Once upon an afternoon, in a seaside suburb where the salt air mingled with the hum of ambition, sat Birdwing Art Academy—a modern concrete castle of creativity perched atop a sunlit hill. Its walls, a blend of minimalism and glass, reflected dreams more vivid than its windows.
Here, students moved with purpose, a quiet urgency in their steps, for the final submission deadline loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. And so, our heroes descended upon the steps of learning, determined to conquer the art of writing in this sanctuary of steel and wires.
It was here, on this fine day of impending deadlines, that our first heroine arrived.
…And when I say arrived, I mean she barrelled into the scene as though the world itself had been holding its breath, desperately waiting for her energy to fill the void. For Adara—our chaotic princess of prose and impulsive decisions—was not one to enter quietly.
Her chariot? A giant red Jeep, louder than a rock concert at dawn and wobbling down the hill like it had narrowly escaped a demolition derby. Behind the wheel sat her mother—a woman no taller than a child but twice as intimidating—grinning with a purple Mohawk that seemed to sneer at the very concept of gravity.
“HURRY UP! GO, GO, GO!” she hollered, leaning halfway out of the window, her voice cutting through the morning calm like a sword through warm butter. “Get out of the way, you bloody idiots!”
“Slow down, Mum! There’s wildlife around.”
From the backseat tumbled Adara, her bubble-gum-pink hair flying like cotton candy caught in a gale.
“Well tell those hop hops to get off the damn road!”
Adara checked her phone. “AHHH, I’M GONNA BE LATE!!” she screeched, ejecting herself from the car like a panicked jack-in-the-box.
She landed on the academy steps with all the grace of a startled pigeon, her bright pink boots squeaking like a squeamish mouse as she scrambled to her feet.
Birdwing Academy stretched out before her—a campus perched atop a hill, where ancient gums and paperbarks huddled close, as if cradling the buildings in leafy arms. The brick façades, weathered and sturdy, peeked through the branches, giving the impression of a village of treehouses, stitched together with balconies, wooden staircases, and tangled walkways.
At its heart, a clock tower stood like an old watchman, ticking away the minutes of dreams and deadlines. Below, the main entrance hissed open and shut—an automatic door that sighed like the trees in the breeze.
From afar, the campus looked like something grown rather than built, where magic lived quietly between roots, branches, and sunlight that dappled the walls like whispered secrets.
Students bustled past in a frantic flow, their backpacks bouncing and coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Some lounged on steps or by the rows of neatly kept bushes and bicycle racks, scrolling through their phones or grumbling about deadlines. A Kookaburra let out a mocking cry from a lamppost, as if it shared its opinion on the state of modern education.
“Quick, quick, quick! I can make it! I can MAKE it!” Adara chanted, a mantra fuelled by pure panic as she bolted toward the double doors.
Here, beneath the watchful hands of the campus clock, its digital display blinking closer and closer to disaster, Adara sprinted toward her fate: a day of late submissions, forgotten plans, and what might, just might, become the start of something extraordinary.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no—” the girl chanted under her breath, her pink hair bouncing as she stumbled over the last step. She glanced at the massive clock tower, its hands creeping closer to the dreaded hour. “No, no, no! I’M LATE! I’M SO LATE!”
Her voice cracked as she bolted through the open double doors of the academy. Behind her, the tiny Jeep driver leaned back with a smug grin, calling out like a queen of chaos.
“Don’t forget to breathe, kiddo!”
“I DON’T HAVE TIME TO BREATHE!” Adara shrieked over her shoulder, her voice bouncing off the polished tile floors as she vanished into the hallways.
Above, the clock let out a single, ominous chime, its low hum reverberating through the air. Somewhere unseen, in the rafters or perhaps in the shadows of the upper floors, someone watched. A faint snicker echoed—soft, cruel, and untraceable—as unseen eyes narrowed on the pink-haired girl below. Plots and schemes churned, quiet and deliberate, while she raced past, blissfully unaware of the unseen figure’s roiling intent.
“Damn it!” Adara hissed, her voice snapping through her teeth as she stumbled into an awkward gallop up the hill toward the inner classrooms. Her arms flailed like she was trying to fly, her bag smacking her side with every chaotic step. Sweat slicked her forehead, and panic leaked into every word she muttered.
“Why, why, why? Of all days to oversleep!”
Her frantic ramblings trailed behind her like the wake of a very pink storm as she disappeared around the corner. The academy, looming and uncaring, seemed to swallow her whole—its stone corridors yawning wide like the jaws of a hungry giant, forever ready to feast on late students and misplaced hopes.
From the Jeep, the purple-haired woman chuckled softly, tapping the steering wheel with satisfaction. “Good luck, kiddo. You’ll need it.”
Meanwhile, our heroic knight—Luke, a man whose mind was a fortress of logic but whose heart often wandered into poetry—strolled down the asphalt street with all the overconfidence of someone who had prepared for submission day like it was a military campaign. His prematurely grey hair caught the morning sun, its silver streaks adding an unexpected air of dashing charm he would never admit to. Laughter bubbled out of him—soft, private, like a note only he could hear—an inside joke shared with no one.
Beside him walked Harry Swanson, a mountain masquerading as a man. At 6’3, Harry was built like he could carry a piano and play it simultaneously, yet his face was all good-natured jolliness—a grin stretched wide under a mop of messy brown curls. He looked like the kind of person who could cheerfully wrestle a bear and bake cookies afterward.
“Oi! Harry!” Luke called out, grinning up at him like a kid greeting a favourite treehouse. “You submitted yours yet, mate?”
Harry puffed out his massive chest—proud as a rooster that had just won a barnyard election—and shot Luke an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Yeah, did it this morning! Uploaded, finalized, sealed with blood and tears.” His booming voice carried across the street like a town crier announcing his triumph. “‘Prince and the Stars’—my masterpiece. Harry S P Swanson, at his absolute best.”
With a grand gesture, as though conducting an invisible orchestra, he added, “The professor’s going to eat this one up. A+. Guaranteed.”
Luke arched a sceptical eyebrow, his smirk sharp but not unkind. “Harry, mate, just try not to ‘borrow’ too much from anyone else’s style this time, Shakespeare.”
Harry stopped mid-stride, his towering frame freezing like a monument. He turned dramatically, clutching his chest with one oversized hand, as though Luke had lobbed an arrow straight through his heart.
“Plagiarize? Me?” he boomed, loud enough to startle a flock of pigeons. “How dare you! My work’s an original masterpiece, thank you very much.”
Luke grinned, hands up in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll check it later—if it’s not suspiciously like George Lucas’s autobiography.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but the grin returned—a smile that could melt glaciers. “You’ll love it, Lukey boy. You just don’t know it yet.”
“We’ll see.” Luke glanced at his watch and groaned. “Right, I’ve gotta submit mine. I’ll meet you at the surf club later, yeah?”
Harry waved him off, his broad shoulders. “Done deal. Good luck, mate!” he called, meandering away with a cheerful whistle.
Luke turned back toward the academy gates, slipping his headphones into place. For a moment, his mind drifted toward submission day’s promise—a logical outcome of careful preparation, wrapped in his usual hope that maybe, just maybe, something extraordinary would come of it.
And then—
WHAM!
Out of nowhere, a hooded guy on a bike zipped past at warp speed. The cyclist’s elbow smacked into Luke’s shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways.
“Hey! Watch it—!”
Too late.
The strap on his bag snapped, and like a tragic slow-motion montage, Luke watched in horror as it hit the ground, spilling its contents with all the restraint of an overstuffed burrito. Papers, pens, and—dear god—his laptop.
The bike sped off, its rider pedalling away like a gremlin with no remorse.
Luke’s laptop bounced.
It landed.
And then, as if the universe itself had timed it for comedic cruelty, it collided with a low stone step.
CRACK. SMASH.
Silence.
Luke’s soul left his body. He stared at the mangled remains of his laptop, its screen shattered and keys dangling like broken teeth.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck!” Luke screamed, loud enough to send nearby pigeons scattering in a cloud of feathers.
He spun in the direction of the disappearing biker. “COME BACK HERE, YOU ABSOLUTE—”
The hooded cyclist? Gone. Just a speck on the horizon, pedalling with gleeful indifference.
Luke dropped to his knees next to his ruined laptop, cradling it like a fallen comrade. “It’s gone. It’s dead.” He looked up at the sky, shaking his fist at the heavens. “WHY DOES THE UNIVERSE HATE ME?”
Students passing by shot him wide-eyed looks before quickly scuttling off, deciding they wanted no part of whatever tragic drama had just unfolded.
Still kneeling, Luke muttered to himself, “I’ll never make the deadline. I’ll fail. I’ll get a D. No—worse. I’ll have to explain this to Harry, and I’ll NEVER hear the end of it.”
And as though summoned by his misery, his phone buzzed with a message from Harry:
“Submitted yet? Told you I’d finish first 😎.”
Luke stared at the screen, expressionless. “Oh, screw you, Harry.”
With a sigh of utter defeat, he flopped backward onto the steps, arms spread wide, as if offering himself to the cruel gods of deadline day.
Adara burst into the Birdwing Academy library like a hurricane in bubble-gum-pink boots, earning startled glances from students buried in their textbooks. The library—quiet, serene, smelling faintly of old paper and anxiety—seemed to sigh in protest as she thundered across the polished floors.
Her cute brown backpack bounced against her side as she skidded to a halt at an empty table, panting. “Okay, okay, focus,” she whispered to herself, her face flushed with adrenaline and excitement. Today was submission day, and in her bag was the crown jewel of her efforts: yet another Harry Potter fanfiction—this time about the Marauders era, starring her eternal literary crush, Sirius Black.
It was pure chaos in story form: Sirius caught in a love triangle of her own design, torn between James Potter and Remus Lupin. She’d giggled to herself endlessly while writing it, delighted by how it would leave her straight-laced, straight-faced professor blinking behind his glasses. To his credit, he never questioned her taste. He just graded.
“Let’s do this.” Adara plopped her bag on the table, determined. She reached in, rummaging for her bright fluffy keychain—the one always attached to her trusty USB. Her fingers darted through the mess: pens, loose gum wrappers, a notebook covered in questionable doodles of dinosaurs… but no keychain.
Her stomach dropped.
“No. No. No.” Her voice pitched higher with each word. She plunged both hands into the depths of the backpack, rummaging like a treasure hunter on the edge of discovery. “It’s gotta be here! It’s always here!”
The library patrons looked up as Adara tipped her bag upside down, scattering its contents across the table and the floor in a pink-and-brown explosion of chaos. Out tumbled pencils, scrunched-up paper, lip balm, a snack bar that expired last semester, and her emergency glitter pen—but no USB.
“NOOOOO!” Adara wailed, clutching her hair like a tragic heroine, her face frozen in a silent scream of despair.
Adara snatched up her phone with trembling hands, hope flaring like a spark in a storm. Her fingers darted over the screen as she typed a frantic message:
Adara: Mum! Turn back! I left my USB at home! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!
She hit send and stared at the phone, bouncing her leg as if the motion alone could summon an immediate reply. Seconds stretched into a cruel eternity until—
Adara froze.
She remembered.
Her mother had disconnected the Bluetooth from the Jeep because she “didn’t trust wishy-washy tech” in her big red beast of a car. That meant no phone calls, no messages, and no hope. By now, she would already be halfway down the highway, cruising toward work an hour away.
Adara’s face went pale. “No technology in the Jeep?” Her voice trembled, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “NO TECHNOLOGY IN THE JEEP?! WHY DO WE LIVE LIKE THIS?!”
Her whispered shriek cut through the library like a rogue arrow. The librarian—a woman with the posture of a hawk ready to pounce—glared at her over the rim of her glasses and hissed, “Shush!”
Adara slapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks flaming. Her wide eyes darted to the clock on the far wall.
Time wasn’t running out anymore; it was sprinting—legs pumping like it had a personal vendetta against her. The professor’s rule hung heavy in her mind, etched in the unbreakable stone of academic doom:
No submission. No grade. No excuses.
If she didn’t hand in something—anything—she’d fail the class.
“Okay, okay, okay,” she muttered to herself, voice shaking as she shoved her phone into her bag. How long did she have? She had minutes—just minutes—to salvage this.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Think. THINK!” Her words tumbled out like a mantra as she began shoving the contents of her bag back inside, somehow managing to make the mess worse.
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She bolted toward the row of library computers, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm—like a drum solo at the world’s most chaotic rock concert.
“Just submit something, Adara,” she whispered, her hands already flying to the keyboard. “Even if it’s nonsense. Even if it’s terrible. Anything’s better than nothing.”
Her stomach twisted as the cursor blinked on the empty document. Time was still sprinting—and now, it was winning.
“Just submit something, Adara. Just anything,” she whispered frantically, logging into the slow-moving computer. The screen blinked back at her, almost mockingly, as she opened an empty document and stared at the cursor blinking on a blank page.
“Think, think, THINK!” she hissed, her nails tapping against the desk. Her beautiful, ridiculous fanfiction masterpiece was stranded at home, lying uselessly on her abandoned USB like a shipwrecked sailor. There was no time for creativity, no time for Sirius Black’s emotional angst. She had to improvise.
Luke’s sneakers pounded up the stairs, the rhythmic thuds echoing like war drums through the Academy halls. His mind raced faster than his legs, fuelled by a mix of sheer panic and the weight of his student loans—each missed assignment another brick on the crushing wall of debt. He couldn’t afford to fail. He wouldn’t redo the semester.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as he rounded a corner. His computer may be completely shattered in his backpack but a copy of his story was still on his home computer in his email and if you can access the data he could quickly submit it before the time ended.
As he sprinted past the library doors, a muffled screech from a girl reached his ears. Luke faltered for a second, eyebrows knitting together.
“What the hell was that?” he mumbled.
The screech crescendoed into what sounded like an entire operatic meltdown happening inside the library, but Luke had no time to investigate strange sounds. He dove through the doors, heading straight for the row of computers like they were life rafts in a sinking ship.
He skidded into the chair at an empty terminal—right beside a pink-haired girl frantically staring at a blank Word document. She practically vibrated with stress as she tapped at her forehead like it might jolt inspiration into her brain while nervously drumming her foot on the floor. “Adara think you idiot!” she berated herself.
Luke paid her no mind. He was too busy whispering, “Log in. Log in. Log in.” His fingers jabbed at the keyboard with the fury of someone defusing a bomb.
“Shhhh!” The pink-haired girl hissed, snapping her head toward him. Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “I’m trying to think! Come on Taylor lend me some your lyrical genius!”
Luke glanced at her, half-wild. “Think quieter! I’m trying to submit something!”
Before she could retort, the lights overhead flickered once.
Luke’s heart dropped into his shoes.
They flickered twice.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he whispered, eyes darting up to the ceiling.
It was as if the universe itself, sensing his desperation, had reached down and yanked the plug out of his luck. With an audible CLUNK, every light, every computer screen, and every machine in the library died.
Darkness. Silence.
Luke froze, his fingers mid-air over the keyboard. Beside him, the pink-haired girl—Adara, judging by the name she’d been muttering to herself earlier—sat equally stunned, her wide eyes reflecting the blank screens.
“Are you kidding me?!” Adara shrieked, slamming her hands on the desk.
“Oh, COME ON!” Luke shouted at the same time, throwing his arms up like the world had personally insulted him.
For a moment, they stared at each other, united in their shared existential horror.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Adara muttered, slumping back into her chair, her face buried in her hands. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
Luke banged his fist on the desk, glaring at the ceiling as though he could intimidate the power back on. “You had one job, ONE JOB, and you pull this?! Seriously?!”
A slow creak broke the silence as the librarian emerged from her desk, armed with a flashlight and a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Both of you—calm down.”
The librarian had stepped out of the shadows like an omen of doom, her hawk-like gaze scanning Adara and Luke. She was tall and stern, with glasses perched at the very tip of her nose, her grey-streaked hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun so tight it could’ve been held together by sheer willpower. Everything about her screamed “guardian of silence,” but there was something oddly mystical about her presence—like she’d been lurking in libraries since time began.
“If you two truly need the computers,” she said in a voice as dry as a dictionary, “come back later. Power will return eventually.”
“We can’t!” Luke blurted out, his voice frantic. “We’ve got to submit something today. If we don’t, we’ll fail the whole class!”
“There is a manual submission box,” the librarian said.
“Failing’s not an option, thanks,” Adara added, throwing her hands up. “But what’s the point of a manual hand in if we’ve got no computers? We can’t type or print anything.”
The librarian adjusted her glasses, her thin lips curling ever so slightly at the corners. “Well, lucky for you two, there’s another way. Follow me.”
Luke and Adara exchanged baffled glances, the faintest flicker of hope dancing between them like a candle in a storm.
“Where is she taking us?” Adara whispered, her voice low and conspiratorial as they followed the librarian down a narrow, dimly lit hallway.
“Dunno. Maybe a medieval dungeon?” Luke muttered, shooting her a sideways look.
Adara snorted, the tension easing for just a moment. “I’m Adara, by the way.”
“Luke.”
She grinned despite the situation. “Nice to meet ya. Weird circumstances and all.”
“Yeah. Real bonding moment.”
They rounded a corner and arrived at a small back room, tucked behind a STAFF ONLY sign. The air here was different—thicker, tinged with the faint smell of ink and dust.
The librarian stepped aside, revealing the centrepiece of the room: an ancient typewriter perched proudly atop a creaky wooden desk. Its metal frame gleamed under the flickering light, polished to perfection, while its keys sat waiting, each letter glinting like it held some forgotten magic. It looked like it had been plucked straight out of a vintage store—at least 50 years old, yet pristine, oiled, and ready for action.
Adara blinked at it, unimpressed. “Is this a joke?”
Luke raised an eyebrow, stepping closer as his fingers hovered curiously over the keys. “Looks like we’re typing our way out of this mess.
The librarian ignored her scepticism, her fingers gliding over the keys in a well-practiced demonstration. “It works perfectly. Well-oiled. Plenty of ink. All it takes is a little effort.” She looked up at the two students. “You’ve got 20 minutes. Make it count.”
Luke’s eyes widened with determination. “This’ll work. Two pages. That’s all we need.”
Adara stepped forward, curiosity warring with doubt. She pressed one key. The typewriter let out a satisfying click-clack. Her face lit up. “Okay, that sound is amazing. If I could take this home, I’d use it just to fidget.”
Luke groaned, rubbing his temples. “Focus, Adara! We don’t have time for this.”
The librarian, clearly unfazed by their bickering, handed Adara a heavy flashlight, its beam cutting through the dim room. She fixed them both with a last, knowing look.
“Good luck,” she said simply, before turning on her heel and disappearing through the door.
“Thanks,” they muttered in unison, their voices overlapping in half-hearted gratitude.
The door clicked shut, leaving Luke and Adara alone in the quiet room. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at the typewriter—an ancient, silent beast perched ominously on the desk—like it might suddenly spring to life or explode into flames.
“So… who goes first?” Adara asked, breaking the silence as she slid into the chair. Her fingers hovered over the keys, already fidgeting with the space bar, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Luke’s logical side kicked in. “We’re short on time. How about whoever has their idea first gets to start? You get a page, then hand it off to check.”
Adara crossed her arms. “I’ve got one already.”
“Me too.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What if we argue about who has the better idea?”
Luke groaned. “That’ll just waste more time.”
“Fine. Rock-paper-scissors?”
“Rock-paper-scissors. Deal.”
They squared off, hands poised in midair.
“Wait, is it on three or on ‘shoot’?” Luke asked, narrowing his eyes.
Adara looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “‘Shoot,’ obviously. What are we, savages? It’s rock-paper-scissors-shoot.”
Luke blinked. “Right. Got it.”
“Best of one?” Luke added, though he looked slightly unsure.
“Coward’s way, but sure.” Adara grinned.
“Rock… paper… scissors… SHOOT!”
Adara threw down scissors, her grin splitting her face as Luke stared at his outstretched paper in dismay.
“YES! Victory is mine!” Adara crowed, sliding into the chair with far too much enthusiasm and cracking her knuckles.
“We don’t have time for victory speeches,” Luke muttered, dragging another chair beside her with a resigned sigh. “Just start. I’ll help you with spelling.”
Adara paused, turning to him with a sideways glance. “Wait—you’re offering to help me spell?”
Luke frowned, then tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as if piecing something together. “Yeah? You mentioned you had dyslexia a couple of months ago, didn’t you? During class.”
Adara froze, fingers hovering over the keys. “Wait… you remember that?”
Luke shrugged, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “It wasn’t exactly a casual thing to share. Besides, you sit two rows behind me and usually mutter about Sirius Black when you’re supposed to be taking notes.”
Her eyes widened, and she let out a surprised laugh. “I do not mutter—okay, fine, maybe I do. But still. You remembered?”
“Yeah, well, my brain hoards random facts. Logic-brain curse.” He gestured at the typewriter. “Now type. Time’s ticking.”
Adara hesitated, her usual bravado dimming just a little. “I’ve got dyslexia, okay? Spelling’s not exactly my strong suit, and writing’s… a bit of a battle sometimes.”
Luke blinked, the faint smile softening into something closer to admiration. “But you’re in a writing class.”
“Yeah, and? I love stories.” Her voice firmed up, stubborn and proud. “I’ll fight through it if I have to.”
Luke shrugged, nodding slowly. “Fair enough. I get it. I dropped engineering for writing. Everyone thought I was nuts.”
Adara paused mid-type, shooting him a look. “Engineering? That’s a hard left turn. Why?”
“Because I hated it. And I wanted to do something I actually cared about, even if it means drowning in student loans.”
Her lips quirked into a grin. “I respect the hustle, Luke. I do. But less talky talky, more typey typey.”
Once again, Adara cracked her knuckles dramatically before diving into the keys. The typewriter sprang to life with a series of sharp clicks and clacks, echoing through the small room like a ticking clock. Luke held the torch steady, the light flickering as shadows danced across the walls.
Adara typed furiously for a few seconds before stopping abruptly, groaning. “Ugh. Why do I always start with the worst sentences?”
Luke glanced over, amused. “What’s it about? This masterpiece of yours.”
Adara hesitated, her pink hair falling into her face as she hunched over the typewriter protectively. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Scout’s honour,” Luke replied, holding up a hand solemnly.
“It’s… fanfiction.”
Luke blinked. “Fanfiction?”
Her cheeks flushed pink to match her hair, and she muttered quickly, “Yeah. Harry Potter fanfiction. Marauders era, actually. Sirius Black… and a love triangle. Don’t judge.”
The room was silent for a beat, save for the faint humming of the torchlight. Adara braced herself, expecting a snort or some sarcastic remark.
Instead, Luke tilted his head and grinned. “Why would I laugh? I’m a big Harry Potter fan.”
Her head shot up so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “Wait—you are?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “Sirius Black’s my favourite, too. The guy had style; you know?”
Adara gawked at him like he’d sprouted an extra limb. “You’re kidding. Mister Logical likes Harry Potter?”
Luke shrugged, completely unbothered. “I’m logical, not heartless,” he deadpanned. “Besides, my sister convinced me to read the books when we were kids. Got hooked on the movies too.”
Adara’s grin widened as if she’d just found a hidden treasure. “Okay, you just got ten points cooler.”
Luke smirked, leaning back slightly. “And you’ve earned five for not being embarrassed about it.” He nodded toward the typewriter. “Now finish your Sirius Black love triangle before I decide to downgrade you.”
“Fine, but if you laugh at the drama, I’m throwing you out a window,” Adara warned.
“Duly noted.”
Her fingers hovered over the keys, then paused. A thought crossed her face, curiosity bubbling up. “Wait—if you’re a fan, I have to ask. What House are you in?”
Luke’s smirk grew into something more mischievous. “Slytherin.”
Adara froze mid-keystroke, staring at him as if he’d just sprouted scales. “Slytherin? Of course you’re a Slytherin. The logical overachiever.”
“Hey, ambition’s not a bad thing,” Luke defended, holding up his hands. “We’re not all dark wizards, you know.”
Adara snorted, shaking her head. “Well, for the record, I’m a Gryffindor. So this whole ‘team effort’ we’ve got going? It’s basically a miracle.”
With renewed energy, she pounded the typewriter, the machine clicking and clacking in an almost approving rhythm. The faintest flickers of light hummed softly beneath her touch—unnoticed, as though the typewriter itself was entertained by the unlikely pair.
When she finally yanked the last page free, she slumped back into the chair with a dramatic sigh. “Your turn, logic boy. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”
Luke rolled his eyes but took her place at the typewriter, adjusting the chair like he was preparing for battle.
Adara perched herself on the edge of the desk, the torch now pointed at him. “So what’s your epic about, then? Please tell me it’s not about engineering.”
Luke snorted. “No. It’s a dark fantasy. Magic swords, spells, cursed kings… you know, the good stuff. Swords clashing under storm clouds and ruined kingdoms.”
Adara raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You’re living out your edgy medieval dreams, huh?”
“Better than staring at AutoCAD and designing parking lots for the next 40 years,” Luke shot back, his grin widening as his fingers hit the keys.
The typewriter sprang to life once more, its rhythmic clatter filling the room as Luke’s focus narrowed. Adara watched him, fascinated, her legs swinging idly beneath the desk.
“I didn’t peg you for a dark fantasy guy,” she mused after a moment. “Engineering to elves with magic swords? That’s a plot twist.”
Luke shrugged, not looking up. “I wanted to do something I was passionate about. Stories are messier, but at least they mean something.”
Adara tilted her head thoughtfully. “Yeah. I get that.”
Minutes passed as Luke hammered out words, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The typewriter hummed faintly, its glow pulsing softly with each keystroke, unnoticed by either of them.
Finally, Luke tugged the last page free with a satisfied nod and leaned back in the chair, exhaling like he’d just finished scaling a mountain. “Done.”
Adara clapped her hands slowly, mock-applauding. “Not bad, logic boy. Not bad.”
“It’s probably rubbish, but it’s done rubbish. That’s all that matters.”
Just as Luke stappled the sheets together with a triumphant grin, the library lights flickered back to life with an audible hum. The room flooded with warm, fluorescent light, as if the universe had been waiting for them to finish before deciding to cooperate.
Adara froze, mid-stretch, and stared up at the ceiling in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?! Now?!”
Luke groaned, running a hand through his prematurely grey hair. “Of course. Of course this happens now. We suffer, and the lights decide to make their grand comeback just to mock us.”
“It’s like the library itself has a vendetta,” Adara grumbled, crumpling her finished pages triumphantly in her hands. “But you know what? We’re done. DONE.”
“Done rubbish is still done,” Luke reminded her, pushing back his chair. “Come on, let’s submit these manually before something else decides to go wrong.”
They stood up, ignoring the faint humming sound still coming from the typewriter. Behind them, an almost imperceptible glow pulsed along the machine’s edges—soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that had grown stronger in the torchlight.
“You hear that?” Adara asked, glancing back at the desk as they grabbed their pages.
Luke shrugged, already halfway to the door. “It’s probably just the room settling.”
“Or the universe plotting its next prank,” Adara muttered, following him out.
They hurried through the now brightly lit library, clutching their pages like trophies, both too relieved to argue as they made their way toward the submission box just outside the professor’s office. With dramatic flair, Adara slammed her pages down first, Luke following suit with a thud.
“There. Victory,” Adara declared. “Now let’s get out of here before something explodes.”
Luke nodded, smirking. “Agreed. I’ve had enough surprises for one day—”
But just as they turned toward the hallway, an earsplitting BANG erupted from the direction of the typewriter room, followed by a sound like a swirling tornado of wind and magic. Light—blinding and brilliant—spilled through the crack beneath the door.
Adara froze, eyes wide. “What. Was. That?”
Luke turned slowly, his expression deadpan. “Something exploding. You somehow called it.”
Before they could react further, the door to the back room burst open, the light swallowing the hallway for a moment. Then, out of the chaos, a massive figure stumbled forward, knocking into a bookshelf with a resounding thud.
It was a fat orc, easily eight feet tall and decidedly out of place. His green skin gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he squinted around the library like someone waking up from a particularly vivid nap.
The truly absurd part? He was wearing a Hogwarts student uniform—complete with the red-and-gold tie, a slightly torn robe straining at the seams, and a badge embroidered with the House crest. In one giant hand, he gripped an oversized fluorescent light bulb, holding it aloft like it was some enchanted battle staff.
Adara’s jaw dropped. “What… the actual… fuck?”
The orc looked at them, blinking slowly before breaking into an unnervingly cheerful grin. “Oi, mates! Which way’s the Great Hall? I’m starvin’.”
Luke and Adara stood frozen in place, staring at the hulking creature before them. Luke finally found his voice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Adara tugged at Luke’s sleeve, her voice an incredulous whisper. “Is he holding a… light bulb… as a weapon?”
“Yes,” Luke whispered back, eyes locked on the orc. “And he’s wearing a Gryffindor uniform. Of course he’s in Gryffindor.”
“Hey! Gryffindors are brave!” Adara hissed defensively, before turning back to the orc, her voice rising. “And who—what—are you? And why are you in our library?!”
The orc frowned, scratching his head with his free hand. “Name’s Braglok. Was just mindin’ my business, y’know, savin’ the wizardin’ world and all. Next thing I know—POOF!—I’m here.” He waved the fluorescent light bulb with pride. “Pretty sure this is my wand now. Good, innit?”
Luke pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering through clenched teeth, “This cannot be happening.”
Adara, on the other hand, stared at Braglok with something close to admiration. “You know what? This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Luke’s head snapped up, his face pale. “Coolest?! Adara, there’s an ORC… with a LIGHT BULB… standing in our library!” His voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and existential dread.
Braglok squinted at them, looking utterly unbothered. “Oi, mates! Which way’s the Great Hall? I’m proper lost.”
Luke’s eyes widened, his voice dropping to a whisper as realization sank in. “The Great Hall… Braglok…” He pointed a shaking finger at the hulking orc. “You’re from my story.”
Adara blinked, turning to Luke with an incredulous grin. “Wait. WHAT?”
Luke ignored her, staring at the orc like he was staring down a nightmare. “Braglok the Hungry. You’re from the chapter I just wrote. Magic swords, spells, cursed kings… and YOU. Why are you HERE?!”
Braglok grinned proudly, waving his oversized fluorescent light bulb like a victorious hero brandishing Excalibur. “Told ya, mate. Savin’ the world. You wrote me, didn’t ya? Reckon you summoned me here proper good!”
Adara looked between the orc and Luke, her face lighting up like Christmas. “**Oh. My. God. You wrote this guy?! I thought you said your story was dark fantasy, not comedy.”
“It WAS dark fantasy!” Luke barked, gesturing wildly at Braglok. “But he was supposed to be in a battle—armour, swords, a cursed king—not holding a… a LIGHT BULB and asking for directions to Hogwarts!”
Braglok frowned, his massive brows knitting together in confusion. “This ain’t Hogwarts?”
Adara, already doubled over, let out a cackle. “This is amazing. Logic boy, your imagination betrayed you.”
Luke dragged a hand down his face, his expression a mix of panic and disbelief. “No. No, no, no. This doesn’t make sense.” He turned, staring back at the now-quiet typewriter as if it held the answers.
“What doesn’t make sense?” Adara asked, still grinning ear to ear.
Luke snapped his fingers, his eyes widening as he paced like someone connecting all the red string on a conspiracy board. “Think about it! Braglok’s from MY story, right? But he’s wearing YOUR Gryffindor robes and talking about Hogwarts. Our stories… they’re mixed up.”
Adara’s laughter faltered. “Wait, what? Mixed up? How?”
Luke pointed accusingly at the typewriter room, his voice rising with every word. “That stupid, glowing typewriter! We BOTH used it. I wrote Braglok’s chapter. You wrote about Hogwarts and your Sirius Black love triangle. Somehow it mashed our stories together!”
Adara’s jaw dropped as she spun toward Braglok, taking in the Gryffindor robe straining at the seams and the light bulb clutched proudly in his hand. “So what, you’re saying my Harry Potter fanfic and your ‘edgy medieval’ epic collided? Like… like a book blender?”
“Yes!” Luke groaned, clutching his head. “It’s the only explanation. That typewriter isn’t just old—it’s cursed. Or enchanted. Or something!”
Adara stared at him for a beat, her eyes wide with glee. “That. Is. AWESOME.”