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And Which Reality Is This Again?	By : Scribe Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 2489 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Notes: Definition of myth courtesy of yourdictionary.com
And Which Reality Is This Again?

By Scribe
Part Eight
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 here 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, din't anyone evah tell ya that when somethin becomes that much a part of a society, of liv 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 onroperoper term is 'petted' the box, crooning to it. "I'm rich. I'm rich. I'm faaaaaaahbulously 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 chortled. "I'm a happy miser!" 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, blushesd gid 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."
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And Which Reality Is This Again?