stalling us for time?” said Phayn, pressing her back against the 4th Wall.

But before she could lean in further, the Timely Interruption arrived. It was a small train, about the size for a child to ride, scarlet and smoking. The conductor, a goblin wearing a hat that read “Buzzkill,” saluted Fender and Phayn. “I’m set to go interrupt a private moment between Harry and Ginny; you kids want a lift up to the castle?” said the goblin.

Fender nodded. As soon as they climbed onto the Interruption, Fender let himself relax. The forest melted into a blur of green with hairy black legs, and Phayn was too busy chatting to the conductor to observe him closely. Dear Ironic Over-power, thought Fender. Please please please please PLEASE. She’s not even that pretty...

The Ironic Over-power mumbled to himself, then promptly halted the Timely Interruption with force enough to crash Phayn back into Fender’s chest. Fender would have blushed, had the same force not also knocked him backward, off of the train, and into a startled Gilderoy Lockhart.

“I say, is this the Timely Interruption?” said Lockhart. “I can’t imagine that Ludo and I would need one right now!”

“Right as always, Gilderoy,” said Ludo Bagman. He leaned forward in his green lawn chair. “Go see Hagrid, please. There’s been an awful lot of commotion in that hut of his.”

“Cor! I’m not going there again!” said the Buzzkill Goblin. “Last time he backhanded the whole operation through the dish cabinet! Who knows what’ll happen nows he has Norberta!”

“Oh, dear Norberta is perfectly charming! Why, it reminds me of the time I subdued three dragons all by myself while I was vacationing in Cornwall! Did I ever tell you about that, Ludo? It was in Defenestrations with Dragons...”

Fender inched away from Lockhart and Bagman. And the Buzzkill Goblin. He did not want to know about Hagrid’s love life. Or meet Hagrid’s dragon. Who was suddenly female? Had he missed that in Half-Blood Prince?

No, what he wanted was a nice sleep. Hanging upside-down didn’t count. He wanted a cup of black coffee, and a computer to write his masterpiece on. It would be about Sn—(Phayn’s grinning face danced through his head). No, it wouldn’t be about Snape. It would be about Voldemort, a really dark fic about the darkness of the Dark Lord. Yeah, that would be good.

No. Hold the bus—He wanted to read Deathly Hallows!

Grumbling to himself, he shambled (but not too quickly—eagerness was a sign of hope, something he had already lost in this jaded world—huh, good stuff. He’d have to remember that for his fic) up to the castle, where he turned to go down to the dungeons when something caught his eye.

A different interruption.

They were having a party.

HFA was having a party.

HFA was having a party without Fender.

No, HFA was having a party without Fender and without Fender knowing about it so he could shun it for its juvenileness!

A trickle of horror sank into his gut. They were oblivious to him.

There was a banner over the Entrance Hall: “Happy Canon Settlement!” it read. The canon characters were about, though significantly less of them than he had expected. Fewer duplicates, he supposed, given that the seventeen Voldemorts were now one Voldemort. There was one Harry, one Ron, one Hermione, though Fender spotted a bunch that looked similarly like them, yet older, hanging out at a table marked “Epiloguizens.”

Noticeable, too, were the fanwriters. They were dressed smartly, all on their best behavior under the watchful eyes of Argus Filch and Molly Weasley. Girls that he swore he had seen yesterday beating each other up for a lock of Draco’s hair were chatting quite amicably with Blaise Zabini (now entirely male, it seemed). It figures, he thought. I am gone for how long and this place turns into a lovey nightmare? And I’m not a part of this... I’ll never be a part of this... I don’t know if I can...

“Riddikulus!” said a sharp voice, then there was a crack and the Boggart slunk away, revealing an empty hall. Fender turned to see seventeen-year-old Ron Weasley giving him an amused look.

“Thanks, mate. I just won a galleon off of Dean. He thought for sure your Boggart would be girls.”

“I am not afraid of girls!” shouted Fender, flushing with relief and indignation. But Ron was long gone. “At least not most of them,” he mumbled.

“Who’s afraid of girls?” said two voices at the same time. This time, the Awkward Windsock blew to full-mast. Fender turned slowly. Phayn. And Peeves.

“Fender, Fender afraid of girls! Sees a lady then he hurls!” cackled Peeves, swooping off to spread the news to the castle at large.

Leaving Fender alone. With Phayn.

“Look on the bright side,” said Phayn, clapping him on the back. “I doubt it’ll come as much of a surprise.”