Title: And Which Reality Is This Again?

Author: Scribe

Fandom: Harry Potter Mary Sue

Pairing: None this chapter

Rating: PG-13, possibly R

Summary: My author avatar is once again dumped into a fanfiction universe. This time she lands in Hogwarts

Archive: Lists, WWOMB, others ask

Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com

Status: WIP

Sequel/Series:

Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. Um, except Scribe--she's me, uh, mine. Heck, you know what a Mary Sue is. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Alan Rickman was not hurt in the making of this fic, and would probably be completely astonished by it.

Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Notes: *Sings, a la Dolly Parton* "Here she comes agaaaaiiin..." What can I say? I've had Mary Sues bottled up for years, and suddenly realized that I COULD post them, it WASN'T illegal, unethical, or in such vain bad taste that the Fanfiction Net Police would hunt me down and shove my keyboard somewhere uncomfortable. Let them try. My Muses will beat them up. I'm finally writing nookie on a regular basis for Ares, and if you think he's gonna let anyone stop me...

And Which Reality Is This Again?
By Scribe

Scribe settled down at the keyboard, checking to see that everything was ready for a comfortable session of fanfiction writing. *Let's see... Insulated cup of ice and 2 litre bottle of Diet Pepsi, rice cakes, tissues incase I need to blow my nose, phone within reach, animals fed and watered. Ready to go.* She punched the power button and, as the computer booted up, intoned, "Let the creativity begin."

It didn't.

She opened a fresh MicrosoftWord document, copied on a header template, then sat and stared at the screen, fingers curved over the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. Finally she took a hefty swig of Diet Pepsi, hoping the caffeine would jar something loose from her psyche. Still nothing. *Okay, let's be systematic. What can I work on? I need to do chapters on... on... Well, just about everything. Acacia, Littermates, Seeking Balance... They just found out that Joxer is knocked up in Seeking Balance, and I need to work out how Zeus is going to take it, and if I don't have Jonathan and Vlad having sex in the next chapter or two of Child of the Night, the readers are going to get out the pointy sticks.*

She stared at the screen a little longer, then logged onto the Internet. *Screw it. I'll check my email first.*

The CSI Mary Sue was getting a lot of pleased responses. *Mary Sues have come a long, long way. A few years ago, I wouldn't have shown that to anyone but my closest friend, but now I'm posting it in front of God and everybody. The Proverb Series does well, too.* She tapped her fingers on the desk. *I wonder if anyone would be interested in reading any of my other little fanfiction flights of self-indulgence? I could try it.* She chuckled. *After all, they can't very well take away my 'net connection. But which one? Hmm... something new, very new. Oo, I know!*

She started filling out the template. *Why am I doing this? Don't I write in enough fandoms as it is? I wouldn't have thought of this if they hadn't cast Alan Rickman as Snape.* "Missssster Potter," she breathed, putting a sibilance in the title. She giggled. *Thank you, God, for Alan Rickman. He is SO good at being bad.* She cocked her head thoughtfully. *Come to think of it, I've had quite a few fantasies about his characters. There was the German mastermind in Die Hard--AFTER the Gudonov character. Then there was the Sheriff in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. And now Snape. Oof. Or maybe that should be 'woof'.*

*Let's see... No title as yet. Author, Scribe. Fandom, Harry Potter. Pairing, dunno yet. Disclaimer, blah, blah, blah. Summary, remains to be seen.* She typed 'Part One', double spaced, then sat there, flexing her fingers. Finally she sighed. *Not a legitimate plot bunny in sight, or an illigitimate one, for that matter. Okay, we go for Mary Sue, then.* She snorted. *Right, like I didn't expect that to happen. Eh, I don't HAVE to post this.*

*Okay. Um... They're trying a spell at Hogwarts, and something gets out of hand. Yeah, that could bring in multiple levels of reality. Like, their Muggle world is not THIS world, but rather an alternate reality for this world, aaaand... And THIS world is part of their LITERARY world. I'm somehow snatched into their world, and weirdness abounds. Yeah, that'll do it.*

*Details, details. The students were given a project for over the summer holidays. They were supposed to prepare a spell that could be used to summon up a literary character. Draco Malfor, that magnificent brat, wants to sabotage Harry, of course. The book Harry was going to use... Uh, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I think. Harry was going to summon Aslan. Okay, Draco does away with the book--steals or destroys it before they get on the Hogwart's Special. In a panic, Harry goes back onto the Muggle platform, hits the little store that sells magazines and stuff to the travelers, and buys the first paperback he can lay his hands on.*

She started giggling. *It's a book about a fanfiction author writing a book about a fanfiction author getting sucked into a universe where Harry Potter is just a book character. Can you say 'convoluted'? I wonder how many layers of reality that is?*

*The first day back, Harry attempts his revamped spell. Draco mixes around some necessary ingredients, then trips Neville Longbottom at an inopportune moment, Jupiter aligns with Mars, the moon enters the Seventh House, and the spell works--only too well.*

There was a bright green flash, and Scribe fell out of her chair. Actually her chair wasn't there anymore. "Ow! Son of a..." She heard gasps. There were faces peering down at her--lots of them, and all of them too young to hear what she had been about to say. "Seaturtle," she finished. "What, precisely, is going on here?"

"Well, Mister Potter, I do believe this is the most successful summoning of the day." The tall, thin woman in black robes and square-rimmed glasses consulted a paperback book. "She exactly resembles the description, and," she quirked an eyebrow, "judging from what I think she was about to say, the personality rings true. Well done. You may send her back now."

Scribe glanced up at the green-eyed boy with the untidy black hair and round glasses. He smiled at her apologetically. "I'm sorry about the inconvenience. I'll send you right back."

She stared at him. "Thanks, Harry, but if I remember how vague my plotlines were, I highly doubt that. Go ahead and try, though."

He gestured at her with his want. "Reverso literati." Nothing. He tried again.

Scribe said, "Mind if I stand up while you try this? My booty is a little sore." She stood up, rubbing her bottom, and surveyed the room. Yes, definitely a classroom. There were several adults besides McGonnagal present. "Oops, the staff is watching. No pressure."

A tall, dark-haired man said sourly, "Trust Potter to conjure up a smart alec."

He was a little shocked when the woman... Well, the only proper word was cooed, "Well, helloooo, Professor Snape!"

Harry still wasn't having any luck. A girl with long, curly hair, said, "Honestly, Harry! Let me try."

Scribe waved at her. "Hi, Hermione. Good luck, but I don't think it's going to work."

Hermione frowned, and said loftily, "I got best marks in spell reversal."

"Wouldn't doubt it. Have at, babe." Hermione waved her wand and spoke the spell. Scribe clutched her head and screamed. There were yells of surprise, and Hermione dropped her wand in shock. Professor McGonnagal started forward, a concerned look on her face. Scribe straightened, smiling. "Sorry." There were humphs, and she shrugged. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

"This has gone far enough." McGonnagal drew her own wand. "Young woman, please cease blocking the spells."

Scribe spread a hand on her chest and said, in tones of purest innocense, "Me? Let's clarify this, shall we? I'm a Muggle, can we agree on that?" She saw heads nodding. "Not only that, but I'm a FICTIONAL character Muggle, right?" More nods. "Says you. What if I said YOU were all fictional characters?"

Harry scratched his head. "Well, from what I remember about that book, we ARE fictional characters--to you."

"From what you remember?" Snape's voice was ominous. "Mister Potter, do you mean to say that you summoned a character when you were not fully acquainted with her, er, character?"

She seated herself tiredly in an empty desk. "Oh, don't fuss at him. It's not like he had any real choice in the matter, and if you want to lay any blame," she pointed at a handsome, pale boy with silvery blonde hair, "Draco destroyed the first book, bollocksed up the ingredients, and tripped Neville." She waved at a gaping, round-faced boy. "Hi, Neville."

"That's a lie!" shouted Draco.

Scribe stuck her tongue out at him. He reddened. She drawled, "You're beautiful when you're angry." Professor McGonnagal tried the spell three times. It failed. Scribe yawned. "Told ya."

"Stop fighting it!" Snape snarled.

"Oh, I'm sorry--I thought we'd covered that. I CAN'T fight magic. Hello? Muggle?"

Minerva was looking concerned. "I'm afraid we'd better send for Dumbledore."

"Terrific. Maybe he can solve this. Lord knows I hadn't figured out how I was going to get back to my home world."

"Did someone wish to see...?" Dumbledore came into the room, and spotted Scribe. "Oh, dear." He walked over to her.

She stood up and offered her hand, smiling. "Hi, Professor. Or should I say Headmaster?"

"No need for ceremony. Dumbledore will do for the present." He adjusted his specatcles. "I'm assuming that the summer project didn't go exactly as planned?"

Harry looked sheepish. "Not as planned at all."

Snape said darkly, "I wouldn't be so sure of that. This is exactly like someting Potter would do."

She was shaking her head. "Come off it. This is exactly like something FRED and GEORGE Weasley would do. In fact, I bet they kick themselves for not thinking of it."

"You know a great deal about our students and staff."

"Fair. I'm not a trivia buff on Potterdom, but I've heard the first four books on audio--unabridged, and I've seen both of the movies." She pointed at Snape. "It's all your fault. If they hadn't cast Alan Rickman in your part I'd probably be working on a Strife/Cupid story right now, instead of being stuck in some multi-dimensional anomaly."

Snape looked at Dumbledore. "She's quite mad."

Scribe shrugged. "You CAN find a number of people who'd take that side in a debate."

Dumbledore hummed. "I believe the children should be dismissed to their next classes, and we can consider this further in my office."

Scribe stood up. "Sounds like a plan, since you're probably the only one who can figure this out. Will I get to see the phoenix? I've forgotten its name." The children filed out, and Dumbledore began to lead away the woman, who was goggling around. "Wow. The set dressing just doesn't do it justice."

Snape followed, and Dumbeldore said mildly, "Severus, don't you have a class?"

"I thought..."

Scribe gave him a small smile. "You mean you're going to give the students a free period? Somehow that didn't strike me as your style."

"Matters of style aside, you have business to attend to, Severus," said Dumbledore. "Now, if you will excuse us."

The woman wiggled her eyebrows mischieviously at Snape as she followed Dumbledore, and Snape felt a curious twinge. "Cheeky wench," he muttered.

She was around his own age, and he was the youngest instructor at Hogwarts. It was rather odd, seeing a woman who wasn't a collegue, or one of those bumpkins from Hogsmeade--even if she WAS a rather infuriating Muggle.

She'd reacted oddly. Most Muggles when confronted with magic had one of three reactions: total denial, catatonia, or hysteria. This one had acted as if she were on holiday in a very interesting foreign land--one she'd studied a bit.

Part 2

Notes: Guy Fawkes is a famous figure in British history. He once plotted to blow up Parliament. Every year the country celebrates when he was brought down, having huge bonfires, and buring him in effigy, so that makes the phoenix's name rather appropriate, eh?

"The entrance to my quarters," said Dumbledore, "is on the second floor."

They were standing at the head of a flight of stairs, and Scribe could look down and see what was obviously the front door. "Isn't THIS the second floor?"

"No, this is the first floor."

Scribe pointed. "But isn't THAT the first floor?"

"No," said Dumbledore patiently, "that is the GROUND floor."

"Ground floor," she repeated. "Oo, that's right! Not only do y'all drive on the left side over here, you number your floors funny." Dumbledore quirked one shaggy eyebrow. "No offence meant, but it sure looks funny to ME. But now that I think of it, the difference was used as a plot point in Someone Is Killing The Great Chefs of Europe. A man had to hurry to the second floor of a building to save someone, and he went to the second floor by the American interpretation, when all the time he was supposed to be on the floor above it, the THIRD floor to us, but the second floor to you, and..." She trailed off. "I go off on a tangent occasionally. But if I have a hard time just dealing with how you number your floors, you can imagine what it would be like for me to have to deal with the whole magical environment, so I'm hoping you can send me home pretty quickly." She glanced back. Snape was glaring after them. When he noticed her attention, he turned in a swirl of black robes and disappeared around a corner. "Maybe not TOO quickly. A couple of hours would be nice."

He was watching her with amusement. "Well, we'll see what we can do. This way." He led her up a staircase (she kept a firm hold on the bannister, since she DID remember the tendency the staircases had to move unexpectedly), and over to a statue of a gargoyle. "Toffee." The gargoyle slid aside, revealing a door.

"Whoa. Bet you don't have too many unwanted visitors. So, you usually use candy as a password?"

He opened the door, and bowed for her to enter before him. "One of my weaknessess, I suppose."

"Well, if you ever REALLY want some privacy, try Gobbstoppers, or Oompa Loompas." She cocked her head at the wooden spiral staircase that was slowly twisting, the steps rising up into the dim reaches of the tower. "Cool." She stepped on the bottom step and began her ascent.

Dumbledore stepped on behind her. "Well, you're taking this much more calmly than I expected. Even the children raised in wizarding families are usually quite impressed by the stairway."

"Oh, I'm impressed, but it's not all that different from an escalator. I used to love riding those when I was a kid, and they seemed pretty magical to me back then." She shrugged. "I didn't know how they worked any more than I know how this works, but I accepted THEM, so I can accept this."

They rode up to Dumbledore's office. The first thing she looked for when they arrived was the phoenix. She'd caught him at a good time--his plummage was full, and brilliant. "Oo, hello, bird. May I just say that you're gorgeous?" Beaks weren't capable of forming smiles, but the bird seemed to be trying.

"His name is Fawkes," said Dumbledore, going to his desk.

"Ohh." She peered back at the bird. "Hi, Guy."

"Now, then," Dumbledore sat behind his desk. "Do have a seat, and we'll see if we can't thrash this out." She sat in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk as Dumbledore pulled a paperback book from his pocket. "This is the tome that Harry used in his summoning spell. Perhaps it can give us an idea about how to resolve this problem."

"You're welcome to try, but I have to warn you--it's seldom that easy in fanfiction."

Dumbledore began paging through the book. "Let's see... It begins with an introduction to the character--Scribe Mozell."

"That would be me. And there has to have been some hoodoo going on, because quite frankly I doubt that any author would just choose a name like mine off the top of their head."

Dumbledore studied the book. "Dear, dear. Did Draco really do that? He'll have to be dealt with. Such actions are manifestly dangerous."

"Can I offer a bit of advice? Go ahead and peek at the end of the book." Dumbledore pursed his lips, as if trying not to smile. "Go on, I won't report you to the Literature Police. And if my trip here is the main plot line, the resolution should be right about at the end."

"That makes sense." He opened the book at the back, and his eyebrows went up again. "Oh, my." He kept flipping forward, his expression becomeing more worried.

"I REALLY don't like this. What's wrong?"

Dumbledore had opened the book near the front again. "I'm afraid that we won't be able to use this to show us how to get you home." He handed the book over.

She opened it in the middle of the book. Blank pages. She paged forward, then back, then ruffled the pages with her thumb. Aside from the first few pages, the book was pristine. "Bloody hell!"

"Please, Miss, your language!"

"Oh, excuse me, I meant to say 'what the fuck?!' And don't start on me. If anyone was ever entitled to swear a little, I think I am right now." She sighed, tossing the book back on the desk. "It ends right after I... the character... Whatever. Right after the transportation. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, since that was as far as I'd gotten in my own plotting. Now what?"

"This is most awkward. Once we determine HOW to return you, we need to be very, very accurate, or the results could be dangerous, and not just for you."

She nodded. "Fabric of reality, fates of interlocking universes, and all that happy crap?"

"Um... You're terminology is a bit colorful, but it DOES state the case. I had hoped to keep this a private matter, but I believe that the Ministery of Magic will have to be called in."

She snorted. "Fuddy-duddies." When Dumbledore gave her a reproving look, she shrugged. "I don't know how they are here, but in MY world, their press is none too good. You're going to talk to Cornelius Fudge, right? I'll bet you..." she searched her pockets. "Rats. All I have is this giant Lifesaver. Do you like wintergreen?"

"Enormously."

"And you'll know what you're getting, not like the Bertie Bott's Beans. I bet you one giant Lifesaver that he suggests putting me in Ahzkaban."

Dumbledore threw up his hands. "Oh, surely not! No one in their right mind would suggest exposing an innocent person to the Dementors."

"Then you'll win. Take the bet," she wheedled. "These are terrific. I hear that if you stand in front of a mirror in a dark room, then crunch them with your mouth open, you can see sparks. Something about chemical energy being released when the sugar crystals are broken, or something. Hey, I know it's not much next to magic, but I think it's pretty neat."

Dumbledore looked tempted. "Very well." He held up a warning finger. "But you mustn't tell anyone about this. It wouldn't look right."

"I'm a clam."

Dumbledore contacted the Ministery of Magic through the fire. He got Fudge's secretary, who didn't want to bother his boss at first. Dumbledore made it very clear, though, that this was important. A few minutes later Fudge stepped out of the fire. Scribe wasn't any more impressed than she'd expected to be.

He listened to the explanation, eyeing her suspiciously all the while, as if she were some new species of insect--one that might jump and bite. She couldn't resist giving him her 'psycho stare', with an occasional 'I've got a knife and I wonder what I should do with it?' grin thrown in for good measure.

"Is this the book?" He took it. "I'll get the Research Department on it immediately. But Albus, I must warn you that it's likely to take a good deal of time, if it's at all possible. In the meantime, we must decide what to do with this Muggle. She can't be allowed to just wander about, and a simple memory wipe won't work, since she doesn't appear to have a former life to return to."

Scribe folded her arms. "She's also sitting right in front of you," she said acidly, "and she doesn't enjoy being discussed like a lamp, or a feeble minded housepet."

Fudged blinked. "Have a bit of an attitude, do we?"

"We? Please! Everyone has an attitude, but some of us are a wee bit more DEFINED than others."

Fudge's eyes narrowed. "Someplace secure. Perhaps Ahzkaban."

Dumbledore sighed, and Scribe patted his arm. "It really wasn't fair. I've read too many examples of how his so-called mind works."

"Drat. And I AM fond of wintergreen." She handed him the Lifesaver, and he unwrapped it, smiling. "Thank you." He popped the candy into his mouth and said sternly, "Cornelius, I'm surprised at you! The very idea of exposing anyone but a dangerous criminal to the Dementors."

Fudge had the good grace to look flustered. "Of course I'd give them strict instructions that she wasn't to be... er..."

"Drained?" she suggested. "And you honestly think that would make a bit of difference to them?"

"She's quite right," said Dumbledore firmly. "It's out of the question."

Fudge sniffed. "Well, I'm open to suggestions." His tone said that he highly doubted there were any other viable options.

"She can stay here."

"But Albus, this could take years."

"Most of our students are with us for six years. If you haven't found a way to send her back by then, I think we can equip her to make her way in this world."

"WHAT?!"

"You turn the prettiest shade of purple," Scribe remarked. She looked at Dumbledore, "As much as I hate to say it, I can see his point. I'm pretty sure that The Powers That Be would object. Anyway, I'd go bonkers, just hanging around here."

"Oh, you wouldn't be just 'hanging around'," said Dumbledore placidly. "You'll be following a full course of studies, just like the other students."

"Say what? Wait a minute, I did almost eighteen years, stop and start, in school of various levels in my own world, and I never managed to make a living off it. No, thank you. Had enough. Don't want any more."

"Would you prefer to spend the time in a comfortable room in the dungeon?"

She stared. "I thought you were against imprisoning me?"

"I am, but you cannot simply be turned loose, and I do not think that you could make it on your own in the Muggle world even if you were not a threat to our secret. If I'm not mistaken, Muggles are rather fanatic about papers and official records. As far as they are concerned, you do not exist, and I believe you'd have a jolly hard time convincing them otherwise."

She frowned. "There is that. I don't know how it is in England, but in America, if you can't show two valid proofs of identification, you're flat out of luck in getting a job, even one of the cruddy ones I used to have. Not that people don't GET those Ids, but I don't have the criminal contacts or money to do it without getting caught, and then I'd have the whole 'who the heck did you say you are?' bit all over again." She sighed. "I can't afford it, you know."

Dubledore smiled gently. "We do occasionally have scholarship students."

She rolled her eyes. "Terrific--now I'm a charity case. I can hear Draco Malfoy now. Well, shoot--maybe Ron Weasley will finally catch a break from his snarking."

*****

By dinnertime the story was all over the school. The assembled students stared at the woman who stood before the high table. There had been nothing in the Students' Spare Wardrobe that would fit her, so she was draped in an extra teacher's robe. She wasn't wearing one of the house scarves, though. The student's whispered to each other. Were they going to use her as an assistant teacher? Some of the students believed that having a genuine Muggle to help with Muggle Studies would give Hogwarts and advantage over the other schools. But then, she wasn't really one of THEIR Muggles either, was she?

Dumbledore stood up, and there was silence. "Knowing this school, I am sure that all of you have heard several different versions of what happened this morning during the literary summoning demonstration. We have accidentally gained a reluctant visitor--Miss Scribe Mozell, from an alternate version of the Muggle world." She waved. "The Ministery of Magic is working to find a way to send her home, but it may be quite a long time in coming," he paused gravely, "if a solution is EVER found." There were gasps. "In the meantime, it has been decided that Miss Mozell will reside at Hogwarts. Since we cannot have anyone in residence who is neither student, nor staff, it has been decided that she will be a student. A modest scholarship has been provided, and she may, in the future, find some way to earn extra money for any little luxuries she desires. This arrangement will continue till either a way is found to send her home, or she completes a full course of study."

There were excited murmurs, most of them concerning which house she would be placed in. Snape raised his hand. "Headmaster?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"I offer to take her into Slytherin. I feel that she may require a watchful eye."

Scribe gave Snape a sharp look, her hands on her hips. He stared back. She seemed ready to say something, but McGonnagle spoke up. "So, Severus, you think that the other heads of the houses, myself, for instance, would not be up to the task?"

"That wasn't waht I meant, Minerva."

"In any case," said Dumbledore, "she will be placed in the traditional manner. Minerva, get the sorting hat, if you please."

As McGonnagle left the room, Scribe put a hand over her eyes. "Oh, lord. Well, at least it shouldn't fall down over my eyes." When McGonnagle returned with the hat, Scribe gave her a pleading look. "Do I have to sit on the stool? My legs are a little long for it."

"I'm afraid so."

She winced. "Charming." She lowered herself carefully onto the stool, her knees bending at an uncomfortably sharp angle. "I can tell you right now, it's not going to be Slytherin. I'm not devious enough, no matter what I claim in my stories." There were grumbles from the Slytherin table, and laughter from the others. McGonnagle settled the hat on her head.

There was silence. The hat shifted a little, then twisted toward McGonnagle. "You ARE aware that this is a Muggle?"

"Yes, but she has to be sorted, even if she can't do magic."

"Oh, I never saig that she can't do magic, I just mentioned that she's a Muggle." The excited whispering started again, then died at fierce stares from the instructors. "Funny sort of Muggle, though," said the hat thoughtfully. "Not Slytherin--she's quite right that she isn't, er, cunning enough to fit in there. Hufflepuff? Well, she can plug along, but she's a bit flighty for them. That leaves Ravenclaw and Gryffindor." Silence. "She isn't serious enough for the completely intellectual. Better go to Gryffindor."

There were approving shouts from the Gryffindors as she took off the hat, handed it back to McGonnagle, and made her way to the table. Hermione and Ron made a place for her between them, and a place setting appeared as she sat down. She smiled at them, and at Harry, across the table. "Are you guys sure it won't damage your reputations to be seen with a first year?"

"Oh, my gosh!" gasped Ron. "That's right! You're just a first year, and you're... you're..."

"Old. You can say it. I AM pretty ancient, from your point of view. So, Hermione, can I count on you to tutor me if I'm absolutely hopeless?"

Hermione blinked. "You're asking me for help?"

"Sure. You're the diva of scholastics around here, aren't you? They'd just better give me a pass on the broom riding thing, though. I'm not flexible enough to be falling from heights."

"I'm afraid you've made some enemies in Slytherin," Harry warned.

"Harry, Slytherins don't really MAKE friends outside their own house, do they? With their sort of mindset, there isn't much point in lying low and keeping quiet--they mistake you for a doormat." The food appeared, and she gaped. "Gloriorski!"

"I've never heard that before," said Ron.

"And it isn't what I'd normally say when I was surprised. I'll have to watch my mouth, or I'll have points taken away, right and left."

"What WOULD you say?" asked Neville, curious.

She smiled at him. "You're too young."

Part 3

"I WILL NOT wear dresses."

McGonnagle frowned. "Miss Scribe, they are the standard uniform for girl students."

"I'm not a girl--I'm a woman. I hate dresses. I look ridiculous in them. I haven't worn a dress in close to twenty years, and I'm not going to start now."

"This is most irregular."

"So expel me."

*****

The next day she came down to breakfast after most of the other student's had been seated. There were gasps and mutters as she took her seat and began to fill her plate. "She's wearing BOY'S clothes!"

Draco Malfoy's voice floated across. "Hi, Mozell! Can't you tell the difference between boys and girls?"

"Yes, Draco. Can you?" There was general laughter. "Muggle fashion, kiddo."

At the head table, Snape spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by most of the students. "It seems that some people believe they deserve special treatment."

Scribe looked up innocently. "Oh, Draco isn't THAT bad."

More laughter. Ron whispered, "You know, I don't think that anyone's ever managed to make Snape and Draco blush at the same time."

"You'd better watch it," Hermione whispered. "You have Snape for Potions."

"Hermione, I could kiss his feet, and it probably wouldn't do any good. I have a feeling that once Snape makes up his mind it would be easier to shift Stonehenge than to change it."

Neville, who had been listening, gaped. "You wouldn't REALLY move Stonehenge, would you?"

She exchanged looks with the others. "Only if I was very, very well paid. How on earth do the house elves manage to keep the bacon so nice and flat?"

*****

Scribe was looking about with a touch of nervousness. Ron said, "First time in a dungeon?"

"This SORT of dungeon. I was in one once run by a friend from the Internet--Mistress Steele, and it was..." She trailed off, noticing that the other students were listening curiously. "You're too
young."

Professor Snape swept into the room, and stopped short at the sight of the woman. "This is third year potions."

She nodded. "I'm not officially starting till tomorrow. I'm supposed to be collecting equipment and supplies today."

"And?"

"And Dumbledore told me to come to you for whatever I'd need for this class." She fluttered her eyelashes at him and said sweetly, "Can you give me what I need, Professor?"

Snape's hands were clenching into fists, half-hidden by his robes. The students exchanged questioning glances. Why would he be upset by such an inoffensive question?

"Class, turn to page nine in your textbooks and begin the transparency potion. You--come with me." He stalked to the storeroom at the back of the room as they began to obey. Opening the door he said, "Well, don't just stand there. Get in."

Scribe thought about saying that she was choosy about who she allowed behind her, but remembered that she could have points taken away from her house, and she didn't want to let her fellow Gryffindors down. Kids took these things so seriously. She sidled past Snape, and he entered behind her. Pointing a finger at a lamp, he created a flame, then shut the door.

Scribe looked around. The room was very long, and very narrow. It had counters on each side, and the walls above and below them were covered with shelves. The shelves were crammed with the oddest assembly of objects, boxes, bottles, jars, boxes, and etceteras that she'd ever seen. Her nose crinkled. It wasn't the pleasantest smelling place she'd ever been. Snape's voice was condescending. "Offensive to your delicate sensibilities, Miss Mozell?"

She smirked. "I grew up in the middle of oil refineries, chemical plants, and marshes. You'll have to go a ways to find a smell I can't handle."

"Really? I look forward to your reaction when we do the canker potion. I always loose a few students on that. First thing, you'll need a cauldron." He opened a cabinet and began taking out objects. "Mortar, pestle, scales, weights, scalpel, tweezers, gloves..."

"Can I have a box? Juggling isn't one of my talents." He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. "That wasn't meant as a smart-off--it was a bald statement of fact."

"You are insolent, Miss Mozell."

"You don't like insolent?"

"No."

"Could have fooled me. I thought that you and Draco got along famously."

He took a deep breath. "I will make allowances for your adjustment to your new situation, and will not take points away this time, but you should watch yourself in the future."

"Gotcha."

"Put your things in the cauldron. That's how most of the students carry them." He took out a small, partitioned box, and a supply of jars. "You will carry your ingredients in this." He began to fill the receptacles with roots, powders, liquids, goos, and unidentifiable objects. "There are labels and a quill there. Mark them as I give them to you."

"Where's the ink?"

"For heaven's sake, woman, just write! It should be full. Sea snake scales." She scratched the nib on the label, and it wrote easily--TOO easily. It blotted. He sighed. "Oh, lord. Not another
Longbottom."

"Patience is a virtue. I've never used one of these before."

"I assumed you'd know how."

"Well, you know what they say about 'assume'."

"What?"

"You don't know?"

"No."

She printed neatly. "I forgot."

His eyes narrowed. "You're going to make this year interesting, aren't you?" She spread her hand on her chest with a 'who, me?' expression.

Snape found himself looking at that hand. Beneath the vest and the boyish white shirt there was the swell of bosoms. She heaved a sigh, and they bobbed gently. "What are those red, wiggly things."

"Blood worms."

"Ick."

"Marsh salt. Unicorn hoof shavings. Frogstools."

Finally the case was filled with jars, the last ones labeled much more neatly than the first. As he closed and latched the case, Snape said, "I hope you appreciate the generosity of Hogwarts. The other student's have to buy these items themselves, and I don't appreciate having my stock dipped into like this."

"Which is more appropriate--remorse, or gratitude? I can do both."

He took a quick step toward her, and she took a half step back. That was all she could manage, because she came up against the back wall. "Miss Mozell," he said softly, "it is in your best interests to be civil. I can make your stay at Hogwarts very unpleasant, if I so choose." *She's frightened,* he thought. *They can't hide that. But it's almost as if she's excited, too.*

Mozell swallowed. "Professor," her voice was very soft. "I have no doubt you could." She tilted her head, bringing her face closer to his own. Her eyelids lowered, and the faintest hint of a smile curved her lips. "I bet you could make it very pleasant, too." Head tilted even more, closer. He felt a brush of warm breath against his ear. "Dare I say even pleasurable?"

Snape froze, staring down at the woman in astonishment. He felt himself begin to get hard. She laid one hand delicately on his shoulder and slipped between him and the counter. He felt the brush of her breast and hip, and got even stiffer. She picked up her kit, cradling it before her, and smiled back at him. "You know, you're a very attractive man. I bet your hair would be gorgeous with a good shampoo and conditioner." She slipped from the room.

Snape leaned against the wall, staring at the door. He needed to get back to his class. There was no telling what the hooligans could get up to, but... He reached down and wonderingly felt the bulge in his fly. When was the last time that had happened? Oh, he had sex occasionally on breaks, or in the small bordello that Hogsmead pretended didn't exist. But to get a spontaneous erection from no more than a bit of closeness, a bit of suggestiveness... He closed his eyes. "She's a student. She's a student."

The class remarked later that Snape seemed rather preoccupied.

*****

"Let me get this straight--not only am I a first year, I have to take remedial courses?"

"Miss Mozell," said McGonnagle, "you must be practical. There are things in our life that we do not teach her for the simple fact that they are so basic that we assume that our students will already know them when they come to us."

"You know what they say about assume."

"No. What do they say?"

"You're too young. So, you'll be teaching me this kindergarten level stuff?"

"No, I'm afraid my schedule won't allow it. There is only one instructor who is capable, and has some free time." She looked past Mozell. "Ah, here he is."

She turned, and her stomach gave a tiny lurch as she saw Severus Snape entering the classroom. "Oh, joy," she said faintly.

McGonnagle said, "Severus, here is your pupil. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a lesson plan I need to fine tune." She left.

The man and woman stared at each other. Finally Scribe said, "What are they holding over your head?"

"You're assuming that this was forced on me, Miss Mozell, and you know what they say about 'assume'."

Her mouth dropped open, and she said slowly, "And now it sounds like you do, too."

"I'm proficient at researching Muggle colloquialisms. Very colorful. I volunteered."

"Why?"

"As I said--I think an eye should be kept on you. First lesson..." He held up a feather. "Quills, and their usage."

*****

They sat side-by-side at a table, scroll spread before them. "Parchment. What I wouldn't give for a legal pad or a spiral notebook."

"Complaints will get you nowhere. Grasp the quill. No, no--not so far up. Not so far down, either. You aren't supposed to strangle it. It isn't going to fly away--not unless Neville Longbottom has possibly been practicing spells around it. Here," He put his hand over hers, molding her fingers around the quill. "Like this."

She shivered slightly. It wasn't that his hand was clammy, as she might have been led to expect by the books. No, it was quite dry and warm, and his touch was firm. She sensed a lot of strength in that hand. She was speaking before she realized it, and the words she heard coming out of her own mouth made her wince inwardly. They were so corny that he was bound to tell her off. "You have very strong, smooth hands. Do they get that way from all the grinding and mixing that you do in your work?"

His grip tightened a little. His voice was very quiet. "Miss Scribe, are you teasing me?"

"Would I do that?"

"A question is not an answer. Answer me."

The door opened. "I left it over here..." Ron's voice trailed off, his hand poised over a textbook lying under a desk. Hermione and Harry were peeking in from the hall, and all three sets of eyes were fastened on the two adults. Snape sat back slowly, letting his hand drop. He stared at them, one after another. He didn't blink. "Potter, Weasley, Granger--you are interrupting a class."

"What sort of class?" asked Ron suspiciously.

Snape looked over at Scribe. She returned his look without comment. "Life lessons. I want an entire page of copy work, with no spills, smudges, strikeouts, or blots. You may bring it to potions tomorrow." He got up and left the room without saying anything further.

Scribe smiled wanly at her three friends. "I'm treading Campbells."

"What does that mean?" Ron asked.

"It means," said Harry, "that she's in the soup. How are you in trouble with Snape, Scribe?"

"I'm not sure, but he may be taking me seriously."

Part 4

*And that's the problem,* she thought later as she lay in bed, staring up at the canopy overhead. The dorm was dark, and quiet. (This was a hoot in itself. Imagine--all the college she'd done, and NOW she was sharing a room with three other girls--all of them young enough to be her daughter, had she been that way inclined.)

She hadn't really flirted before--not consciously, anyway. She'd always assumed (there was that word again) that if she HAD, it would have been met with derision--good natured, or otherwise. It had never occurred to her that someone would take her seriously.

*I could have misunderstood,* she thought. *After all, it isn't as if I have a massive amount of past experience to compare it with. Maybe I ought to lay low for awhile.*

This was what she thought--consciously--as she drifted off to sleep. But deep inside, a tiny portion of her mind was doing a gleeful dance of impatience.

*****

She confounded herself by actually enjoying the lessons, though she DID feel ridiculous, towering over her classmates. The superior age and height had its advantages, though. It kept teasing to a bare minimum when she blundered (which didn't happen as often as she might have feared.)

Potions was her last class of the day, and she was a little late getting there. Her longer legs might be an advantage, but she wasn't used to magical architecture, and its tendency to rearrange, so that lost her some time. When she arrived, the only open spots were in the front row--there were several vacant desks there. Apparently only Slytherins felt comfortable sitting that close to the watchful eyes of the Potions Master.

Snape looked up and watched for a moment as she hovered in the doorway, scanning the room. At last he said, "Unless you have already mastered the spell for creating a new des, Miss Mozelle, I suggest that you take a seat." He pointed to the desk directly before him. "There." She took a step forward, letting her hand rest on the empty desk at the outside corner. He shook his head and pointed again. She received a few sympathetic looks as she walked over and took the seat.

Snape stood up and began his lecture. "You are here to learn potions. While it may not have the flare and flash of some of the other disciplines..." He shook his head. "I fear that few of you will be able to appreciate the art of this science. If you are willing to devote your studies, you can learn to move the very fabric of the universe." He stopped by Scribe's chair, looking down at her. "I suppose that's hard for the Muggle mind to grasp."

"You know," she said, so softly that only he could hear, "I bet you could actually insult me if you tried just a little harder." She raised her voice so that the class could hear. "Not really. After all, plain chemistry seems a lot like magic to me most of the time, so I don't see why I'd have a hard time accepting actual magic."

Snape frowned, but turned away from her. "What do you expect to get out of this class?" he asked a boy sitting behind Scribe.

He had been sniggering at Scribe, and Snape's sudden attention startled him. "A passing grade?" he squeaked.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Really?" he said doubtfully. "And you?"

The girl he addressed (she had hair so red she might easily have been a Weasley) stuttered, "I... I need it to graduate."

Snape scowled, and pointed at another student. He said, "I hope to invent a potion that can be used as a really tasty diet soda."

Scribe twisted her head to look at him. "You mean they haven't managed that here, either? Well, good on you. I wish you well."

"And YOU, Miss Mozelle," said Snape. "What do YOU expect to get out of this class?"

"Honestly? I expect to learn how to do some things, and still not understand how they work, the same as I would with regular chemistry back home. I'll probably learn enough to get by, but not shine, and still be astonished with myself."

He nodded slowly. "An honest answer, but not a doltish one." He looked around the class. "I suppose we'd better start with the very basics. You will grind an ounce of sea snake scales into a very fine powder. Go on, and I don't want to see powder flying all over creation, so be sure to turn your head if you must sneeze."

The rest of the class was spent learning the difference between 'grind' and 'pulverize', and the differences between slicing, cubing, chopping, mincing, julienne, and decimating. Given her previous interest in cooking, Scribe did quite well on everything but the last. Who would have thought that it was possible to get anything finer than 'mince' without a food processor?

*****

"What?"

It was after dinner, and Scribe had caught up with Dumbledore as the students were leaving the dining hall, chattering excitedly. "An introduction to the unicorns. It's a school tradition. Each term the first year girls are brought out to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to be introduced to the forest unicorns, and receive their blessing. The beasts are greatly attracted to innocent young maidens, you know, and they become restless if there are any nearby that haven't been inspected and blessed. Last year we were a bit late, and they actually came out onto the school grounds, and it isn't good for them to be out of the forest, you know. The first year girls, and whatever older girls wish, will be escorted to the forest edge by one of the female instructors, and the rest of the student body will hang back to observe."

"In other words, they only like virgins."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It's just that the unicorns are very particular with whom they associate. They have a general dislike of most men, and in women..." He trailed off at her cynical look. "Um, absolute physical purity isn't necessary, you understand. There was one girl from a very unfortunate family background who refused to go to meet them, certain that she'd be humiliated before the whole school. The gentle creatures sought her out, and all of them conferred their blessings. Then there was another girl I am quite was PHYSICALLY pure, but..." He shrugged. "She died some years later serving Voldemorte's cause, and the beasts chased her away, acting more threateningly than I've ever seen before. So you see, while nothing is absolute, it might be better if..."

"You don't have to convince me. Large hooved beasts make me a little nervous, anyway. I went through the 'horsy' stage in pre-adolescence, just like any other girl, but I never actually had DEALINGS with equines."

*****

So there she was on the front lawn in the twilight, standing near the teachers, and a little away from the giggling boys. No matter what they pretended, everyone knew exactly what it took to get close to a unicorn. She watched as the girls edged closer to the trees, giggling. Scribe watched without too much interest, until the first pearly white beast came slipping through the trees, peeking out shyly. They were beautiful.

Almost two dozen of them drifted out of the forest. They looked like small horses, except for the small beards, cloven hooves, and the gleaming spiral horns that grew from their foreheads. They were all shades of white, from snow to cream, pale gray, and even gleaming gold (like a Palomino), and one...

Dumbledore noticed her stare, and touched her arm. "The stallion."

He was fully as big as a large horse, and his coat was as dark and shiny as obsidian, but his horn (as long as a man's forearm, but tapering to a wicked point) was silver. He stepped almost daintily among the children, pausing to inspect each first year girl. They would stand still in breathless awe as his velvety soft muzzle quested over their shoulders and arms, then step back. "He's not touching his horn to any of them," Scribe observed. It had been explained to her that the touch of a unicorn's horn was its blessing. All the other unicorns were tapping the girls on their heads, shoulders, or arms.

"That is Apex. He has led the forest unicorns for nie on to two hundred years, and he very seldom confers a personal blessing. I believe that the last one was your mother, Harry," he said to Harry Potter. Apex was standing at the edge of the group of children and unicorns, looking back toward the others. He lifted his head and stretched his neck toward them, breathing deeply, scenting the air. "I wonder what Apex is up to?"

The unicorn tilted his head, as if puzzled by something, and began to walk slowly toward the gathering near the school. There was a surprised buzz among the assemblage. "This is MOST unusual," muttered Dumbledore He lifted his voice, "Please, everyone remain calm, and stay still. Unicorns are not normally aggressive, but they can be fierce fighters if they feel threatened."

Apex drew closer, swinging his head from side to side as he sifted through the scents that the evening breeze brought him. He shifted his course, angling slightly. When he was a dozen yards away, he stopped abruptly, head jerking up. He snorted and stamped, then headed directly toward Scribe.

She was frozen, eyes fixed on that sharp horn. It would be just as effective as any spear, should the animal decide to attack. She apparently wasn't the only one who thought that, because Snape pulled his wand and lifted it. Dumbledore caught his arm, though, hissing, "Wait!"

"Dumbledore, we can't risk her safety!" Snape replied hotly.

"A unicorn has never harmed an innocent, Severus."

"But..."

"You may hold yourself in readiness, but I don't think there will be any need."

Apex stopped only a foot or two away from Scribe, and regarded her with dark, intelligent eyes. She closed her eyes as he stretched his neck and began to sniff her delicately, soft nose nudging her bosom and neck, warm and surprisingly fragrant breath *It smells like honeysuckle. How the heck do they DO that?* blowing over her face. Then Apex gave a satisfied snort. He bent his head and tapped her gently on the top of the head, then on both shoulders, like a king conferring a knighthood. Finally satisfied, he turned and trotted briskly back to his herd, neighing to them. They obediently turned, and in moments they had all melted back into the deepening forest shadows.

There was quiet among the assembled students and teachers. Scribe found all eyes trained on her. She sighed, and looked back at them wryly. "So? You've never seen a virgin before?" She noticed that Snape was watching her very closely. "And I have naturally curly hair, too." She turned, flicking her robes dramatically, and stalked into the school with as much dignity as she could muster under the collective eyes of Hogwarts.

She went directly to her dorm room, got into her nightshirt, and crawled into bed. *The only thing marginally as humiliating as being outed as the school slut is being outed as a post adolescent virgin.* Her dorm mates had arrived. She heard one of them clear her throat. "Yes, I know what 'doing it' entails, in its many and varied forms. How did I learn? By reading books. Take that to heart, ladies. You can learn a lot that way. I also had other visual aids, but we won't go into that right now. And no, I will NOT discuss it. Go home and pester your parents about it over the holidays. I'm not paid to be a sex education instructor, and I'm going to try not to do anything that might come back to bite me in the bottom. Now, go to sleep."

There were a few dissatisfied mutters, but the girls eventually crawled into bed, extinguishing their candles. Scribe pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the whispers. She didn't say any more. After all, they wouldn't be girls if they didn't gossip.

*****

Snape was sitting on the edge of his mattress, staring at the dancing flame of the candle on the stand beside his bed. Finally he shook his head. "A virgin--at HER age?" *Well, it's either that, or she has an innocent, child-like spirit.* He remembered the glint in her eyes, the suggestiveness of her smile, the way she'd brushed against him, and shook his head again. *That woman has a distinctly risque attitude, and I would bet my last knut that she's been deliberately trying to provoke me, so I'd say that Apex was operating on the traditional physical definition.*

He stood and removed his robes, almost absentmindedly. Each year, the group of girls who went out to meet the unicorns from the successive classes was smaller and smaller. By senior year only a small percentage made the trip to the forest's edge. None of the female instructors approached the unicorns--even the escorting instructor hung back, but the unicorn stallion had made a special trip to bless this woman.

*Well, she's not infirm or hideous, so I suppose that keeping her physical purity to this age SHOULD be considered worthy of recognition. After all, there must have been quite a few men willing to relieve her of her virtue.* He slipped between the sheets and blew out the candle, thinking, *I certainly intend to try.*

Part 5

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'NO INTERNET ACCESS'?!"

McGonnagal winced. "Miss Mozell, lower your volume."

"WELL, I'M SORRY, BUT THIS CALLS FOR -YELLING-! THE VERY IDEA!"

"Please do not force me to transform you into something mute." Scribe opened her mouth, then
snapped it shut, and seethed. "That is the loudest silence I have ever heard."

Scribe took a deep breath, and managed to achieve some small level of rationality. "You should see me shout in sign language. Maybe I misheard you. You couldn't possibly have said that there isn't a single Internet hookup in Hogwarts, or Hogsmeade."

"Computers are a Muggle invention. There are a few members of the wizarding community who have educated themselves in their use, and use them on a regular basis, but they are by no means common."

"AAARRGH!"

McGonnagal turned her into a rabbit. It didn't work. They were in an empty classroom, between classes, and the bunny whirled around and kicked her feet against the teacher's desk so hard and fast that it sounded like a drum solo at a heavy metal concert. Then Scribe got a sly look on her face (and that expression was quite disturbing on a rabbit--they were never meant to look sly) and nipped Minerva on the ankle. For some reason, an idea about a story involving the characters of her favorite radio serial suddenly popped into her head. The really odd thing was that it was a romantic story involving the two main MALE characters. She shook her head, trying to dispel it,
with little success.

Next the teacher tried turning her into a moth. She'd never known on to flap their wings so hard that they buzzed. Finally she tried turning her into a goldfish, and dropping her into the water pitcher on her desk.

Snape came into the room. "Minerva, have you seen Mozell? She's due for a lesson." He blinked. "And why is that goldfish in your water pitcher smashing its head against the side?"

McGonnagal sat down heavily. "It's her. I don't know what to do. She's being most unreasonable about the lack of electronics here at school. I knew that computers had become very widespread in the Muggle world, but I had no idea..."

"You'd best change her back."

"But Severus, she was approaching hysteria." She watched as the goldfish raced around the pitcher, then smacked into the glass again. "And she doesn't seem to have calmed down."

"She's a stubborn woman, Minerva. If you try to leave her like that till she's resigned to it, I believe we'll have to lay in a stock of dried shrimp." He bent down, bringing his face close to the clear side of the pitcher. "Miss Mozell!" The fish stopped its frantic swimming, floating in place, filmy fins waving, glaring at him with flat eyes. They were blue. "Will you promise to calm down if Professor McGonnagal returns you to your proper form?" The fish waved its fins more quickly. He glanced at McGonnagal. "I can't be sure, but I think she's attempting to make a rude gesture." He looked at Scribe again. "Well? You had best make up your mind before Mrs. Norris wanders in." The fish managed to swim backward, then dipped its head. "Go on, Minerva."

"All right, but only because you're here to take her off my hands." She waved her wand. There was a flicker, and Scribe was standing in front of the desk, dripping wet. She glared at Professor McGonnagal. "That," she said coldly, "was rude."

"So was shouting at me over something that isn't my fault."

Her shoulders slumped. "Drat. You're right there. I'm sorry I lost it, but I'm going through withdrawal. I've been here three days now, without even access to a word processor. I'm going crazy!"

"I see no reason for you to use a gerund in that sentence," said Snape. "I believe that present tense, or even past, would be quite appropriate."

"Har-de-bloody-har." She shifted, and her feet squelched. "I haven't been thrown into a pool since that frat party my niece talked me into attending."

Minerva said, "Snape, Mozell, if you wouldn't mind going about your business. I need to get to a quill and parchment. I have something bothering me that I simply MUST write down." She didn't understand why Scribe had that smug smile on her face.

After Minerva left, Snape said, "What was that all about?"

"Ever heard of a plot bunny?"

"No."

"It's a fanfic writer thing--you wouldn't understand. If you'll excuse me, I need to go change." She
squished out of the classroom.

The halls were fairly deserted, since most of the students were in their common rooms, winding down from a day of classes, and preparing for dinner in an hour or so. She snagged the soppy tail of her robes and began trying to wring it out, muttering to herself as droplets pattered to the floor. "I hope this dries before Filch discovers it. The last thing I need is listening to him bitch. Clammy clothes always put me in a bad mood."

"Then you must, by all means, remove them as quickly as possible."

Scribe didn't quite skid as she came to a halt, though she probably would have, if the floor hadn't been carpeted. She turned to find Snape standing right behind her. Her eyes narrowed. "Does sneaking come naturally to you, or did you have to practice?"

He smiled sardonically. "It's a natural gift, but I'd hardly call following a student down a public hallway in broad daylight 'sneaking'."

"Okay, so you're not sneaking. Why are you FOLLOWING?"

"It's time for our lesson. You might be a bit more appreciative. If I hadn't come along, you'd still be scaly, and breathing water."

"Consider me grateful." She continued on, and Snape followed at her side. "Look, go light somewhere."

"I have nowhere else I need to be, Miss Mozell."

They'd reached the portrait of the fat lady. She was watching them with open curiosity. It wasn't often she saw a Gryffindor in the company of the Potions Master. "Well, you're not supposed to come into out tower unless it's on official business, are you?"

"Technically, no." He leaned against the wall. "Go on, and be quick about it. Since we can't very well take you to Olivette's, I'll have to find you a temporary wand. We won't find a perfect match, of course, but I should be able to manage something that won't blow up when you try to use it."

That was incentive. She stood on her tiptoes, and the lady in the portrait bent down, putting her ear within whispering range. Scribe murmured, "Tintinabula."

The portrait swung open. "Enter." She shut quickly after the girl, giving Snape a suspicious look. He just raised his eyebrow at her.

Conversation stopped in the common room as Scribe squelched her way across. Granger said, "Scribe, I warned you about using the bathroom with Moaning Myrtle in it, didn't I?"

"I have enough problems with public restrooms as it is, Hermione. No, this is from something completely different. It's really something. I was finally able to do something other than the Deadman's Float, and I was too PO'ed to enjoy it."

"What does PO'ed mean?" asked Colin Creavey.

"Uh... The same as 'brassed off'. Thank God for British slang online sites." She went up to her room and changed. A house elf came trotting in just as she was buttoning up her blouse, and she yelped, "KNOCK!"

"Oh, we begs pardon, miss, but we ARE a female, too, yus? Potion Master Snape told us you had laundry to attend to. Ah!" She picked up the soggy clothes, then sniffed them. Puzzled, she said, "Miss has fallen into the lake?"

"No."

"Hm. Funny. Water smells quite fishy." The elf shrugged. "We'll have these back for miss before she goes to bed, spit-spot." She trotted out.

"How anyone could be enthusiastic about doing laundry," Scribe muttered as she left the room.

Snape was still waiting in the hall. "No robe, Miss Mozell?"

"I'm a poor scholarship student--I only have one. The walls won't fall if I walk around in my civvies for a few hours, will they?"

"No. It's just a bit odd, seeing a woman in those Muggle slacks things."

"Shades of the 1920's. Don't witches wear pants?"

"Oh, some do for broom riding."

"I should hope so, what with people wandering around under them."

"Do you mean to suggest that wizards might take advantage and try to peep?"

"Do you mean to suggest that they DON'T? Have you people had your hormones checked lately?"

They had been heading down to the Dungeon, and had just passed into the lower levels. Snape stopped abruptly, turning to her, and she found herself between him and the wall, with very little spare space. "I can assure you," he breathed, "that my own hormones are in fine working order."

Scribe blinked. "Oh-kay. Glad to hear it." She edged sideways, extracting herself. Snape smirked. *Oh, ho, it's like THAT is it? Okay, I don't run.* "Can we get on to that wand? I'm ready to make magic."

He regarded her, then smiled slowly. "Perhaps, but let's get that wand first."

He unlocked a cabinet in the potions classroom, and studied the contents. "Well, I don't see you as going in for anything too delicate." He removed one that was a little longer than her forearm, and was made of pale wood. "This is willow, with a sea serpent scale inside." He handed it over, saying sharply, "Do NOT point anywhere but at the floor till I tell you." She held it gingerly, pointed down. "Now, let's see... What would be a relatively safe test?" He rummaged again, and pulled out a small stone pestle. "When I tell you to, concentrate on moving that, then flick the wand at it. Ready?" She nodded. "Now."

She squinted in concentration, and flicked. A bright orange bolt of fire flashed out and scorched the wall behind the pestle. She squawked and dropped the wand. Snape picked it up. "No, I don't think so." He handed her another one. "Ash, with a bit of mermaid fin." Scribe tried again. The pestle shot backward, chipping the stone wall behind it. "Another no go." Snape took the wand. "Hm. This one is a bit nicked, but still a good one. Try this, and don't try quite so HARD. You need to learn control before you try for power. This one is ebony, with an embedded Jarvey hair. Quite appropriate." He handed it over. "Try that."

Scribe sighed, and almost absently flicked the wand. The pestle stood on end, and spun lazily a few times before falling over on its side. She blinked at it in surprise, and Snape nodded in satisfaction. "That seems to be the one. Ask it its name."

She stared at him. "Look, I occasionally talk to inanimate objects when I'm frustrated, but they never talk back."

"Just do it."

She shrugged, held up the wand, and looked at it. "What's your name?"

A voice in her mind said, *Puddin' an' tame, ask me again and I'll tell you the same, you silly bint.*

She scowled. "Are wands often rude?"

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if this one was. Jarvey's are notoriously rude."

"Joy." She glared at the wand. "Give me a civil answer, or I'll hand you over to Neville Longbottom."

*No need to threaten! Call me Lenny.*

"Huh. Lenny Bruce, Lenny and Squiggy. Yeah, Lenny is appropriate for a smart-ass. Let's have an understanding, here. You don't sabotage me, and I don't use you to stir toilets."

*Sounds fair to me.*

"Got that settled?" asked Snape.

"You didn't hear?"

*I'm your wand. Why would that greasy git hear me?*

"Watch it," warned Scribe.

*Ooo, Scribe faaaaancies him!*

"There's a restroom just down the hall."

*Shutting up now.*

"Done?" asked Snape.

"I have a feeling he's not going to be able to restrain himself for long, but being a smart-ass myself, I think I'll probably give as good as I get."

"Delightful." He moved closer. "Does that apply to other aspects of your life?"

*Uh-oh.* She held the wand across her chest. Snape flicked his wrist, and she blinked to suddenly find him holding the wand. *Damn, he's fast.* "I'd rather hold on to that."

"You're not to use that at present unless you're being strictly supervised," he set it aside. "and that part of the life lesson is over for today." He was leaning toward her. "I was wondering about yesterday--that thing with the unicorns. I know Dumbledore told you about the 'more than physical purity' bit. I'm guessing that in your you ARE physically untouched. Am I right?"

"Why? Is there some sort of potion you need virgin's blood for?"

"There are a few, but most of them are related to the Dark Arts. I'm asking for purely personal reasons."

"Why do I think that the word 'purely' is NOT appropriate?"

"Because you're a fairly perceptive woman." He ran a finger along her collar, the tip just skimming her skin. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to shiver.

*Quick! Diversionary tactics!* "Did McGonnagal mean it? No computers at all? Not even a Commodore 64?"

Snape had the collar pinched between his fingers now. He paused and looked up at her, tugging it lightly. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"I've landed in an uncivilized world. Damn. I'd almost rather do without indoor plumbing."

"Hm. From what I've seen of Muggles, and how highly they prize their comfy thrones and hot and cold running water, I'd say that you must be addicted to this Internet thing."

"The term is not inappropriate. Look, I NEED a computer and Internet connection, and there HAS to be a way to get one!" It had occurred to her that Snape, as devious and manipulative as he was, would be a good ally to have in a campaign of any sort. She considered batting her eyelashes, rejected it as too formulaic, and settled on wetting her lips instead.

It seemed to work. Snape's gaze intensified to something along the lines of 'lazer'. "There might be. It all depends. How BADLY do you need one?"

"I've been known to walk almost two miles in bad weather, past yards that held psycho dogs, to get a half hour of access at the local library."

"Something MIGHT be arranged. I believe that an argument could be made that this would be a prudent addition to the Muggles Studies."

She nodded vigorously. "If you want the student's to be able to 'pass' when they go out among Muggles, they need at least a rudimentary working knowledge of computers and the Internet. I could teach them..." under her breath she added, "as long as they don't need much BEYOND rudimentary."

"Very well. I'll speak to Dumbledore about it. Now..." He started to lean toward her.

There was the sound of a ringing gong. *Talk about saved by the bell.* "Dinner time!" said Scribe brightly. "Boy, I'm starved! Swimming always gives me an appetite." There was the noise of students in the hallway as the Slytherins left their common room and headed for the dining hall. "You have supervision duty, don't you?"

He stared at her. "You have either the best or the worst luck in timing of anyone I've ever known." He took a half-step back, and offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took his arm, and they walked out into the hall, receiving curious looks and snickers from the students. *Well,* she thought, feeling the light touch on her arm very accutely, *It's beginning to look like we shall.*

And Which Reality Is This Again? 6

There was an immediate rise in conversation when Snape walked into the Dining Hall with the new 'exchange student' on his arm. He even went so far as to escort her to her seat that Hermione and Harry had saved for her among the Gryffindors before he made his way to his usual seat at the head table. The teachers watched this scene with fully as much interest as the student body, though considerably less talk. Snape disregarded both noise and silence, casually taking his seat and beginning to fill his plate.

Scribe glanced around the table, gaze skipping over her suddenly quiet tablemates, and said brightly, "Well--roast beef... again. Yummy. Do you suppose there's any chance of my teaching the house elves how to make chicken fried steak?"

Ron leaned over to look past Harry, gaping, and said, "I don't think I've ever seen Snape touch a student if it wasn't to drag them by the arm or ear."

"Maybe gumbo? I'd have to have a good bit of time if I wanted to teach them that. A decent roux takes a long time. The trick is to get it just the color of an old penny without burning it." Scribe began to ladle gravy over her Yorkshire Pudding. "Is there any way to get your hands on fresh shrimp around here? I mean, you people create all sorts of things, right? Of course you COULD do chicken and sausage, but what's the point if you can't get Andouli?"

Harry was regarding her as if she'd suddenly begun to speak ancient Greek. "Scribe--you came in HOLDING SNAPE'S ARM!"

She dropped her fork with an exasperated sigh and glared at him. "Well, tell me, Harry--can you suggest anything ELSE I should have held?" He immediately blushed. "Then drop it."

Hermione ventured, "It's just that you... Well, you almost looked like you were on a... date."

"You consider walking into a public mess room in front of several hundred adolescents and pre-adolescents to be a DATE? Man, are YOU going to be easy to please."

"Scribe..."

"If they couldn't manage gumbo, do you suppose they could do tacos or nachos? I mean, they're pretty basic. Cornmeal, ground beef, some cumin, melted cheese, chopped jalapenos... Wait, this is England--land of the bland. Okay, scratch the jalapenos..."

"You're not going to discuss it, are you?" accused Hermione.

"I KNEW you were a bright girl." Scribe was sitting with her back to the wall, facing into the Dining Hall, thus she had an excellent view of the other house tables. Her gaze roamed over the students, watching the usual giggling, whispering, and pigging out. She was noting that somehow or other Goyle seemed to have managed to snag a plate of pastries (even BEFORE dessert had appeared on the table. Must've bullied a house elf into popping it in early), when something occurred to her. She narrowed her eyes, studying the Slytherin table, then nodded to herself. "Guys..." Hermione sniffed. "Oh, for heaven's sake--LOOSEN UP! Guys and gal, take a discrete look at the Slytherins and see if anything strikes you as off."

Naturally Ron turned and stared, but Harry and Hermione were fairly casual. After a few moments, they looked at her questioningly. "Tell me, kids, what is the usual Slytherin action toward Gryffindors?"

"Well," said Ron. "snotty." Harry and Hermione nodded in agreement.

"I'll give you that, but if they aren't actively trying to tick you off or get you in trouble, what?"

"They ignore us," said Harry.

Hermione scowled. "Like we were beneath notice."

"Yes. Now, then, has it occurred to you that they are paying us WAY too much attention?"

"She's right," said Ron. "They're ALL looking over here. They're hardly paying attention at all. It's as if they're..."

A tiny green frog hopped out of a bowl of mashed potatoes, landing with a splash in the gravy boat. It started swimming for the side. "Like something's about to happen," finished Scribe.

Squeals and shouts began to ring out up and down the Gryffindor table as frogs began to appear--hundreds (if not thousands) of them, leaping from serving bowls, crawling out of bread baskets, littering the table and smearing the cloth with itty-bitty, teeny-tiny froggy footprints, printed in various sauces and food stuffs. Hermione had bee holding a glass of pumpkin juice, and it went flying when one amphibian poked its head up out of the sweet, orangish liquid and gave her a friendly croak.

The tendency toward instant hysteria is notorious in institutional settings that are filled with young people. Just try cutting off the lights for a minute at a school assembly--the screams will make you thing that a combination massacre/orgy is in full swing. In the blink of an eye there was a mad scramble as most of the Gryffindor house bolted away from the table, save for a few of the younger girls, who did the 'woman on a chair' bit. It didn't help them too much--the frogs could jump that far.

The rest of the Dining Hall joined the uproar, though many of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were going TOWARD the swarmed table, in order to find out what was going on. The Slytherins, who were suffering from a mass attack of unrestrained hilarity, stayed where they were, confirming their guilt in Scribe and her groups' eyes.

The teachers were startled by the sudden confusion, and they were a little slow on the uptake, trying to call for order and calm. *snort* Fat chance. There was good, old-fashioned panic going on. It started to escalate when it was seen that the tiny frogs were -growing-. They'd gone from the size of a toddler's fingernail to the size of 'shooter' marbles in a very short period, and they didn't seem about to slow down.

The only one who was keeping his head was, not surprisingly, Snape. Scribe knew that this could officially be classified as a grand slam cock-up, because his expression changed. It went from it's usual superciliousness or irritation to 'why me, God?'. Sighing, he stood, pulling out his wand. He swept it at the mass of ribbetting, hopping creatures and intoned, "Amphibious confuto incrementum." A faint shimmer seemed to pass over every frog, and he nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Now we don't have to worry about them growing large enough to dine on the students." Several of the Slytherins looked a little shocked at that. Apparently the fact that frogs are carnivorous, and that VERY large ones might go after 'big game' had never occurred to them.

Scribe looked up at a frozen, pale-faced Hermione. "Oh, for heaven's sake, girl--they're FROGS! I could understand if it were snakes or crawly bugs, but FROGS?" She shook her head, looking over at Harry, and said conversationally, "I never could imagine how that movie was supposed to be scary when it was just the frogs hopping toward people, croaking." He looked blank. "Right--before your time."

Things were calming down a little. McGonnagle said, "I suppose we'll have to figure out some sort of a gathering spell. The house elves don't like frogs."

Scribe stood up. "Can I offer a solution?"

"Please do."

She looked at Snape. "Professor, doesn't potion work often require frog bits?"

He regarded her with interest. "It does--both fresh, and preserved. Now that you mentioned it, Madame Pomfrey has asked me to formulate a fresh supply of sealing ointment to be used on minor wounds, and that requires a rather massive amount of, er, 'frog bits'."

Professor Flitwick whispered to Professor Sprout, "Testicles. You'd be amazed how many frogs you have to have to get an ounce."

"How about," said Scribe, "letting the students collect the frogs," said students began to make protesting noises, but she spoke over them, "for house points. Say one for every ten frogs turned in?"

Snape considered. "One point for every hundred."

"Oh, please! One for every twenty."

"One for every eighty."

"She's BARGAINING with Snape!" whispered Neville, in awe.

"Twenty-five," offered Scribe.

"It's more shocking than that," said Harry.

Snape's lips quirked, curling down slightly, but somehow his aura was more amused than irritated. "Seventy-five."

"How?" asked Neville.

"Split the difference?" asked Scribe.

Snape nodded. "Done. One point for every fifty."

"Snape," said Harry, "is negotiating with HER."

Scribe turned back to the staring Gryffindors. "You heard him. Grab those froggies!" She had a sudden flash of how many of her more ribald Net friends would interpret that, then soothed herself with the thought that most of the student's hadn't gotten the double entendre.

The Gryffindors quickly understood this unique opportunity, and began gathering up frogs by the handful. The moist, croaking beasties were gathered into bowls, pitchers, napkins, and (for the braver ones), gathered up robes. The members of the other houses exchanged looks, suddenly realizing that the Gryffindors were well on their way to snagging valuable points, quickly began to hunt up amphibious straggles. Everyone but the Slytherins. When Crabbe tried to capture a few, Draco quickly bopped him on the head, hissing, "Slytherins are NOT frog wranglers!"

Someone found a large sack, and they began emptying the little beasties into it. Scribe remained sitting calmly, occasionally snagging a frog as it hopped past and handing it over to one of the others. It was still a little confused. As most of the frogs were gathered up, house elves appeared to remove the dirtied food. Since most of the Gryffindors had almost completed their meals, they replaced it with dessert and fresh drink.

Scribe accepted a glass of cranberry juice cocktail from a shy house elf, patting him on the head. He blushed a rather alarming muddy color. As he started to back away, he spotted a tiny, nay, almost MINUTE bright green frog hopping up and down on the tabletop in front of Scribe. Not hopping around--hopping in place--up and down, up and down--as if trying to attract her attention. The elf squeaked, "Nasty green pad hopper leave Miss alone!" His voice quavered, but he said bravely, "Toastfork protect Miss!" He started to flap the thin towel he wore around his waist at the frog.

Scribe winced, quickly covering her eyes to avoid finding out just what a house elf wore beneath his towel. "No, really--it's all right."

*bribbit*

"Pardon me? Sweetie, what have you been eating?"

The house elf looked puzzled. "T'weren't ME, Miss."

*bribbit* *croak*

Scribe blinked at the frog. "Say what?"

*belch*

"Well, yes, the gravy IS awful rich, but if you're going to SWIM in it..." *blink* "I'm talking to a frog."

Hermione shook her head. "I've heard of parsletongue before, but I've never heard of anyone speaking FROG. It's not possible."

Scribe gave her a sour look. "So, just because you've never heard of it, it can't exist?"

"Um..."

*crick* *ribbet*

"Ignore her," said Scribe. "Well, if I can get dumped into a parallel dimension, or whatever the heck this is, I see no reason why I shouldn't be able to communicate with frogs. What's your name?"

*keeeer-it*

"Kermit? Good God, not a Muppets crossover! I'd never survive Gonzo and Animal, and Piggy would KILL most of the Slytherins..." She paused, looking thoughtful, then shook her head. "No, wouldn't be nice. So, Kermit, you have something to tell me?"

*ereh* Kermit turned and hopped busily over to a half-eaten roll that had not yet been collected. *kurout, kurout* Another, larger, dark green frog crawled out from under the roll and accompanied Kermit back to the edge of the table. While the rest of the room slowly came closer, staring in fascination, the frog began to chirp, ribbet, and croak busily.

"Mhm. Yeah. Go on. Five years? Oh, that's nasty." At that, all the teachers exchanged looks. The time period seemed to be significant. "Uh, huh. Well, why didn't he just..." She frowned. "Oh, he DID, did he? SOMEONE needs a serious butt kicking. Oh, I understand perfectly." She looked at the dark green frog. "No, really, you did the only thing you could do under the circumstances." It croaked. "Don't mention it--I think. Say Kermit, why doesn't he speak for himself?" *krrikit* "Oh. That makes sense. Well, as much sense as anything else around here."

Unable to contain his curiosity, Ron said, "Why DOESN'T he speak for himself?"

Scribe glanced at him. "Well, he can't manage human speech, and he isn't fluent in frog, since he isn't really a frog."

Draco Malfoy snorted, then said snidely, "I suppose he's an enchanted prince." There were snickers.

"Yes," said Scribe calmly. "That's exactly it."

There was silence. Trying to recover the edge, Draco sneered, "And I suppose you're going to kiss him and break the spell."

Again there was snide laughter. Scribe ignored it. She held out her hand, and the dark frog hopped into her palm. She raised her hand, slowly curling he fingers as the frog hopped along her palm, till she had a fist with thumb outstretched, as if she was hitchhiking. The frog perched on her thumb, tiny feet braced on the very tip. "Something like that. And Draco? If it was a choice between kissing him or you--he'd win." She bent forward. The frog stretched toward her. She dropped a soft kiss on his tiny, lipless mouth.

There was the sound of ringing chimes, and a brilliant flash of scarlet and gold light. Scribe felt a sudden VERY heavy weight on her thumb, but it quickly slid off, which was good, because she'd have been very irritated to end up with a sprained thumb after doing a good deed. When the light show faded, there was a young man standing beside her chair, both hands grasping her thumb. He was dressed in Hogwarts robes, with the Gryffindor colors prominently displayed. He was quite tall, very handsome, and had long, honey blond hair and bittersweet chocolate colored eyes.

There was a collective gasp from the instructors. "Merciful Merlin!" exclaimed McGonnagal. "It's Prince Rudolpho Bellisimonatiche!"

Scribe stared at the smiling man as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "He certainly is."

Hermione tore her eyes away from the prince's classically handsome features. "You know Italian?"

Scribe shrugged. "The way I know most languages--enough rude words and phrases to get myself in trouble."

Draco, who couldn't be impressed by anyone unless they had a longer bloodline, or more power, said, "A prince?"

The young man bowed. "As the signora said--Prince Rudolpho Antonio Bonaventure Sant Egi Pascalle Giuseppe Romeo Bellisimonatiche." There was a moment of utter silence. A frog croaked. He shrugged. "What can I say? They had promised to name their first child after a lot of relatives. My friends call me Rudy..." he smiled seductively at Scribe, "Though many of the signorinas call me Romeo."

She stared at him. "Uh-huh."

Even Dumbledore was looking a little stunned. "Your Highness, do you mean to say that you have spent the last five years as a frog--here at Hogwarts?"

He nodded. "What did you think--I would try to swim back to Italia? All I know is that one morning I am going along my merry way and *poof!* I am small and green." He grimaced. "It happened right outside the signorinas' lavatory. I am lucky I was not squished."

Severus broke in. "I remember this, of course. There was a dreadful row when you disappeared. The Italian Ministry of Magic sent a special delegation to search the school, and your own family sent a squad to help. I always wondered why you weren't found."

"And who says I wasn't found?" Rudy drew himself up, dark eyes flashing with the classic Latin temperament that made many of the older girls feel rather dampish in the knickers. "I WAS found--by the swine who is my cousin--Iago."

Scribe muttered, "DAMN those significant name coincidences."

Rudy gave her a tender look (one that made Snape glare), and continued. "You see, I am the only son. I have only sorelle. If I were to die, or disappear, he would be my father's heir. Yes, he found me near the drains, as I sat miserable. I went to him with joy, using mud to write out my plight on a paving stone. He GLOATED, the bastardo." There was a gasp from the teachers. "Scuse, but it is true. His mama, my zia," he shrugged, "no better than she should have been. The figlio di una femmina said he would take me along in a... a matchbox, and perhaps feet me to the carp in the villa's pond." He struck a drammatic pose. "I feared for my life."

Hermione was looking at him with wide, moist eyes. She clasped her hands (earning a disbelieving look from Scribe) and almost moaned, "Oh, how ever did you escape."

He looked noble. "I do not like to say before ladies and bambinos." He lowered his voice, "but I, er, relieved myself." He shrugged. "Iago was always a fussy one. I escaped into the drain, and I am sure he did not report our encounter."

"He did not," said Dumbledore gravely. "Your father has been most distraut, but has refused to give up hope of your safe return, since your portrait at home did not indicate that you were dead. He will be most pleased with this good news."

"Ah, such joy he will have! A son returned," he gazed soulfully at Scribe, "and a new daughter found."

"Say what?" she asked.

He dropped to one knee before her, still holding her hand, gazing up with the sort of adoration she had only ever experienced from a cocker spaniel. "What is your name, beautiful one?"

"Scribe Mozell." He repeated the name, rolling it with his accent. "Oo. That even gave ME a shiver."

"What I say, dearest, most darling Scribe, is... Do you want a June wedding? I never did finish my last year, and I'm sure Papa would prefer I got my degree before I married."

Scribe raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Lord? You're getting me back for all the Mary Sues I wrote, aren't you?"

Part 8

Dumbledore sat down, putting his head in his hands with a heavy sigh. "Oh, well--I suppose it was inevitable."

"With me here?" said Scribe. "Yeah, it's pretty well fated. Strife, what the hell brings you here?"

Strife made a sweeping gesture, taking in the entire dining hall, and Hogwarts in general. "Hello?"

"Yeah, I guess that pretty much covers it."

Strife glanced around. "Where's Malfoy?"

Scribe blinked. "Which one?"

Strife snickered. "Yah, yer right--it would be hard ta choose the best mischief maker between 'em, but since we're hear I mean tha junior one."

"He's over there hiding between Crabbe and Goyle."

"I am not hiding!" Malfoy said indignantly from behind the two hulking students.

Scribe rolled her eyes. "Look, there isn't really a problem unless he's forming a fireball or lightening bolt." She examined Strife's hands. He obligingly held them out, wiggling his fingers. "And he isn't. So you might as well come out, because if he goes LOOKING for you..." She looked at Dumbledore. "I take it you're not really interested in renovating the dining hall?"

"Draco," said Dumbledore. "If you'd step forward."

Draco edged out into view and approached warily. Strife strolled over and took a leisurely turn around him, looking him up and down. He chuckled. "Yah, tha blonds are always tha best at causin mischief. 'Cept for Joxer, an' his is never deliberate. He's just a trouble magnet." Strife turned quickly, and threw his arm around the shoulders of a very startled Neville Longbottom. "Like my man Neville here." Strife gave him a cheerful squeeze. "Kid, if Joxie wasn't still alive, I'd swear ya were him reincarnated. I've nevah seen anyone have so many accidents an' cockups in my long, long life." Neville had frozen, eyes roughly the size of dinner plates. They got even wider when Strife gave him a smacking kiss on the forehead, and ruffled his hair. "I'm havin a talk with Dite when I get back, Sport. Yer gonna be laughin yer butt off at tha guys who teased ya, at least when it comes ta luck with tha ladies."

Scribe said wryly, "Draco? Jaw up off the floor. The house elves don't need to deal with drool. Seriously, you don't have some sort of agenda here?"

Strife dropped into a chair with a negligent sprawl that was much too graceful to actually be casual. "Welllll... Maybe Unc DID ask me ta take a look at this Voldemort gonzo."

Draco said, "You mean to tell me that you've deliberately come here from wherever it is you come from..."

"Olympus."

Draco blinked, then sneered. "Right."

Strife cocked an eyebrow at Scribe. "Ya get tha feelin he doesn't believe me?"

"Draco," said Scribe patiently. "You've studied the Greek and Roman pantheons?"

"Mythology? Of course."

This seemed to amuse Strife. "An' what's yer definition of a myth?"

Draco just stared at him. Hermione, hearing information so blatantly requested, couldn't contain herself. "A myth is a traditional, typically ancient story dealing with supernatural beings, ancestors, or heroes that serves as a fundamental type in the worldview of a people, as by explaining aspects of the natural world or delineating the psychology, customs, or ideals of society, or such stories considered as a group. A popular belief or story that has become associated with a person, institution, or occurrence, especially one considered to illustrate a cultural ideal. A fiction or half-truth, especially one that forms part of an ideology. A fictitious story, person, or thing..."

Strife held up a hand. "Stop. Yer operatin under a fallacy."

Hermione frowned. "But that's the accepted definition."

"Fer short sighed idiots with their heads up their butts, mebbe. Lissen, kid, didn't anyone evah tell ya that when somethin becomes that much a part of a society, of tha lives of everyone in tha nation, when it's just BELIEVED so much--that there's gonna be a grain of truth somewhere in it?" Draco nodded hesitantly. Strife grinned. "Move that up from a grain ta a whole damn silo."

Draco folded his arms. "If you say so."

"An' he don't believe me."

Scribe put a hand on Strife's arm. "Strife, please. The house elves have enough to clean up as it is, and Dumbledore's a nice enough guy--I'd rather he didn't have to explain one of his student's being vaporized."

Strife shrugged. "I'm in a good mood." He addressed Draco. "Tell ya what--I'm feelin indulgent. What could I do ta convince ya that I'm a deity."

"As opposed to a simple wizard?" Draco contemplated this.

"Bloody hell," muttered Ron. "Malfoy is going to ask a Greek god to provide him with proof of his divinity. Where's a sodding camcorder when you need it?" Draco continued to think. And thought. And thought. Scribe checked her watch.

Snape had been looking pointedly between Scribe and Strife, frowning slightly. Now he took a half-step forward, subtly insinuating him himself between them. "If I might make a suggestion?"

The maneuvering hadn't been lost on Strife. He specialized in manipulation and strategy, after all. He just smiled. "Please do. I'm immortal, but I'm gettin tha feelin that I still might have a long gray beard by tha time tha kid comes up with somethin."

"It is an accepted fact of both magic and Muggle technology that there are two constants in the universe--matter can neither be created, nor destroyed."

Neville piped up, "But that time I was supposed to do the cleansing potion, and the caldron..."

"No, Mister Longbottom. You merely rendered it into its original atoms, you did not destroy it. As I was saying before I was interrupted..." Neville edged back, away from Snape's stare. "Matter cannot be created. If Strife were to produce something from nothing, I believe that would be, if you'll excuse the term, solid proof."

"But he could just teleport something in," protested Draco.

"Not if I do a shielding spell around him," said Snape firmly.

"Will it hold, though? He couldn't sneak something past?" Snape gave him a patented cold, down-the-nose, Snape glare. "Right. Sounds convincing to me."

Snape pulled his wand. "Please remain in one spot." Strife shrugged, cutting his eyes at Scribe with a smirk. Snape gestured with the wand, saying, "Segreo persona." The air shimmered around Strife, and Snape said, "If you'd extend your arms to test the boundaries."

First Strife closed his eyes and drew a fingertip from each eyebrow, down over his eyelids, to his upper cheeks. A black streak was left behind. He then drew his fingertip from each corner of his mouth, leaving himself with a dark, spread grin. Next, Strife put his hands out, and they pressed up flat against an invisible barrier. He looked surprised, then patted his hands along the clear surface. After a moment he extended his hands to the side, doing the same, then turned, and began feeling along the walls.

Scribe snapped. "STRIFE! There are some things you shouldn't do, even in jest, and A MIME IMITATION IS ONE OF THEM!"

"Sorry." He passed a hand over his face, and the make-up disappeared. "So, Scribe--any requests?"

"Pop Tarts."

"Why did I even ask?"

"I might have said Jim and Blair."

"True." He cackled. "Why not?"

"Because this is already enough of a crossover as it is."

Snape looked at Strife. "Do YOU understand her?"

"Nah, but it's fun ta try. Awright, Pop Tarts." He held out his hand, palm up. There were no theatrics--no flash, no shimmer, no mystical tone. A brightly colored cardboard box simply appeared in his palm. Scribe squealed and leaped toward him, arms outstretched. Only Snape's quick reflexes kept her nose from becoming even more uptilted.

Her legs were moving like a woman on a treadmill. "Lemme go! It isn't safe to get between me and pre-packaged breakfast toaster pastries!" She gained a few inches, and he hauled her back. "I mean it, Snape! You're cute as hell, but those are Vanilla Fudge with sprinkles! I WILL hurt you."

Strife snapped his fingers, and walked over to Scribe, offering the box. She forgot her training and simply grabbed, snatching the box to her bosum. Ron leaned over, curious. "What are those?"

She leaned back from him, wrapping her arms tighter, turning away as she snarled, "MINE!" Then she... Well, the only proper term is 'petted' the box, crooning to it. "I'm rich. I'm rich. I'm FAAAAAHbulously wealthy."

Hermione said, "What do those taste...?"

"Back off! Normally I'm a sweetheart, but I've been cold turkey for WAY too long, and I am now in greedy bitch mode." She looked at Strife. "I love you, but ONE box?"

"Where ya bunkin, kid?"

"Gryffindor tower."

He waved. "Ya got a case of assorted."

The observant could notice tiny whisps of green steam rising from Snape's head. "First off, how did you get through that sheild?"

"Didn't we just get through establishin my credentials?" He glanced at Draco, who was looking stunned. "Yer satisfied, right kid?" Silence. Gaping. "I'm gonna take that as a big yes. Ya can close yer mouth now--yer gonna catch flies." Strife looked at Snape. "Hey, man, do ya always have that expression?"

Some of the students were nodding, but Snape said, "The energy of the containment spell backlashed, and I now have a headache."

"Heck. Sorry about that. I'd offah ta get ya somethin fah that from Ace, but commutin between here an' there is a bit of a bitch, what with tha dimensional shit. Try layin down with a cool cloth on yer forehead," he leered, "or a hot bod on your bod. I find that both work pretty good." Snape blinked. Strife leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear. "An' don't think I didn't see ya cut yer eyes at Scribe when I said that." He snickered. "Good luck." He hooked an arm around Scribe's neck and kissed her cheek. "I'll be around, toots." He grinned maniacally, and started to speak.

She beat him to it. "When I least expect it. I know, I know. Pinch Cupid's butt for me."

"My pleasure--literally." Professor McGonnagle had been eyeing Strife with a mixture of disbelief and dismay that was irresistable to the Mischief God. He swooped over, snagged her, and gave her a fast, hard kiss--possibly involving tongue. He let go and jumped back just as she was reaching for her wand. "No charge, cutie."

*FLASH*

Hermione looked at Scribe. "You know the most interesting people."

"You have no idea."

McGonnagle rapped her knuckles on a table. "Students--to bed. Now! While I doubt that having you abed will erase the mischief making potential, it should at least lower it."

"With co-ed houses?" said Scribe innocently. She got stares, blushes, and giggles. "What?" The student's started to wander out, talking animatedly. Scribe paused by McGonnagle and said, "Fast, isn't he?"

"If he was running in Ascot, I would break my usual rules and wager on him."

"You said it. By the way--count your fingers." Minerva gave her a puzzled look, and held up her hands. "Ten. Better remember to check your toes before you go to bed. I won't ask you to take off your shoes in public."

"Miss Scribe, what ARE you on about?"

"While Hermes is officially the God of Thieves, Strife has been known to dabble, when it will cause mischief."

"Well, I am not missing any appendages."

"Uh-huh." She started to turn away, then said, "How's your wardrobe?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"He has REAL nimble fingers. You ought to check."

"This is perfectly ridi..." Minerva had started to pat down her clothes. She paused on her bosom, eyes going wide. She felt carefully, giving several of the male teachers and senior boys ideas that they found too interesting to be completely disturbing, and too disturbing to be completely interesting. Her hands moved down to her hips, and her eyes got even wider.

"What are you missing?" Scribe whispered.

"My... my brassier, and my girdle," Minerva whispered back.

"He left you your panties?" She nodded. "Damn. I wonder if he's getting mellow?"

The situation suddenly became clear to McGonnagle. She grabbed her robes, holding them tight against her side, shrieked, and ran from the room. Scribe called after her, "Don't let any men get behind you on steep staircases!" Scribe looked down suddenly at a hand on her arm. It was male, and adult. "Oh, look! Someone interested in trying out prosthetics!" The hand was removed. She looked up, and somehow wasn't surprised to see that it was Rudy. "Look, Guido, go find someone else to charm, wouldya? I'm not in the mood right now. And fair warning before you decide to try to kiss me--I've been known to bite, and I've been friendly with both vampires and werewolves, so I've learned from the best."

Rudy fluttered his eyelashes (Scribe later comtemplated the availability of Maybeline to wizards who were in the guise of frogs). "Such fire! Papa will be pleased. He's been complaining about the bloodline thinning out."

"WILL SOMEONE GET THIS TOMCAT THAT WALKS ON TWO LEGS AWAY FROM ME?"

Severus was pushing up his sleeves, reaching for his wand. Dumbledore quickly put an arm around the Italian prince's shoulders. "Come along, Rudolph. We need to contact your father. He may even want you to travel home by flue this very evening--I can only hope." He led the young man away, with Rudy still casting doe eyes... calf eyes... sheep eyes... It is making the author feel weird, knowing that with the extensive collection of ingredients in the potions classroom, those metaphores could very well be made literal. Anyway, he was making puppy eyes at Scribe as he was led away. While she was occasionally susceptible to that tactic, Rudy had proved himself sufficiently smarmy to make her immune in this case.

"Well," said Severus, "I believe I should escort you to your common room."

"I've never been walked home in my life."

"Then it's time."

"But why? I'm here in Hogwarts, which is supposed to be the safest place around."

"I know that. However, you seem to attract strange men out of thin air, so an escort is not entirely inappropriate."

They started out of the dining hall together. Most of the students had already disappeared. The ones who were left were going to be highly sought after for gossip. They would have dawdled and lingered, but Snape's glares could inspire more speed than a fire lit under someone's behind. They'd only gone up one floor before everyone had disappeared. Keeping her eyes on the stairs as they started up the next flight, Scribe said, "I just thought of something."

"And that would be?"

"You're protecting me from any possible accosters. Is that a word--accossters?"

"Perhaps in your universe. Here we prefer the term 'assailant'."

"Fair enough. You're protecting me from them." She cut her eyes up at him. "What's protecting me from you?"

They had reached the portrait of the fat lady. She'd been watching the couple approach, and indulging in the private passion of most of the paintings--eavesdropping. Rather than waiting for the password, she swung open and said sharply, "Enter--NOW!"

Scribe flashed a smile at Snape, and was through the door. She didn't manage a flash, like Strife, but she moved so quickly she almost managed a twinkle. The portrait snapped shut, and the fat lady looked down her nose at Snape. She flinched a little when she saw that he had his wand in his hand.

Snape DID consider blasting his way through to the Gryffindor common room, but decided it wouldn't be politic. He had a feeling that Scribe might find that a bit too aggressive. He put away his wand and stalked off, muttering, "What's protecting you from me? Speed, and bloody busybodies--that's what."

END PART 8