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 been 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 think 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 feed 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. "God? You're getting me back for all the Mary Sues I wrote, aren't you?"