A/N: Reading this first chapter is not required to enjoy the real story, which begins next chapter. It merely provides a background prologue that will probably make more sense after reading the story, and yes, that was intentional. My mind works in strange ways sometimes, and I make no apologies.

This is a work of friction. The rough spots can get really heated.

o

It was late June and I was starting to panic; I only had a few more days and my brain seemed to be full of sludge. I grabbed my notebook and headed outside for some fresh air, hoping a long walk would flush some fresh ideas.

It was a beautiful afternoon, but a little too warm to be in the sunshine. I was drawn by some inexplicable force into the cool of the forest, where I eventually picked up an old trail of sorts. I crept warily ahead, eyes and ears attuned to the slightest disturbance. I really shouldn't be here alone, I reminded myself, yet my feet continued down the trail as if I had no control over them.

A clearing opened before me, and I was awash in the sensation of familiarity, though I had never before been this far into the forest. Something had happened here, something important, but the memory was just out of reach.

I sat upon a large rock at the edge of the clearing and removed my shoes. My toes wriggled with delight into the deliciously deep rich loamy soil. My right foot slid across a smooth pebble and I rubbed it mindlessly as I considered my current dilemma.

I need an expert, I thought.

Then a ghostly apparition formed in front of me, and I almost jumped away before I realized that he appeared just as terrified as I, grabbing his nightshirt to him and spinning around wildly.

"What the. . . where. . . You!" he cried, finally laying eyes on me. "What the bloody hell just happened?"

As he spoke, my jaw fell open. Not only did I recognize him, but I recognized by the tingling in my foot how he had come to be here.

I had called him.

"Sorry about that, sir, I didn't realize this would happen."

"And what exactly is. . . this?"

"I'm not really allowed to say, but since you've already... erm... passed, I suppose there's no harm in it. It's kind of complicated, but to put it simply, you were brought here by magic."

He stared dumbfounded at me, then began chuckling, before resuming a frown.

"Don't tell me, that ball game played on flying broomsticks – kickwitch or something – "

"You mean quidditch?"

"That's it! It's real?"

"Afraid so."

"Damn," he muttered. "This is going to cost me fifty quals."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, nothing, just the way we keep track on the other side. We don't have real money, so we use a sort of credit system. Embarrassing to be in the red, you know."

"Erm. . . I can imagine."

"Now, where are we and why is it I am here? I was interrupted in a most inopportune moment, just as I was making my move on this lovely Swedish model – reminded me of my second wife in her prime, good times – "

"Sir," I interrupted, not needing to hear all the colorful details, "we're in Scotland, and you were brought here to help me write a story."

"Sorry? I'm an actor, not a writer."

"Ah, but you have a talent for humor and you were selected by magic itself as the expert that I required. This story is for a Mary Sue Challenge, specifically a parody of clichés prevalent in Harry Potter fanfiction."

He gaped at me, puzzled. "Right, I got parody, but the rest of that went sailing quite over my head."

I spent the next half hour telling the story of the boy prophesied before birth to challenge the darkest wizard of recent memory, and his hero's journey that enthralled readers and movie-goers ever since it became public. Of course, non-magical folks consider it fantasy fiction, a comment that he greeted with much skepticism, being non-magical himself.

Following that, I explained how amateur writers love to write stories using characters and settings created by others, and the sterotyped "Mary Sue" – an overly idealized and under-developed original character, which he recognized immediately.

"They aren't unique to amateur writers, I can assure you of that! I believe I've played a few of those myself – in the masculine form, of course."

We shared a laugh and I explained the story challenge at the "Sink Into Your Eyes" website (another round of explanations on personal computers, the World Wide Web, and how 'siye dot co dot uk' is the address of said site), which gave participants a number of typical stereotypes that we were to play upon, and ways to manipulate them to achieve bonus points.

"They weren't fussed about plot, except that it had to relate to the title, which had to be one off their list. I chose number thirty here."

"Stanley is probably turning in his grave right now," he guffawed. "Who is this Dr. Xenophilius, and do I want to know what is meant by 'AK'?"

I supplied the necessary details. "I hope you don't mind starring in a few roles in this story as well. After all, you were three different characters in the original film."

"Yes, well, it was supposed to be four, but I had that accident before I could get the Texas accent perfected. Always regretted that, you know. At least that Pickens fellow did a marvelous job, riding the bomb with aplomb," he chuckled. "Do I get to play a Texan in your story?"

"Erm, I had thought about an American vampire hunter from Phoenix named Eddie Von Hellion that would show up for the final battle, but I haven't written anything for him yet."

"Phoenix is close to Texas, isn't it?"

"In the same sense that Paris is close to Poland, I suppose."

"Oh, right."

"I should also mention that author J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter and his universe in the non-magical world, and since I don't, I'm not allowed to make any money from this."

"So why do it, other than for the fun of it?"

"There is that, but we all hope readers will send us loads of reviews saying how wonderfully creative and hilarious our story is."

"Ego trip, then?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Right, then. Let's see what you've got so far."

"I actually wrote the ending first. I proposed some cataclysmic event like your film had where I could get the bonus points mentioned here with the title, but I also needed a couple of post-event scenes for the final chapter."

He read my draft. "This fellow here is supposed to be you?"

"Self-insertion is item 2-a. Including Sovran, who is another fanfiction author, is worth a bonus. The other character is item 2-i, and qualifies for the bonus as well."

"A lot of this looks familiar. . . Do you write any of these gags yourself?"

"Not really. . . I mostly rip off stuff from films and things I've seen on the tellie, but it's okay because it's parody. . . fair use and all that."

"Hmm. . ." he said as he finished, "what a way to treat your hero. . . I doubt that it will generate loads of adoration for you."

"I know, people will think me sadistically cruel, and hey, maybe they're right. You must understand that tormenting him is another fanfiction cliché, in addition it fulfills item 2-b and the bonus. It's a nasty 'gotcha' sort of twist, not to mention a spoof on another film."

"Yes, I thought so. I noticed you changed the wording for the bonus."

"I had to. Besides, I'm a Gryffindor – to us, rules are more guidelines than absolutes."

After fine-tuning the ending, we went back to the beginning.

"What's this about an Evil Overlord List?"

"Someone published a long list of items where traditional egomaniacal world dominator wanna-be's will typically be doomed to failure. Item 4 requires that we break some of these rules."

"Ah, but what if your Evil Overlord is actually smart enough to find and use this list himself?"

"Ooh, I can use that!"

"Even if it's the opposite usage of that prescribed in the rules?"

"I told you already - I'm a Gryffindor!"

And so we reworked the beginning and middle scenes, and got to the most difficult part – the final battle.

"Dr. Xenophilius has a daughter named Luna, who does play-by-plays for Quidditch matches – I think she would be great saying things like 'And that's Bellatrix Lestrange singing the Loser's Lurgy,' don't you?"

We were tossing silly ideas back and forth like a quaffle, when – without any warning whatsoever – there was a blinding flash, then absolute total darkness, and I knew no more.

o o o

It seemed only a moment before the quiet clearing reappeared in the ancient forest. All evidence of recent human activity had vanished, except for one thing – near the edge of the clearing was a low rock, and upon it rest a notebook full of hasty scribbles. On its cover appeared the following words:

Dr Xenophilius: or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The AK

o