Good morrow, kids! I know it's been years - quite literally - since I've given this any attention, but instead of writing my paper about Manilius' Astronomica and Petronius' Satyricon for one of my classes her at Northwestern, I've decided that I'm going to update this thing. That's what all good kids do during finals week, right?

Chapter 5, In which the writer continues her story long after having forgotten what she was writing about.

Harry Potter is older now. No one is quite sure of when this became factual, but it most certainly is. It is his seventh canon-violating year, and since the author is not quite certain as to how to incorporate new canon details, she simply chooses to slip some in while ignoring those which are inconvenient or plot-defying.

Fortunately for Harry, however, she's not yet quite sure which she will slip in and ignore, which brings us to our hero's current dilemma through a rousing game of, "Why Am I Upset," also known as, "Which of My Lifelong Companions are Dead, Again?"

Ron walked briskly into the Gryffindor boys dormitories carrying a large socket wrench for reasons unbeknownst to all but Ron and Luna Lovegood, his current inexplicable shagging partner, where he found Harry sitting on his bed with a doleful expression and a Bright Eyes CD on repeat. Staring dumbly at Harry for several moments, Ron chose not to speak until the ninth time Conor Oberst reiterated his desire for a lover he did not have to love. And then it really bared mentioning.

"What are you upset about, Harry?" Ron asked, sitting next to him on the bed and setting down his wrench, before smoothing his sexily mussed red hair that was, invariably, messed up by recent shagging.

"Sirius is dead." Harry replied in his own characteristic deadpan.

"He's been dead for anywhere between two and twelve years, depending on whose timeline you're using and whether or not you're getting them all wildly mixed up, which the author invariably is. But who is, accordingly, not a reasonable excuse for your to be upset." Ron explained with uncharacteristic intelligence oft associated with an omniscient and intrusive narrator who forgets to use characterization and is forced to resort to deus ex machina-esque revelations.

Ronarrator was right, however. It had been two years in Harry Potter time since Sirius' death, four year in fan time, and twelve years if you mixed timelines and noted that Sirius died in 1995 or 96, but that the fic was being written as though it took place in the year 2007. It wasn't why he was upset.

"Oh. Right. Who died just recently that I'd be upset about?" Harry asked, looking quizzical and momentarily forgetting to look distraught and emotive.

"I'm not sure, exactly. Dumbledore did at the end of our sixth year, which should only be several months ago, but it's likely that our narrator has not accommodated this detail. You might be upset about that, though."

"Are you sure he's dead? I saw him a few hours ago."

"Quite sure. But then, I'm also quite sure that we said we weren't coming back to school next year, and here we are."

"Huh. Did anyone else die?"

"Dobby, I think. But who cares? I mean, really? And I think some other blokes did. Colin of one of those other ones. Oh, right, and Fred. Or George. One of them. They look so similar, bugger if I know."

"You don't seem upset about your brother or brothers."

"Well, you see, Harry, they're right downstairs. Nobody wants sad details incorporated into fanfic. We much prefer to ignore them and come to our own illogical conclusions based on faulty information. See, he can't be dead if he gave me this wrench."

"He gave you that wrench?" Harry asked, suddenly curious as to whether or not hsi might be the cause of his emotive behavior.

"I don't think so, but for some reason, I think I'm to understand that he did. If you'll excuse me, though, I must be off to shag various blondes in manners that will be inadequately and inaccurately described by someone who obviously has little to no experience with sexual relationships or, in fact, human anatomy."

"Wait! Why else might I be upset?" Harry asked, suddenly desperate.

"Well...Hermione's shagging Malfoy. Might that be it? Only other theory I'm working on is that you're gay."

"Probably one of them, thanks Ron."

"Or both. Any time, Harry." And with that, he traipsed out of the room and into the loving arms of Random Female with a Vaguely Canon Name because Luna was Unavailable due to scheduling conflicts.

"Draco, have I ever told you that you look like a character from Buffy the Vampire slayer?" Hermione asked for at least the seventh time.

"Yes, you have. At least seven times, to be precise," Draco noted accurately.

"Ah," Hermione responded dimly, twirling her mysteriously blonde and fabulous hair around her finger, "Do you think they'll get Sarah Michelle Geller to play me in the biopic of my life? They could call it, 'Hermione, the Voldemort Slayer.' And you could be the villain with a heart of gold and rouguish good looks."

"Right. Yes."

Hermione nibbled his ear lobe, and then various other things that were also part of his anatomy.

At some point, she probably nibbled the skin covering his splenic artery. And or various fingertips, nodules, bone junctures, edges, flat planes, corners, freckles, moles, precancerous melanin producers, etc.

It was then that Draco had a sudden realization. It had been nearly three days since any of them had left the room, consumed as they were by their shagging endeavors, and something terrible had happened. Something so terrible that it was not even namable, horrifying as it was.

Hermione had...

had...

had...

REGROWTH.

Her legs, formerly supple and smooth, were now slightly prickly, and therefore the bearer of all evil things in the universe. Also, there seemed to be an out of place hair in one of her eyebrows. There was just no possible way Draco could ever be with a person who had regrowth. No matter how evil he was.

There was only one possible solution to this problem.

"I think I'm gay now."

It was a lovely afternoon, and Harry Potter was feeling quite emo indeed, in spite, or else because of the glorious weather. It had just stopped raining, and the sky was lit from behind with a luminous display of refracted light that could only symbolize one cataclysmic realization.

It would, none the less, take Harry Potter several moments of pouting and wrist-slitting contemplation to notice the rainbow behind him and realize its plot significance.

"Oh, great emo gods, through whom we all live and have or being, send me a sign that I may know from whence my inner turmoil comes!"

Behind him, the rainbow grew brighter and more obnoxious.

"Any sign! Anything will do, really! I've always been very observant!"

The rainbow shifted about 60 degrees in order to place itself more firmly in Harry Potter's field of vision.

"Really! Come on! Just a little sign! Wait, is that leaf a sign? Am I upset about the destruction of forests?"

The rainbow did a roundoff backhandspring, which illicited tens from all but the Russian judge, who gave it a rather demure 8.6, which left the rainbow in tears while its coach shouted angrily at the judge's box.

Suddenly, a Slytherin boy flicked a cigarette butt in Harry's direction, which nearly landed on one of his very emotive converse shoes.

"Hey! Don't you dare flick your fags at the chosen one!" Harry shouted after him, pouting emotively at the ground. "Wait... he just flicked a - oh god. I'm gay."

"What?" Hermione asked, audibly shocked by the revelation.

"I said I think I'm gay now," Draco responded patiently, suddenly standing up and searching for his silky green boxers with the sexy evil snitches on them.

"Yes, I heard you. Are you kidding me?"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't joke about a thing like sexuality. It's alright, though. Everyone's gay nowadays. Dumbledore, too."

"WHAT? Dumbledore, too? But he's always seemed so heterosexual, what, with his bright purple robes with the trim and the frills, and his beard that's so often bedecked with simple floral arrangements. Who would have thought that Dumbledore could even possibly be gay, considering how many male students he called up to his office for a good debriefing?"

"I know. It came as a shock to everyone. Except, perhaps, an unnamed female someone I feel vaguely connected to because she's currently bastardizing my normal manner of speaking in an attempt to entertain herself during finals week."

"So I see. But what spawned this realization?"

"Hair."

"Ah."

"I'm going to go shag men, now. It will be even more awkwardly described than our sex scenes because the author's even less familiar with the male anatomy than she is with the female."

"Fine. See if I care. I'm going to go shag Ron! He's desperate and awkward!"

"Have fun, then! Toodles!" Draco noted finally, before running to his closet in search of his rainbow scarf and waltzing down the stairs.

It took Harry a good 87 seconds to become comfortable with his newly discovered sexuality. That is because it's quite plot essential for this to occur as quickly as possible, as the author is very limited in patience and has no idea what Unresolved Sexual Tension is.

"Emo kids are supposed to be at least a little bit gay, right?" He asked himself, thinking over decisions that would affect the rest o his life with the nonchalance one might employ while ordering a pizza, "And Dumbledore's gay, too. So it's alright. I'm Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't I? Maybe I should talk to him about my feelings. You know what? I'll come to Dumbledore. He'll help me work it out. Help me find my inner self. He's always known what I'm like on the inside. And he's always left me satisfied and smiling. There's so much he can show me!"

"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID," shouted Michael Scott from a tiny office in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Harry didn't hear him.

"Dumbledore's dead!" shouted thousands of confused fangirls. Harry also didn't hear them, consumed as he was by inadvertent sexual innuendos.

"That's what I'll do. I'll go see Dumbledore!" And with that, Harry traipsed off down the road to discover his destiny.

His other destiny.