Fic: The Fox and the Cr(azy, as Usual)ow (MFTAM)

[bookishwench]

A full list of previous chapters can be found here.


When Harry awoke the next morning, his first thought was how wonderfully comfortable he felt. He was warm, he wasn’t worried about being found, and he knew breakfast would be something lovely and delicious and filling. Unfortunately, his second thought was that today, they would have to move on from Dumbledore’s summer home and back into the search for Horcruxes. Ron was set to pick their next destination, and he wondered dimly in the morning quiet where they would sleep that night. At least they would have lots more food and supplies, enough to keep them from feeling hungry for a good long while, but the sense of peace and safety that filled the air here, not only from the charms Dumbledore and somehow made cling to the place even after his death but from the feeling that the headmaster had usually given Harry when he met with him, that would be gone.

“Okay,” Ron said glumly. “I’m up.”

Harry looked over to see him stretching, and moving a good deal less stiffly than they had in weeks. He glanced over to Hermione’s blankets only to find no one there.

“Where’d she go?” Ron asked.

“No idea,” Harry responded, then he heard water running upstairs. “Apparently she wants a last hot shower.”

“I wish we could stay longer,” Ron said, looking around the room fondly. “We really needed a break.”

“We really did,” Harry agreed. “Still, we’re not going to find another Horcrux lying about in here.”

“More’s the pity,” Ron said, flopping back down on his pillows. “When do you think we’ll need to leave?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said. “Maybe by midday?”

“Maybe,” Ron said, still looking unhappy.

“Any idea where you want to go next?” Harry asked.

“Blimey, I forgot it was my turn,” Ron said, sitting up. “I don’t know. Any ideas?”

“Oh no,” Harry said, slowly getting up. “No, I’m not putting forward any ideas until I have to.”

“Well, this one turned out all right,” Ron said. “We didn’t find what we were looking for, but it was still something we were supposed to get to eventually.”

“True enough,” Harry said. “We can talk about that later. Right now, there are more important things to worry about, like breakfast. What do you think? Porridge this morning?”

“Sounds blissful,” Ron said, “especially with honey and maybe some berries and butter.”

Harry took out a pot and a box of porridge from the cabinets and started about the business of making breakfast. To his surprise, Ron joined him, washing off some blackberries and strawberries and setting out the milk and honey and butter. By the time the porridge was ready, he had even gone through the refrigerator for some rashers of bacon and put half a dozen slices to fry in a pan next to the porridge.

“That smells heavenly,” Hermione said, coming into the kitchen already fully dressed and ready for the day. “Thank you for making breakfast.”

“You’re welcome,” Ron said, popping a plate of bacon onto the middle of the table while Harry ladled porridge into bowls.

No one spoke much during the breakfast, quietly savoring not only the good, hot food but the peaceful atmosphere. It was like the hunt had stopped, and Harry imagined for a moment what it would be like after they accomplished their task and they could go back to living their own lives, not worrying about the fate of the world or that Death Eaters would come pounding on their door at any moment. The thought filled him with a new sense of determination to make it a reality.

Just at that moment, exactly one piece of bacon remained on the plate, and Hermione had barely put her fingers on it when Ron nearly grabbed it himself.

“Oh,” he said, “ehm, sorry. You take it.”

“No, that’s alright,” Hermione said. “I can have some more strawberries instead. I’ve honestly lost track if this is my second or third piece.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Ron said. “Actually, this might be my fourth slice now I think about it.”

“Wait, Harry, did you have any at all?” Hermione asked.

“I had one, yeah,” Harry said. “We can always fry up a few more.”

“Not a bad idea,” Ron said, getting up. “I’ll put on a few more.”

Harry watched as Hermione raised an eyebrow at his rather gallant display of manners, and Harry himself was more than a little surprised. Apparently, enough food and sleep had restored a good portion of his civility, along with not wearing the Horcrux for several days. As Harry watched, a familiar smile came over Hermione’s face.

“What?” Harry asked. “There isn’t a story about bacon, is there?”

“No,” Hermione said, then frowned thoughtfully. “Well, there probably is if I try hard enough to remember one. No, I was thinking about a somewhat similar circumstance in a short little story about cheese.”

“I like cheese,” Ron said, shrugging. “Go on then.”

“All right then. We have enough time,” Hermione said, pulling back from the table with the slice of bacon still in her hand. “Once—”

“Upon a time,” Ron said, smiling as he put the rest of the bacon in the pan.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “There was a very intelligent, crafty fox.”

“You know, I never really got that,” Ron said. “Why is it that when people think of foxes, they automatically assume they’re smart.”

“I suppose because they’re quite good at getting into chicken coops and things like that,” Hermione said, tipping her head to one side. “Granted, other animals do that as well, but farmers have to be particularly careful about foxes since they can squeeze through some fairly tight spaces.”

“Yeah, but so can, say, rats,” Ron said. “And a good-sized rat can kill chicks or even chickens, but you never hear about crafty, intelligent rats much.”

Hermione seemed to consider this for a moment before saying, “Well, there are a few. The rats in ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin’ aren’t too bright, of course, but some Muggle books have smart rats, like in The Secret of NIMH.”

“Him? What him?” Ron asked.

“No NIMH,” Hermione. “It’s short for the American National Institute of Mental Health. In the book, they experiment on some rats and mice, and they become super intelligent and start their own society.”

“A rat-based society?” Ron asked. “What? They discover how to raid rubbish bins more effectively and take over the world?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “More like they create a strange hybrid of magic and science in a city inside a farmer’s rosebush.”

“Yeah, that’s likely,” Ron scoffed. “They’d probably just wallow about eating all day.”

“I think most people just don’t like rats all that much,” Harry said. “Black Plague carriers and all that.”

“Well, after Pettigrew, I’ve gone off them myself,” Ron said, grimacing. “I don’t know. It’s just like foxes seem to get a reputation for not only being intelligent but sort of mean about it into the bargain. Maybe it’s because they’re gingers. We always seem to get bad attention because of this stupid color.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid at all,” Hermione said. “I’ve always thought your hair was quite a lovely shade.”

She immediately blushed when she realized what she’d said, but she didn’t take it back.

“Yeah,” Harry said, thinking bittersweetly of Ginny. “Nothing wrong with red hair.”

Ron coughed a little at the attention and flipped the bacon with a rather pleased smile.

“In any case, this particular fox was indeed both intelligent and, as you’ve already guessed, not especially nice,” Hermione said, plowing forward with the story despite still being rather flushed. “One day, he came upon a crow sitting high up in a tree, and in his beak, he carried a lovely lump of cheese.”

“What kind of cheese?” Ron asked excitedly.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, looking blank. “Something with a bit of substance to it for the story to work. Maybe a nice bit of cheddar?”

“Cheddar’s good,” Ron said, looking dreamy. “I like cheddar.”

“You’ve been eating nearly non-stop for two days, and you still get downright lustful over food,” Harry said, laughing. “Seriously, it’s like you’re looking at Cindy Crawford’s picture again.”

“I’m allowed to appreciate a nice, finely aged cheddar,” Ron said primly as he fussed at the bacon a bit more.

“Yes, well, regardless of what sort it was, the fox looked up into the tree and was filled with envy over the cheese,” Hermione said.

“Question,” Ron said, prodding the bacon again. “What’s the difference between envy and jealousy? Or is there one?”

“Sometimes they’re used interchangeably, but they’re not really the same thing,” Hermione said. “Envy means you want what someone else has, sometimes to the point of not wanting the other person, or in this case crow, to have it. For example, if Harry had a hat or something and you wanted it very much, maybe even wishing he didn’t have so you could, that’s envy.”

“Okay, so what’s jealousy then?” Ron asked.

“Jealousy is more like being suspicious,” Hermione said. “If you had a position in the Ministry, for example, and you suspected that one of your co-workers was secretly trying to take your job, you might have feelings of jealousy about it.”

“And the other bloke could be envious of your job since he doesn’t have it and wants it?” Ron asked.

“Yes, although it’s more common to use jealousy for people. People get jealous over their spouse or sweetheart talking to someone else and suspect them even when nothing at all is happening,” Hermione said. “That sort of thing can completely ruin a relationship.”

“Reminds me of Lav,” Ron mumbled. “Okay, so as the fox isn’t romantically involved with the cheese and thinks it’s cheating on him with the crow, he’s envious, not jealous.”

Hermione looked at him as though he’d gone bonkers for a moment, but then slowly nodded, agreeing, “Yes, technically, you’re right.”

“Goody for me,” Ron said, scooping the extra bacon off the stove and onto the plate again. “Take something, Harry.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Harry said. “Smells delicious.”

“Yes, an excellent job, Ronald,” Hermione said, taking a bite of a hot piece of bacon as well. “Your cooking has really improved. In any case, the fox was filled with envy about the cheese, and he decided then and there he would find a way for it to be his own.”

“So what did he do?” Harry asked. “I suppose he could try climbing the tree, but the bird would just fly off.”

“Yes, exactly,” Hermione said. “He needed to use his brain rather than his strength as the bird would easily elude him.”

“Okay, so what’s his plan?” Ron asked.

“Instead, the fox looked up at the crow and started to compliment him,” Hermione explained, then put on a smooth, polished voice for the fox that unfortunately sounded just a bit like Draco Malfoy’s drawl. “Why, dearest crow, you look simply marvelous today!”

“It’s a crow,” Ron said flatly. “He can’t fall for that. He’s got to know that he’s nothing special.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione said, staring into the distance. “Sometimes their feathers are very pretty when the light hits them right and they go all iridescent, and they can be rather handsome birds, even if they’re not particularly flashy.”

“Yeah, but compared to, say, a robin or a cardinal or a bluebird, they’re not much,” Ron said.

“Perhaps not, but even a rather plain bird likes to hear it looks pretty once in a while,” Hermione said, looking strangely sad. “Especially if the bird has spent hours doing its feathers and choosing a dress and making herself look as nice as she can. Even if she isn’t as pretty as the other birds, it still would hurt to have someone say something nasty about how she looks.”

Obviously, she was thinking of the Yule Ball. Ron looked extremely uncomfortable, and Harry gnawed on a bit of bacon to have something to do to distract himself.

“Uh, yeah, that was a bit low of me,” Ron mumbled. “I guess I was envious. Or maybe jealous. Or something. Sorry.”

Hermione snapped back to herself as though she’d only just realized what she said and blushed yet again.

“Yes, well, regardless, the crow was quite happy and began fluffing his feathers and hopping from branch to branch in a show of how sprightly and charming he could be, and the fox kept laying it on thick. ‘Oh, such a perfect bird! What a marvelous beak, and those talons! Divine!’ The silly, vain bird just kept preening, drinking in the attention. Then, the fox baited his trap, saying, ‘A bird of such unspeakable grace and beauty surely has a song to match! Will you not sing a song for me, crow?’”

“Uh oh,” Harry said, grinning. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Probably you do, but the crow didn’t. Instead, he took a deep breath, then opened his beak wide, and then two things happened at once. First, he emitted a horrible, shrill, unpleasant, and very loud caw,” Hermione said.

“Not very melodious,” Ron agreed, stuffing bacon back in his mouth.

“And second, the chunk of cheese fell from his mouth and right into the waiting jaws of the hungry fox, who gobbled it up hungrily,” Hermione said. “Then the fox ran back into the forest, delighted by his breakfast, while the crow hung its head in shame.”

“Crikey, is that it?” Ron asked.

“That’s the most common version of the story. It’s one of Aesop’s fables again, and those do tend to be brief. However, there are some other versions, some possibly even older, including one from India that ends more happily for everyone involved. In that one, the crow is roosting in a roseapple tree,” Hermione said.

“What’s a roseapple?” Ron asked.

“Oh, it’s fruit. I’ve never had one as they’re not native to Britain, but they’re supposed to be quite nice, particularly when they’re made into a jam. Anyway, there’s no cheese in that one, and when the fox compliments the crow, the crow is so happy that he says the fox should be made happy too, and he knocks some fruit out of the tree to share with him,” Hermione said.

“That’s nicer,” Harry said. “I think I like that better.”

“Yes, the first one is a warning against flatterers, and the second is more the idea that flattery can be profitable, so it’s sort of the whole thing on its head,” Hermione said.

“If it’s even flattery in the second one,” Ron said. “Maybe the fox really was paying the crow an honest compliment there. I guess you’re right. They’re okay in their own way, crows.”

“Yes, they are, unless you’re a farmer, of course,” Hermione said, then looked pensive. “Now that I think about it, both of the animals are seen as farmers’ natural enemies, so they wouldn’t automatically side with either of them. They’re really a pair of villains.”

“Well, neither of them comes off all that well in the story, too,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “One’s a thief and the other’s an idiot.”

“True,” Hermione said, then ate her last bite of bacon. “Thank you again for making breakfast.”

“I’m going to miss this place,” Harry said, looking around.

“Do you suppose Dumbledore was happy here?” Ron asked, his gaze drifting around the kitchen. “I wonder if he got on with the neighbors or if they thought he was barmy.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, a bit of sadness in her eyes. “People tend to be rather mean to someone they think is different, and Dumbledore was definitely different. I hope he was happy.”

“At any rate, he made us happy with all this food,” Ron said, perking up a little. “He knocked down a bunch of roseapples for us, and no mistake. But I suppose we’d better start packing up.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “This morning I went upstairs and packed all the supplies into my bag before I showered. We do have loads of helpful things now, so we’ll be more comfortable for a good while. We still need to do the food, though.”

All three of them began going through the refrigerator and cupboards again, occasionally exclaiming “Look at this! Persimmons!” or “Oh, that ham smells lovely!” or “This looks like the same chocolate gateau they make at Hogwarts.” Every last bite of food, enough for weeks, was carefully put into Hermione’s bag, preserved so that it wouldn’t spoil, down to the last sherbet lemon, for Dumbledore had included a rather vast array of sweets, to Harry’s fond amusement.

“He always loved his sweets,” Harry said, grinning at the memory. “Thankfully no Cockroach Clusters, though.”

“I never did like those,” Ron said, sighing. “Have we got everything?”

“Nearly,” Hermione said. “There are a few odds and ends in the kitchen that might be of use at some point.”

“Just how much can that bag hold?” Harry asked.

“I made it roughly the size of the Great Hall inside,” Hermione said. “That wasn’t the tricky part, though. It was managing the weight. It’s always about three pounds, which isn’t bad, but it took ages to figure out how to do.”

“Kind of like people who love baiting Muggle women by making their purses really heavily, only in reverse,” Ron said.

“Wait, what?” Hermione asked, looking stunned.

“Oh, yeah. Dad sees that all the time. It’s nearly as common as disappearing keys. Some idiot will see a Muggle woman walking past and cast a spell so her purse feels heavier. Nine times out of ten they look through it and can’t figure out what’s making it so heavy, but that’s because there’s nothing there, of course. It usually has the heft of a few Bludgers, but Dad found one poor woman whose purse weighed nearly two stone extra,” Ron said, handing her the now cleaned frying pan.

Hermione’s mouth was open.

“That explains so much,” she said, shaking her head as she stowed the pan away.

“When do you suppose we need to leave?” Harry said.

“Fairly soon,” Hermione answered regretfully. “Do we know where we’re off to next?”

“Ron, it’s your turn, isn’t it?” Harry asked.

“I guess so,” Ron said slowly. “Uh… okay. So this worked pretty well, really. Dumbledore planned on us coming here at some point, and we’re a lot better off for it.”

“That’s a good point,” Hermione said. “Are you thinking of going somewhere related to him again?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said, frowning. “I mean, we’re not looking for something to do with him, are we? We’re looking for Tommy’s soul. He was frightened of Dumbledore. Probably still is, truth be told, even though he’s dead. So where’s somewhere Dumbledore wouldn’t go?”

Harry considered that for a long moment, but he couldn’t come up with a good answer.

“I don’t think he’d like places where dark magic was known to happen,” Hermione said, “but that seems rather dangerous for us.”

“Yeah, but probably something Tommy would really enjoy,” Ron said with a sneer. “But where? I’m not up on wizarding history.”

“We’ve been taking history from Binns for years now,” Hermione said.

“You’ve been taking history from Binns,” Ron said. “I’ve been taking naps during Binns.”

Harry snorted, but honestly, the ghost was roughly as good as a sleeping draft.

“Really, most of the places aren’t even there anymore,” Hermione said. “When dark wizards battle, things tend to explode, sink, or disintegrate. That’s what happened to Atlantis, Pompeii, and even San Francisco back in 1906.”

“Okay, so maybe we don’t go quite so far back. Who do we know who’s evil?” Ron asked.

“You mean besides the obvious answer?” Harry said. “Malfoy, I guess.”

Hermione slowly raised her head and looked at Ron.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Hermione said in a small voice.

“If you think I’m saying we might need to consider paying Malfoy Manor a visit, then you’re right,” he said.

“Well, he did leave a Horcrux in Lucius’s keeping, but that place must be crawling with Death Eaters, not to mention all sorts of protective wards and enchantments,” Hermione said. “We’d need to be really careful, but you have a point. Harry, what do you think?”

“I think it’s the last place I’d ever want to visit,” Harry said, then sighed, “which makes it all the more likely that there’s something there. If you think it’s worth it, I’ll go.”

“So will I,” Hermione said firmly, but she looked worried.

“All right then,” Harry said. “That’s where we’re off to. Maybe we should take one more look around here, just to be safe. Then we’ll go.”

The three of them spread out and began searching again, keeping a sharp eye out, when there was suddenly a soft chime, and as all three of them gasped, a clock appeared in the air in the living room. It was counting down from thirty minutes.

“I suppose we know exactly when the charm ends now,” Harry said.

“Hey! Look!” Ron cried, pointing at the fireplace.

Three small packages had appeared there, each bearing a tag with one of their names attached. Harry walked to his, carefully lifting the brown paper parcel, and opened the tag to reveal the words, “Best of luck, Harry. I hope you will find this diverting. APWBD.”

“APWBD?” Ron asked, reading over his shoulder.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” Harry recited, unwrapping the paper. Inside, he found a box that contained a full set of Quidditch balls. They looked rather old and had seen some use. He carefully stroked one, and a thought occurred to him. “I think these might be his own set, maybe from when he was a kid.”

It was odd to think of Dumbledore ever having been their age, and he wondered for a moment what he would have been like or if they would have been friends. He thought they probably would have gotten on pretty well.

Ron had already picked up the next box, which was rather large, and read the tag aloud.

“’I hope all is well with you, Ronald. I asked to borrow your mother’s version of this and had it copied. May it bring you some consolation in these dark times. APWBD.’”

Ron raised an eyebrow at the words and opened the box to find an exact replica of his mother’s clock, including the names of all of his siblings, even Percy, and their current whereabouts.

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be able to know what’s happening with them all the time!”

Ron shuddered and clutched the clock, looking like he might fall completely to pieces.

“Completely off his rocker!” he managed to get out. “That perfectly marvelous old fool!”

Hermione walked over to her package, examining it carefully.

“’I know this will be a very trying time for you, Hermione. Perhaps this will give you something else to read with enjoyment when your time allows. I had a good friend who knew the writer personally. APWBD.’”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity, and she pulled the paper off two very old books. She glanced at the title pages and started shaking violently.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, it’s not possible!”

“What?” Ron asked looking up quickly. “It’s not cursed, is it?”

“It’s Cardenio and Love’s Labour’s Won!” she said, holding them books against her chest. “They’re Shakespeare’s lost works!”

“Maybe Nicholas Flamel and Perenelle knew him,” Harry said. “They would have been alive back then.”

“Yes, possibly, maybe, oh, this is mad but amazing!” Hermione said, twiring across the vacant floor with the books in her arms. “Thank you, Dumbledore, wherever you are!”

“Hey,” Ron said, “I just realized something.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“The notes,” Ron said. “Dumbledore called each of us by name. I don’t think he ever did that before. Maybe you, Harry, but I’m pretty sure we were always Miss Granger and Mister Weasley.”

“Maybe it was his way of showing you what he thought of you,” Harry said.

“Maybe so,” Hermione said, smiling, then she glanced at the clock. “Twenty minutes. Just time to use the loo and leave.”

With five minutes to spare, they had done one last search of the house, packed their new gifts into Hermione’s bag, and gathered in the living room.

“I think perhaps it would be best to Apparate to the same town as Malfoy Manor and then scout it out,” Hermione said. “What do you think?”

Ron and Harry both nodded.

“Where is that?” Ron asked.

“Wiltshire,” Hermione replied. “Not too far from Avebury. He was bragging about his ancestors putting up the stone circle there once in Potions.”

“Bragging about a bunch of rocks,” Ron said. “Big fat hairy deal.”

“Alright then,” she said, glancing around the room one last time. “I suppose we’d best be going.”

“Wait,” Harry said, then went to the fireplace and put a hand on the mantlepiece. Very quietly, he said, “Thanks, sir.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Ron said. “Maybe we’ll find something this time.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed.

A few moments later, the room was vacant again. The clock disappeared, and even their footprints vanished. Far away, in Wiltshire, three figures appeared rather abruptly in a forest on the edge of town, but they vanished immediately into a protective bubble of charms and wards. In the far distance, the imposing face of Malfoy Manor towered above the town, hunched like a crouching beast ready to pounce.