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 down the stairs. "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.

"Oh." 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."

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 what 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, thne 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 said 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."