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bookishwenchAnother installment in Muggle Fairy Tales Are Mad lies beneath.
For notes, see first part.
Cinder-What-the-Hell?-a
Snow Wh-at-Are-You-Kidding-Me?-ite
Sleeping Bea-You-People-Are-Mad-ty
Little Red Riding Ho-w-Is-That-Possible?-od
Rumple-Still-As-Crazy-As-Ever-tskin
The Frog Pr-in-What-Way-Is-That-Possible?-ince
Rap-solutely-mental-unzel
Jack the Giant Kill(-Me-Now!)-er
Hansel and Gr(eat-Now-I'm-Hungry)etel
Goldilocks and the Three B(e-Serious-Now!)ear
Beauty and the (Un)Be(freaking-lievable!)ast
The Little Mer-(eally-Deeply-Disturbing)-maid
The Three L(acking in Any Sanity)ittle Pigs
Puss in B(onkers, Absolutely Bonkers!)oots
The W(hat Is in These People's Tea?)ild Swans
The Twelve Danc(incerely Madder Than Hares)ing Princesses
The Pied Piper of H(ow Do You People Sleep?)amelin
The Snow Qu(ite Nutty, Aren't They)een
The Elves and the Sh(ocking, Just Shocking!)oemaker
The Princess and the P(lease Say You’re Making This Up)ea
“That could have gone better,” Ron said as he took off his trainers and emptied the water in them out the door flap of the tent.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, coming in next and making her way directly to the kitchen sink where she squeezed what seemed to be several gallons of rainwater out of her hair. “We didn’t get caught, and I’ve still got three tins of tuna fish in my coat pocket.”
“I didn’t say it couldn’t have gone worse,” Ron said, “just that it could have gone better.”
Harry said nothing at all. He hung his coat on the rack by the door and took off his soggy shoes. It had been raining in the south of England for a week, which was a welcome break from the earlier bout of early sleet, but the constant downpour was starting to be too much for the old tent. Drips were forming constantly, and as soon as they used a spell to fix one, another took its place. Today, they managed to infiltrate a local market and nearly made off with a rather large amount of food when a guard dog had started barking. They had wound up racing through a tangle of streets, pursued by an old store keeper who reminded them all unpleasantly of Filch, screaming at the top of his lungs for the police to arrest the “homicidal hooligans.”
“Tuna fish,” Ron said, staring at the three tins. “I was really hoping for at least a couple of those bags of crisps, and that ham-thing looked dead wonderful.”
“Spam?” Harry said. “Have you ever had any?”
“No,” Ron admitted.
“You might be happier that way. It’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Harry said.
“It’s food. I’m pretty sure I’ve acquired the taste,” Ron said gloomily as he sat on the old couch, ignoring the rain now soaking the cushions.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Hermione said. “And technically we’re not even beggars anymore but thieves on top of it all.”
They all looked uncomfortable, but no one protested when Harry got the forks out of a drawer and they tucked into tonight’s dinner, one tin each. It didn’t take long to get to the bottom, though they’d learn long ago that gulping food down made it seem smaller. By the time they were done, Harry was feeling a little better, but Hermione still looked troubled, and Ron was staring at the empty can as though it had made an offensive comment about his mother.
“We really need to come up with a better contingency plan for food,” Hermione said. “I wish I’d been able to get more rations in my bag before we left the Burrow, but it can’t be helped now. I’m wondering if we can risk something like a mail order catalogue or delivery service at a public location like a park or hotel lobby. There would be risks, of course, but that was already a close one tonight.”
“Be nice, that,” Harry said, thinking. “A great big order from Honeydukes.”
“I was focusing something a bit more nutritionally balanced, and we need to avoid any wizarding establishments I would think, but that’s the general idea,” Hermione said.
“Do you have anything at all left in that bag to eat?” Ron asked.
“Not much,” Hermione said, reaching over to pick up the tiny beaded bag and glancing through it. “I think there’s a jar or two of jam—I was saving that for Christmas—and some pickles, half a container of oatmeal, and a few tins of vegetables, all peas.”
“I’m trying to come up with something that would include all of those, and it’s actually working really well,” Ron said.
“Jam, pickles, oatmeal and peas?” Harry said, staring at him in horror.
“By ‘working’ I mean it’s killed my appetite completely,” Ron said with a shudder. “Problem mostly solved, at least for a bit.”
Hermione continued digging through her bag, apparently looking for something specific.
“Ah-ha!” she eventually cried in triumph, pulling out a small tin of mints. “I knew I had these in there somewhere. They’d fallen behind the bandages. Anyone care for one?”
“Why not?” Harry said, taking one as Ron did the same.
“What are these things? They’re not from Honeydukes,” Ron said.
“No, they’re Muggle sweets,” Hermione said. “They do pack rather a punch though.”
“I miss Ice Mice,” Ron said, sucking on them glumly. “These don’t squeak.”
“I’m sorry they’re not up to your expectations due to the lack of sound effects, your highness,” Hermione said archly, popping one in her own mouth. “More for the rest of us, then.”
“Speaking of more,” Ron said, ignoring the comment and continuing to roll the sweet around in his mouth despite the lack of squealing, “do you have any more stories? After that fiasco this afternoon, I’d rather not have that blighter chasing me through my dreams tonight if I have a choice. Your stories always provide interesting nightmare fuel.”
“My stories give you nightmares?” Hermione said, looking surprised.
“Once in a while, yeah,” Ron admitted sheepishly. “I had one the other night about that wolf in the grandmother’s nightdress, and then there was the one where the mermaid was stalking me with bloody feet, oh, and the one about the gigantic cornstalk.”
“I never told you a story about a gigantic cornstalk,” Hermione said, frowning.
“Think you’re mixing that up with the beanstalk, mate,” Harry said.
“Beanstalk, cornstalk, whatever it was, it was some gigantic vegetable crashing down on me and I was running for it,” Ron said, shrugging.
“Well, as it happens I know one story about sleep, and it has yet another bizarre vegetable in it,” Hermione said. “Actually, it’s the only one we’ve currently got, as well: peas.”
“Okay, then let’s have that one,” Ron said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers together expectantly.
“Once upon a time,” Hermione said, Harry joining her on the last two words.
“Isn’t that usually my line?” Ron said, giving him a look of mock offense.
“True, but I wanted to try it at least once,” Harry said. “It looked like too much fun.”
“If the two of you are quite finished,” Hermione said in a rather tired voice.
“I think so,” Ron said. “Go on, then.”
“There lived a queen with an only son who was seeking for a bride,” Hermione said. “Though many beautiful and wealthy princesses had tried unsuccessfully to catch his interest, none of them met the rigid qualifications he put forward for his future wife.”
“What were those?” Ron asked.
“She had to be a true princess in every sense of the word,” Hermione said. “To him, and his mother as well, she had to be perfectly delicate and extremely sensitive; otherwise, he didn’t consider her a real princess.”
“Delicate and sensitive?” Harry asked. “He wants a girl who gets really upset about everything?”
“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “He and his mother believed that a real princess would have been raised in such refined, posh conditions that even the smallest physical discomfort would be highly painful to her.”
“You know, we’ve had some really weird ways of picking a bride before in these things,” Ron said. “Shoe size, looks pretty when she’s apparently dead, spins straw into gold, although I grant you that would have its advantages, but this bloke really just wants a girl who has an incredibly low pain threshold?”
“As odd as it sounds, yes,” Hermione said.
“I do not like this person,” Ron said firmly, folding his arms. “Then again, that’s a fairly common reaction for me.”
“It’s odd, but you’d be surprised. In the old days, proof of femininity among Muggles included things like swooning away when a girl had walked too far or shrieking with terror when she saw a mouse or over-reacting physically to just about anything startling,” Hermione explained. “A girl with too much nerve was seen as overly masculine. The prince’s opinion is sort of the extreme of that opinion, but that’s what it’s based on.”
“And his mum agreed with him?” Harry said.
“Apparently so, or at least that’s what the story says,” Hermione said.
“So did she go about screaming in pain when she bumped into a stray feather or something?” Ron asked.
“I’d guess not, but there you have it,” Hermione said. “Each of the princesses who sought to be the prince’s bride were asked to spend the night in the castle, alone in a great bedchamber, and each morning, the queen would greet her, speak to her briefly, and without fail, she would ushered out as being unfit.”
“I’m guessing there was something in the bedchamber other than a bed? Some kind of test?” Ron said.
“You’re right and wrong,” Hermione said. “There really was only a bed, but that was also the test.”
“Uh-huh,” Ron said, looking at Harry. “This is one of those double entendre thingies, isn’t it?”
“Search me,” Harry said.
“Actually, it’s not for once,” Hermione said somewhat mysteriously. “One night, in the middle of horrible tempest, there was a knock at the castle door. When the guards went to open it, there stood a young girl, completely drenched. She said she was a princess who had lost her way in the storm, but she hardly looked it with her dress ruined from the rain and hair streaming with water. Still, to see if this might at long last be the true princess her son had long searched for, the queen invited her in and prepared the guest bedchamber for the test, though she held but little hope that this girl would pass.”
“Okay, fine, some girl shows up, and I’m guessing she’s not a princess at all because where’s her guards and knights and coaches and things. So what’s the test?” Ron asked.
“You see, the queen had the bed made up so that there was a single dried pea under the mattress. Well, to be fair, some of the versions say it was three peas, but since the name of the story is ‘The Princess and the Pea,’ I think one is more likely actually.”
“A dried pea?” Harry asked. “Why? Was she expecting her to look under the mattress and automatically clean the room up before she went to sleep or something?”
“Oh, nothing so mundane as that. The test was whether the princess would be able to feel the pea through the mattress, proving how delicate she was,” Hermione said.
“Through a mattress? One pea? How thin is the mattress? Like, a blanket?” Ron asked, staring at her.
“Oh, it gets much worse,” Hermione said. “Then the queen had twenty more mattresses heaped on top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds atop that, as well as blankets and quilts and fur throws and pillows, so that when at last the girl was conducted to the room, she had to climb a ladder to reach the top of the bed and lie down.”
“Twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds?” Harry said, laughing. “That doesn’t even sound comfortable anymore. You’d just sink in like getting sucked into quicksand and never be able to get out again.”
“Yeah,” Ron said fervently, “and wouldn’t the whole thing be swaying back and forth like a tower of jelly? If I were her, I’d take one look at the giant, tottering pile of a bed and run back out into the storm and away from these nutters.”
“That does seem more reasonable, but she must have really been tired and beaten from the storm because instead she climbed the tall ladder and got into bed,” Hermione said.
“Must have been one bloody bad storm,” Ron said, shaking his head. “So what happened to her?”
“The next morning, the queen arrived early to ask her how she slept, as usual. The princess replied, ‘Oh, terribly! There was something small and hard in the middle of the bed, and it kept me awake all night! I feel black and blue all over!’ and indeed she had dark circles under her eyes and looked haggard,” Hermione said.
“Haggard?” Ron said.
“Yes, it means she looked dreadful,” Hermione explained.
“I know that, but come on, ‘haggard’? You really do have practically obsolete words down to an art form, you know that?” Ron said.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Hermione said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Regardless, the princess had proven her royal delicacy by being able to feel a single dried pea through all the mattresses and feather beds, and the prince and his mother immediately proposed that she become his wife, for there could be no more delicate maiden in all the world.”
“She did say no, right?” Ron said.
“No, she agreed,” Hermione said. “They were married at once, and the dried pea was put into a museum as a curiosity for the local peasants to wonder at with great admiration. The end.”
Harry and Ron looked at each other as Hermione regarded them expectantly. After almost a minute of silence, Ron took a deep breath.
“Okay, here’s my theory,” Ron said. “She’s actually the maid.”
“The what? There wasn’t a maid in the story,” Hermione said.
“It’s a castle. They have to have maids, or a scullery girl or a milkmaid or something,” Ron said firmly.
“Well, I suppose they would, but—” Hermione began, but Ron continued on.
“Anyway, the maids and things would know all about the stupid scheme to figure out who a real princess is with the pea because somebody had to be carrying those mattresses and feather beds and things up to the bedchamber every time some new girl was given the test. One of them caught a bit of a clue and waited until there was a bad storm, then came running in with an apparently ruined gown that was really just some average clothes torn to shreds for effect, and in she gets. All she has to do is stay up all night on Mount Mattress, making sure she still looks like a right wreck the next morning, and say how terrible she slept from the ridiculous dried pea, and voila! Princess,” Ron said, all in a rush.
Hermione and Harry now had a chance to stare at each other in silence.
“Wouldn’t somebody have recognized her?” Harry said.
“These people never recognize each other,” Ron said with a wave of his hand. “Remember Ashyweeper? Wash her face and her own step-sisters don’t know her; dirty her up again and the love her life can’t tell her from his Aunt Beulah.”
“You know, he does have a point,” Harry said to Hermione. “It would make a lot more sense.”
“It would also underscore the tone of parody present in Andersen’s story,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “The whole tale is meant to lampoon the idiocy of some of the marriage customs of the upper classes, making them really look completely ridiculous. Add to that the idea that women of the nobility were in fact mostly prized for their ability to bear heirs to throne and that the remarkable focus on physical delicacy to the point of actual illness would be a direct detriment to successful childbirth, and it really is completely nonsensical. If it actually is a member of the lower class who managed to achieve princess status via marriage through using her wits, the point of the story would indeed remain intact and would actually be underscored.”
“So . . . yes?” Ron said.
“I think there’s no reason to discount your theory,” Hermione said with a shrug. “If it works for you, go for it.”
“Thanks,” Ron said. “Hey, wait, did you say this was by that Andersen fellow again?”
“At least one of the versions is,” Hermione said.
“Nobody’s feet got maimed,” Ron said, smiling. “That’s a first.”
“No, just some poor girl winds up black and blue from sleeping on a pea,” Harry said.
“Oh yeah,” Ron said, looking crestfallen. “Well, it’s still an improvement.”
“I suppose so,” Hermione said.
Harry looked at the Horcrux, which was currently sitting on the kitchen counter. It was such a small thing, not much larger than a walnut, and yet it had the ability to change the fate of so many people.
“I guess sometimes small things really do make the biggest differences,” Hermione said, following his gaze.
“Yeah,” Ron said, oblivious to their thoughts. “Like that sweet. That thing is so strong I think it nearly burned a hole in my tongue.”
“Oh, sorry,” Hermione said, snapping back to herself. “They do take a bit of getting used to.”
“No, I liked it,” Ron said. “Got another?”
“I suppose so,” she said, reaching back into bag, taking out one more, and giving it to him. “Harry?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “Think I’m going to turn in. I’m knackered.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Ron said, rising and stretching, but he caught Harry’s eye just as Hermione turned into the kitchen to put the used forks in the sink. As her back was turned, he drew out his wand and quickly cast a silent spell that sent the mint zooming through the air and directly under the cushions of the sofa Hermione used as a bed each night. By the time she’d turned around, he was lumbering over to his own bed, and Harry was trying to hide his smile.
The next morning, after Hermione had made her bed, she put the mint back in Ron’s hand.
“Slept like a baby,” she said with a grin. “I’m definitely not a princess.”
As she walked out the door of the tent to begin taking down the protection spells so they could move on, Harry definitely heard Ron mumble to himself, “Thank bloody goodness for that.”
For notes, see first part.
Cinder-What-the-Hell?-a
Snow Wh-at-Are-You-Kidding-Me?-ite
Sleeping Bea-You-People-Are-Mad-ty
Little Red Riding Ho-w-Is-That-Possible?-od
Rumple-Still-As-Crazy-As-Ever-tskin
The Frog Pr-in-What-Way-Is-That-Possible?-ince
Rap-solutely-mental-unzel
Jack the Giant Kill(-Me-Now!)-er
Hansel and Gr(eat-Now-I'm-Hungry)etel
Goldilocks and the Three B(e-Serious-Now!)ear
Beauty and the (Un)Be(freaking-lievable!)ast
The Little Mer-(eally-Deeply-Disturbing)-maid
The Three L(acking in Any Sanity)ittle Pigs
Puss in B(onkers, Absolutely Bonkers!)oots
The W(hat Is in These People's Tea?)ild Swans
The Twelve Danc(incerely Madder Than Hares)ing Princesses
The Pied Piper of H(ow Do You People Sleep?)amelin
The Snow Qu(ite Nutty, Aren't They)een
The Elves and the Sh(ocking, Just Shocking!)oemaker
“That could have gone better,” Ron said as he took off his trainers and emptied the water in them out the door flap of the tent.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, coming in next and making her way directly to the kitchen sink where she squeezed what seemed to be several gallons of rainwater out of her hair. “We didn’t get caught, and I’ve still got three tins of tuna fish in my coat pocket.”
“I didn’t say it couldn’t have gone worse,” Ron said, “just that it could have gone better.”
Harry said nothing at all. He hung his coat on the rack by the door and took off his soggy shoes. It had been raining in the south of England for a week, which was a welcome break from the earlier bout of early sleet, but the constant downpour was starting to be too much for the old tent. Drips were forming constantly, and as soon as they used a spell to fix one, another took its place. Today, they managed to infiltrate a local market and nearly made off with a rather large amount of food when a guard dog had started barking. They had wound up racing through a tangle of streets, pursued by an old store keeper who reminded them all unpleasantly of Filch, screaming at the top of his lungs for the police to arrest the “homicidal hooligans.”
“Tuna fish,” Ron said, staring at the three tins. “I was really hoping for at least a couple of those bags of crisps, and that ham-thing looked dead wonderful.”
“Spam?” Harry said. “Have you ever had any?”
“No,” Ron admitted.
“You might be happier that way. It’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Harry said.
“It’s food. I’m pretty sure I’ve acquired the taste,” Ron said gloomily as he sat on the old couch, ignoring the rain now soaking the cushions.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Hermione said. “And technically we’re not even beggars anymore but thieves on top of it all.”
They all looked uncomfortable, but no one protested when Harry got the forks out of a drawer and they tucked into tonight’s dinner, one tin each. It didn’t take long to get to the bottom, though they’d learn long ago that gulping food down made it seem smaller. By the time they were done, Harry was feeling a little better, but Hermione still looked troubled, and Ron was staring at the empty can as though it had made an offensive comment about his mother.
“We really need to come up with a better contingency plan for food,” Hermione said. “I wish I’d been able to get more rations in my bag before we left the Burrow, but it can’t be helped now. I’m wondering if we can risk something like a mail order catalogue or delivery service at a public location like a park or hotel lobby. There would be risks, of course, but that was already a close one tonight.”
“Be nice, that,” Harry said, thinking. “A great big order from Honeydukes.”
“I was focusing something a bit more nutritionally balanced, and we need to avoid any wizarding establishments I would think, but that’s the general idea,” Hermione said.
“Do you have anything at all left in that bag to eat?” Ron asked.
“Not much,” Hermione said, reaching over to pick up the tiny beaded bag and glancing through it. “I think there’s a jar or two of jam—I was saving that for Christmas—and some pickles, half a container of oatmeal, and a few tins of vegetables, all peas.”
“I’m trying to come up with something that would include all of those, and it’s actually working really well,” Ron said.
“Jam, pickles, oatmeal and peas?” Harry said, staring at him in horror.
“By ‘working’ I mean it’s killed my appetite completely,” Ron said with a shudder. “Problem mostly solved, at least for a bit.”
Hermione continued digging through her bag, apparently looking for something specific.
“Ah-ha!” she eventually cried in triumph, pulling out a small tin of mints. “I knew I had these in there somewhere. They’d fallen behind the bandages. Anyone care for one?”
“Why not?” Harry said, taking one as Ron did the same.
“What are these things? They’re not from Honeydukes,” Ron said.
“No, they’re Muggle sweets,” Hermione said. “They do pack rather a punch though.”
“I miss Ice Mice,” Ron said, sucking on them glumly. “These don’t squeak.”
“I’m sorry they’re not up to your expectations due to the lack of sound effects, your highness,” Hermione said archly, popping one in her own mouth. “More for the rest of us, then.”
“Speaking of more,” Ron said, ignoring the comment and continuing to roll the sweet around in his mouth despite the lack of squealing, “do you have any more stories? After that fiasco this afternoon, I’d rather not have that blighter chasing me through my dreams tonight if I have a choice. Your stories always provide interesting nightmare fuel.”
“My stories give you nightmares?” Hermione said, looking surprised.
“Once in a while, yeah,” Ron admitted sheepishly. “I had one the other night about that wolf in the grandmother’s nightdress, and then there was the one where the mermaid was stalking me with bloody feet, oh, and the one about the gigantic cornstalk.”
“I never told you a story about a gigantic cornstalk,” Hermione said, frowning.
“Think you’re mixing that up with the beanstalk, mate,” Harry said.
“Beanstalk, cornstalk, whatever it was, it was some gigantic vegetable crashing down on me and I was running for it,” Ron said, shrugging.
“Well, as it happens I know one story about sleep, and it has yet another bizarre vegetable in it,” Hermione said. “Actually, it’s the only one we’ve currently got, as well: peas.”
“Okay, then let’s have that one,” Ron said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers together expectantly.
“Once upon a time,” Hermione said, Harry joining her on the last two words.
“Isn’t that usually my line?” Ron said, giving him a look of mock offense.
“True, but I wanted to try it at least once,” Harry said. “It looked like too much fun.”
“If the two of you are quite finished,” Hermione said in a rather tired voice.
“I think so,” Ron said. “Go on, then.”
“There lived a queen with an only son who was seeking for a bride,” Hermione said. “Though many beautiful and wealthy princesses had tried unsuccessfully to catch his interest, none of them met the rigid qualifications he put forward for his future wife.”
“What were those?” Ron asked.
“She had to be a true princess in every sense of the word,” Hermione said. “To him, and his mother as well, she had to be perfectly delicate and extremely sensitive; otherwise, he didn’t consider her a real princess.”
“Delicate and sensitive?” Harry asked. “He wants a girl who gets really upset about everything?”
“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “He and his mother believed that a real princess would have been raised in such refined, posh conditions that even the smallest physical discomfort would be highly painful to her.”
“You know, we’ve had some really weird ways of picking a bride before in these things,” Ron said. “Shoe size, looks pretty when she’s apparently dead, spins straw into gold, although I grant you that would have its advantages, but this bloke really just wants a girl who has an incredibly low pain threshold?”
“As odd as it sounds, yes,” Hermione said.
“I do not like this person,” Ron said firmly, folding his arms. “Then again, that’s a fairly common reaction for me.”
“It’s odd, but you’d be surprised. In the old days, proof of femininity among Muggles included things like swooning away when a girl had walked too far or shrieking with terror when she saw a mouse or over-reacting physically to just about anything startling,” Hermione explained. “A girl with too much nerve was seen as overly masculine. The prince’s opinion is sort of the extreme of that opinion, but that’s what it’s based on.”
“And his mum agreed with him?” Harry said.
“Apparently so, or at least that’s what the story says,” Hermione said.
“So did she go about screaming in pain when she bumped into a stray feather or something?” Ron asked.
“I’d guess not, but there you have it,” Hermione said. “Each of the princesses who sought to be the prince’s bride were asked to spend the night in the castle, alone in a great bedchamber, and each morning, the queen would greet her, speak to her briefly, and without fail, she would ushered out as being unfit.”
“I’m guessing there was something in the bedchamber other than a bed? Some kind of test?” Ron said.
“You’re right and wrong,” Hermione said. “There really was only a bed, but that was also the test.”
“Uh-huh,” Ron said, looking at Harry. “This is one of those double entendre thingies, isn’t it?”
“Search me,” Harry said.
“Actually, it’s not for once,” Hermione said somewhat mysteriously. “One night, in the middle of horrible tempest, there was a knock at the castle door. When the guards went to open it, there stood a young girl, completely drenched. She said she was a princess who had lost her way in the storm, but she hardly looked it with her dress ruined from the rain and hair streaming with water. Still, to see if this might at long last be the true princess her son had long searched for, the queen invited her in and prepared the guest bedchamber for the test, though she held but little hope that this girl would pass.”
“Okay, fine, some girl shows up, and I’m guessing she’s not a princess at all because where’s her guards and knights and coaches and things. So what’s the test?” Ron asked.
“You see, the queen had the bed made up so that there was a single dried pea under the mattress. Well, to be fair, some of the versions say it was three peas, but since the name of the story is ‘The Princess and the Pea,’ I think one is more likely actually.”
“A dried pea?” Harry asked. “Why? Was she expecting her to look under the mattress and automatically clean the room up before she went to sleep or something?”
“Oh, nothing so mundane as that. The test was whether the princess would be able to feel the pea through the mattress, proving how delicate she was,” Hermione said.
“Through a mattress? One pea? How thin is the mattress? Like, a blanket?” Ron asked, staring at her.
“Oh, it gets much worse,” Hermione said. “Then the queen had twenty more mattresses heaped on top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds atop that, as well as blankets and quilts and fur throws and pillows, so that when at last the girl was conducted to the room, she had to climb a ladder to reach the top of the bed and lie down.”
“Twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds?” Harry said, laughing. “That doesn’t even sound comfortable anymore. You’d just sink in like getting sucked into quicksand and never be able to get out again.”
“Yeah,” Ron said fervently, “and wouldn’t the whole thing be swaying back and forth like a tower of jelly? If I were her, I’d take one look at the giant, tottering pile of a bed and run back out into the storm and away from these nutters.”
“That does seem more reasonable, but she must have really been tired and beaten from the storm because instead she climbed the tall ladder and got into bed,” Hermione said.
“Must have been one bloody bad storm,” Ron said, shaking his head. “So what happened to her?”
“The next morning, the queen arrived early to ask her how she slept, as usual. The princess replied, ‘Oh, terribly! There was something small and hard in the middle of the bed, and it kept me awake all night! I feel black and blue all over!’ and indeed she had dark circles under her eyes and looked haggard,” Hermione said.
“Haggard?” Ron said.
“Yes, it means she looked dreadful,” Hermione explained.
“I know that, but come on, ‘haggard’? You really do have practically obsolete words down to an art form, you know that?” Ron said.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Hermione said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Regardless, the princess had proven her royal delicacy by being able to feel a single dried pea through all the mattresses and feather beds, and the prince and his mother immediately proposed that she become his wife, for there could be no more delicate maiden in all the world.”
“She did say no, right?” Ron said.
“No, she agreed,” Hermione said. “They were married at once, and the dried pea was put into a museum as a curiosity for the local peasants to wonder at with great admiration. The end.”
Harry and Ron looked at each other as Hermione regarded them expectantly. After almost a minute of silence, Ron took a deep breath.
“Okay, here’s my theory,” Ron said. “She’s actually the maid.”
“The what? There wasn’t a maid in the story,” Hermione said.
“It’s a castle. They have to have maids, or a scullery girl or a milkmaid or something,” Ron said firmly.
“Well, I suppose they would, but—” Hermione began, but Ron continued on.
“Anyway, the maids and things would know all about the stupid scheme to figure out who a real princess is with the pea because somebody had to be carrying those mattresses and feather beds and things up to the bedchamber every time some new girl was given the test. One of them caught a bit of a clue and waited until there was a bad storm, then came running in with an apparently ruined gown that was really just some average clothes torn to shreds for effect, and in she gets. All she has to do is stay up all night on Mount Mattress, making sure she still looks like a right wreck the next morning, and say how terrible she slept from the ridiculous dried pea, and voila! Princess,” Ron said, all in a rush.
Hermione and Harry now had a chance to stare at each other in silence.
“Wouldn’t somebody have recognized her?” Harry said.
“These people never recognize each other,” Ron said with a wave of his hand. “Remember Ashyweeper? Wash her face and her own step-sisters don’t know her; dirty her up again and the love her life can’t tell her from his Aunt Beulah.”
“You know, he does have a point,” Harry said to Hermione. “It would make a lot more sense.”
“It would also underscore the tone of parody present in Andersen’s story,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “The whole tale is meant to lampoon the idiocy of some of the marriage customs of the upper classes, making them really look completely ridiculous. Add to that the idea that women of the nobility were in fact mostly prized for their ability to bear heirs to throne and that the remarkable focus on physical delicacy to the point of actual illness would be a direct detriment to successful childbirth, and it really is completely nonsensical. If it actually is a member of the lower class who managed to achieve princess status via marriage through using her wits, the point of the story would indeed remain intact and would actually be underscored.”
“So . . . yes?” Ron said.
“I think there’s no reason to discount your theory,” Hermione said with a shrug. “If it works for you, go for it.”
“Thanks,” Ron said. “Hey, wait, did you say this was by that Andersen fellow again?”
“At least one of the versions is,” Hermione said.
“Nobody’s feet got maimed,” Ron said, smiling. “That’s a first.”
“No, just some poor girl winds up black and blue from sleeping on a pea,” Harry said.
“Oh yeah,” Ron said, looking crestfallen. “Well, it’s still an improvement.”
“I suppose so,” Hermione said.
Harry looked at the Horcrux, which was currently sitting on the kitchen counter. It was such a small thing, not much larger than a walnut, and yet it had the ability to change the fate of so many people.
“I guess sometimes small things really do make the biggest differences,” Hermione said, following his gaze.
“Yeah,” Ron said, oblivious to their thoughts. “Like that sweet. That thing is so strong I think it nearly burned a hole in my tongue.”
“Oh, sorry,” Hermione said, snapping back to herself. “They do take a bit of getting used to.”
“No, I liked it,” Ron said. “Got another?”
“I suppose so,” she said, reaching back into bag, taking out one more, and giving it to him. “Harry?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “Think I’m going to turn in. I’m knackered.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Ron said, rising and stretching, but he caught Harry’s eye just as Hermione turned into the kitchen to put the used forks in the sink. As her back was turned, he drew out his wand and quickly cast a silent spell that sent the mint zooming through the air and directly under the cushions of the sofa Hermione used as a bed each night. By the time she’d turned around, he was lumbering over to his own bed, and Harry was trying to hide his smile.
The next morning, after Hermione had made her bed, she put the mint back in Ron’s hand.
“Slept like a baby,” she said with a grin. “I’m definitely not a princess.”
As she walked out the door of the tent to begin taking down the protection spells so they could move on, Harry definitely heard Ron mumble to himself, “Thank bloody goodness for that.”
