Fic: Stone S(o Very, Very Wrong)oup (HP)
Mar. 26th, 2015 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchThe twenty-sixth installment in Muggle Fairy Tales Are Mad!
Previous chapters:
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
The Emperor's New Clo(se to Bonkers)thes
The Gingerbread M(an, What Are You People On?)an
The Little R(ight Bunch of Nutters You Lot Are)ed Hen
Bluebe(reasonable, now!)ard
The Three Billy Go(on with You, Now!)ats Gruff
Stone S(o Very, Very Wrong)oup
Once again, a promising lead in the search for the remaining Horcruxes had culminated in a dead end, though Harry took a moment to remind himself that at least that hadn’t been literal. Ron had actually come up with the idea that the Sorting Hat’s song about the Founders of Hogwarts might possibly have been a clue, which Hermione had roundly applauded. Since they were looking for Hufflepuff’s cup and the hat had mentioned she had come from a “valley broad” during the song that opened their fourth year, he had suggested they try looking at maps for a valley not far from Hogwarts that might fit the description.
What had followed was Hermione unloading a truly massive number of books from her beaded bag, including several atlases, history books, and encyclopedias of Great Britain, until practically the entire floor of the tent was covered. Ron had turned more than a little pale just looking at the sheer number of them.
“Seriously, Hermione, did you leave any books at all in the Hogwarts library?” Ron said, gaping at the collection.
“Of course,” she replied. “I only took what I thought we might need, but I admit I imagined rather a lot of scenarios, so certain sections are a bit depleted.”
“A bit?” Ron said in disbelief, poking one of the books with his toe cautiously as though he thought it might bite. Granted, after The Monster Book of Monsters, Harry thought he had a point.
“Well, yes, plus there were a few volumes I was concerned about leaving behind during the war since it was logical You Know Who would probably take over the school and put his retainers there,” Hermione said, shuddering. “I don’t even want to think what he might have done to the Muggle Studies collection or any of the books that dealt with pureblood supremacy being an unproven myth. So I took them to protect them.”
“You were worried about protecting books from Death Eaters?” Ron said, looking at her like she’d gone mad.
“Of course,” Hermione said. “What’s so odd about that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly, though Harry could tell that “nothing” in this context meant “you are one weird witch.”
They had spent hours upon hours searching through the books that day, combing through them for any reference at all to broad valleys (“or wide hollows or big topographical depressions or the like” as Hermione had added), and they had indeed turned up a few possibilities. The following days had been spent examining valleys that had included an enormous shopping mall, an abandoned castle, and a forest that reminded Harry uneasily of the one surrounding Hogwarts, though thankfully there hadn’t been any giant spiders.
What there really had been at the last possibility, though, was a very angry group of guard dogs who had barked loudly enough to alert their Muggle owners to three trespassers on their grounds. Before they could Apparate away, Harry was sure at least two Muggles had seen them, and now they were almost certainly going to be a nine days’ wonder in the village nearby, a bit of attention they most definitely did not need. Obviously, they had packed up at once and changed their location to be as far as they could from the mishap, but all of them were jumpy now.
“Well, it could have been worse,” Harry said.
Ron slowly swiveled his head to look at him and paused dramatically before saying, “How, exactly?”
“We didn’t get caught, did we?” Harry said.
“No,” Ron said, sighing. “Just sighted, which is nearly as bad, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” Hermione said. “We moved immediately, and there shouldn’t be any way to trace our path from that little forest in Scotland to a campsite on the Severn near Forden Gaer, now is there?”
“Logically, no,” Ron admitted. “But I’m not feeling logical at the mo. And I’m the one that loused this one up. Stupid to think that bloody song meant anything other than a catchy ditty and an appeal for interhouse unity or some such idiocy.”
“You did not louse it up,” Hermione said consolingly, “and it really was an excellent idea that nobody else even considered.”
“Yeah, because it was wrong,” Ron said gloomily.
“I’m still not sure it is,” Hermione said. “There are any number of broad valleys about, and who’s even to say it was in Britain? Perhaps Helga Hufflepuff was from the continent. Helga certainly isn’t traditionally an English name, is it? Isn’t it Old Norse?”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, tell me we’re not going to have to go climbing up and down fjords or some such thing now!” Ron said pleadingly.
“I don’t think so. It would probably be better to exhaust all the possibilities closer to home first,” Harry said, not so much because he actually believed that Hufflepuff’s cup was lying near at hand in a broad valley somewhere as he thought Ron’s head might explode if he gave any other answer.
“Harry’s most likely correct,” Hermione said, “though really, the Scandinavian countries are very pretty.”
“And cold,” Ron pointed out. “It’s nigh on freezing here. I don’t really fancy tromping about in snow deep enough to bury Grawp in unless we really have to.”
“Agreed,” Harry said, then glanced at Hermione.
“Oh, agreed,” Hermione said. “It was a bit of a thin lead on my part.”
“Speaking of thin, is there anything to eat?” Ron asked.
“No,” Harry and Hermione chorused together in identically frustrated huffs.
“Oh,” Ron said, seeming to collapse into himself even further. “I thought not.”
“You know, that raises a question I’ve always had,” Harry said, deciding that distraction might be the best goal, and also because this point of magic really was one that bothered him. “Why exactly can’t wizards just conjure food?”
“It’s part of Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” Hermione answered at once. “Food cannot be created.”
“Yeah, I remember, but why?” Ron asked.
“It just can’t,” Hermione said. “Five things can’t just be created: food, gold, silver, copper, most gemstones, and living beings.”
“Which is why wizarding money uses those particular metals?” Harry asked.
“Yes, although technically knuts are bronze, but that’s an alloy made with copper, hence it’s inability to be properly copied as currency,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but why?” Ron repeated, looking forlorn.
“I don’t know. They just can’t,” Hermione said. “Of course, if you’ve got something to start with, you can make more of it if you know how or turn it into something else, but there has to be a base to begin it.”
“Which he haven’t got,” Ron said. “Say, what sort of base do we need? If I had, say, a rock or something, could one of us turn it into an apple?”
“I don’t think so,” Hermione said, but Harry noticed she was smiling. “Well, not outside of a Muggle story, anyway.”
“There’s a fairy tale about rocks turning into food?” Ron asked, looking more interested.
“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “In fact, I suppose it’s not really a fairy tale per se. The only real magic in it is how clever the main character is.”
“So it makes logical sense?” Ron said, looking doubtful.
“I suppose so,” Hermione said. “Shall I tell it?”
“Please do. If one of these has a tiny bit of sanity in it, I’m dying of curiosity,” Harry said, and Ron nodded in agreement.
“All right then. Once…,” Hermione began.
“Upon a time?” Ron asked.
“Yes, but why do you sound so unsure. We’ve done this dozens of times now,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if the mental start would be the same if the story itself wasn’t quite so mental as usual,” Ron said.
Hermione sighed but plunged gamely on.
“Once upon a time, there was a soldier who became lost during a war,” Hermione said.
“So, basically, us,” Ron said.
“Except we’ve got one another,” Hermione pointed out. “This poor fellow was all alone, having got separated from the rest of his regiment. He wandered for a long time through the countryside with nothing to eat until at last he came to a small village. Being very hungry, he went from door to door, knocking and begging for scraps of food, but no one would give him anything or even open the door.”
“Poor bloke,” Ron said, then paused. “Wait, is this in enemy territory or his own?”
“It’s a good question, but different versions of the story set it in different places, sometimes in friendly territory and sometimes not. Honestly, I’ve heard it set everywhere from Russia to America and from the 1600s to the 1800s and just about everywhere and every time in between, so the background is rather vague,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, because really you’d think if he’d blundered into a village on the opposite side, someone probably would have killed him or at least captured him,” Ron said.
“True,” Hermione said, tilting her head to one side and pondering. “Most likely it’s on his own side then, although the ramifications of a village refusing sustenance and shelter to a soldier fighting on the side they espouse would be particularly inhospitable and cynical. On the other hand, if it’s meant to be a town from the opposite side of the war, their refusal to aid and abet an enemy combatant is more understandable, though the lack of open hostility could suggest that this specific town doesn’t care one way or the other. Of course, the soldier might have wandered so far from the field of battle that he’s reached neutral territory, which might explain a good deal too.”
“And thus we have a summation of why this lot won’t give him any food,” Ron said. “Whatever the case, they’re stingy and the bloke’s hungry.”
“Yes, and those are the important bits. When he realized no one in the town would help him, he came up with a brilliant plan,” Hermione said.
“He ate at a local pub and then ran out the door without paying?” Ron asked.
“No, he did not stoop to petty theft,” Hermione said with a disapproving tone in her voice, though silently Harry thought Ron’s idea had some merit. “He took a great cauldron out of his pack, got a small cooking fire going on the village green in full view of all the town’s windows, and filled the cauldron with water from the village well. Then he put the otherwise empty pot over the fire.”
“Boiled water. Delicious,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “He’s gone bonkers, this one.”
“That’s precisely what all the villagers thought, but you’ll notice he had their attention, which was really what he wanted,” Hermione said.
“No, what he really wanted was food,” Ron said.
“Ah, but one will get him the other,” Hermione said mysteriously. “As soon as he was completely certain that absolutely everyone was watching him, he went back into his pack and pulled out a very big rock,” Hermione said.
“And he threw it through the window of one of the tightfisted villagers and ran off with some of their food?” Ron asked.
“No,” Hermione said frostily. “He put the stone in the boiling water.”
“Right,” Ron said, looking at Harry. “Boiled rock. One of my favorites. Second only to boiled water. How about you?”
“I think I’ll pass. Might sit a bit heavy in the stomach,” Harry said.
“True,” Ron said, then turned back to Hermione. “Why exactly was this exhausted, hungry bloke carrying around a giant cauldron and a big rock in his rucksack? Was he not miserable enough without the extra pointless weight?”
“Or was he wizard?” Harry asked suddenly. “That might explain the cauldron.”
“Hey, yeah!” Ron said excitedly. “Is that possible?”
“Now that you mention it, there’s really nothing to contradict that he could be a wizard anywhere in the story. Wizards can’t make food, he was hungry, and he was carrying a bag full of heavy supplies including a cauldron, though Muggles at the time certainly would have cooked in ones just like it. I suppose the only solutions are that he was either a wizard or the army cook,” Hermione said.
“He’s definitely not the cook,” Ron said firmly.
“Why not?” Hermione asked.
“Two reasons. First, any army that lost its cook would go looking for him,” Ron said.
“Yeah, that’s reasonable,” Harry said. “If hundreds of hungry fellows have only one man to feed them, they’re not likely to misplace him without a full search party.”
“Agreed,” Hermione said, her stomach growling as though to underscore her thought. “What’s the other reason he can’t be the cook?”
“Boiled rock?” Ron said, raising his eyebrows. “Doesn’t seem likely he’s cooked much, does it?”
“Hmm,” Hermione said, pursing her lips and thinking. “There’s actually a very good explanation for what he’s doing, but quite frankly, I think Harry’s right. It’s entirely possible the soldier is a wizard.”
“He might not even be a soldier,” Ron said. “Maybe he just found some clothes lying about and wanted to try to blend in with the Muggles, like at the World Cup.”
“A fair few of those didn’t exactly do the best job with that either,” Harry said.
“Are you speaking of Poncho and Kilt Man, by any chance?” Hermione said, giggling at the memory.
“Among others,” Harry said, returning the laugh.
“What was so wrong with the poncho and kilt anyway?” Ron asked. “It didn’t look all that odd to me, really. No odder than the rest of the stuff Muggles wear at any rate.”
“I’m not sure I can explain Muggle fashion all that well at the best of times since in terms of female styles it’s usually based on idealized fetishism of impossibly caricatured bodies paired with freakishly inaccurate anatomical knowledge leading to clothing that only looks good on a hanger and makes any human wearing it appear bloated and misshapen, which oddly we then tend to blame on ourselves rather than on the clothing,” Hermione said, becoming rather scarlet in the face with suppressed anger. “But men’s fashions, well, kilts are rarely seen outside of Scotland and never worn with ponchos, if that helps at all.”
Ron had slowly inched closer to Harry as Hermione had been near explosion level, and he carefully said, “Yes, that’s helpful, thank you,” in a particularly cautious tone.
“So, the soldier, if that’s even what he is at this point, tipped the stone into the cauldron and…” Hermione began, but Ron immediately interrupted her again.
“Just out of curiosity, how many cauldrons are you carrying in your bag?” Ron said.
Hermione gave a pained expression but stopped, dug around behind some cushions, and pulled out her beaded evening bag. She opened it and rummaged around inside, then produced no less than five cauldrons.
“Pewter, copper, brass, iron, and granite,” she said. “Those should hopefully cover any eventuality.”
“So how many do you think the soldier had?” Ron asked.
“What, in his bag? Most likely one as that would be all the room he’d have,” Hermione said.
“Unless he could do the same little trick as you to make it bigger on the inside,” Ron said.
Harry felt oddly that he’d heard that phrase somewhere before, but shrugged and added, “Two tricks, you mean. There’s no point in making the bag huge if you can’t move it, too.”
“Fair enough,” Ron said. “So is there anything else in there besides a cauldron and a big rock?”
“Nothing that enters into the story,” Hermione said. “Certainly not any food at any rate.”
“Oh,” Ron said, then asked suddenly, “why didn’t you bring more food with you?”
“Excuse me?” Hermione said, looking rather angry.
“Why didn’t you? If you packed half the library and five cauldrons and a tent and changes of clothes and medical supplies and Merlin knows what all, why didn’t you bring loads and loads of food, too? We ran out fairly fast,” Ron said.
“Pardon me, Ronald, but exactly what was your contribution to our future safety, comfort, and success when we had to evacuate Fleur and Bill’s wedding?” Hermione said in a tone so cold Harry could practically see her breath turning into frost.
“Ehm… I had a couple of those cheese and cracker appetizers in my suit pocket?” Ron said sheepishly.
“I hadn’t intended to flee for my life at that exact moment, and I was fortunate to have thought to bring everything I’d been putting together with me to the wedding reception in the first place. So if you think I didn’t do well enough, kindly shut it,” Hermione said, glaring daggers.
“I guess nobody can think of everything, even you,” Ron said before adding magnanimously, “I forgive you.”
“Or we might possibly try saying thank you,” Harry said, giving him a glare himself.
“Oh, right. Or that,” Ron said, looking uncomfortable.
Hermione sighed deeply, and for a moment Harry thought she might be about to stop the story entirely and go to bed, but she went on.
“The soldier took a spoon out of his bag, dipped it into the pot, and blew on it to cool the water, making a great show of it, then popped it into his mouth and made a face of unparalleled bliss as though he had just tasted the most wonderful thing in the world,” Hermione said.
“Crackers,” Ron said to Harry. “Mental, I’m telling you.”
“Not at all. He knew that the people were watching and would be too curious for their own good, and sure enough, one of the villagers came out of her front door and went up to him to ask what he was doing,” Hermione said.
“I’m surprised they waited this long,” Harry said. “What did the soldier say?”
“He said, ‘Oh, I’m making a great delicacy from my hometown. It’s called stone soup, and it’s the most delicious thing you can imagine,’” Hermione said, giving the soldier a gruff voice that reminded Harry simultaneously of both Sirius and Neville with a head cold, which was odd.
“Uh-huh,” Ron said. “And she fell for that?”
“Completely,” Hermione said.
“Whatever country this was supposed to be, it’s definitely not inhabited by geniuses,” Ron said.
“The woman asked if she could taste the soup, and the soldier sighed, saying he would love to share it with her, but the soup really should have a few potatoes in it to make it really perfect,” Hermione said. “No sooner had he said this than the woman, who was very curious about stone soup, went back to her home and returned with a large bag of potatoes.”
“And he took the potatoes and Apparated?” Ron asked.
“No, he peeled them, cut them up, and put them in the pot. By now other townsfolk had arrived as well, and the soldier once again sipped the soup and declared it very good, but that it would be improved by some carrots. Another villager brought a great bunch of them, and then the soldier suggested that a bit of bacon was required, and yet another villager brought a rasher of bacon too,” Hermione said.
“Why is it called a rasher, anyway?” Ron asked. “I never got that. You don’t really have a rasher of anything but bacon, do you?”
“It can be used for slices of ham as well,” Hermione explained. “It probably comes from the Old English word rashen, which means to cut, since bacon is cut thinly to cook.”
“Okay, yeah, and I’ll just gloss over that you know the etymology of a word pulled from Old English at the drop of a hat, but people slice onions thinly too, and that’s not a rasher of onion, and the same goes for lettuce or noodles or apples or such. Why just ham and bacon?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with being pork as well,” Hermione said irritably. “At any rate, by the time the soldier was done, the villagers had produced not only potatoes, carrots and bacon, but peas and salt and barley and mushrooms and loaves of crusty bread and great slabs of cheese, all sorts of things they’d been hiding away.”
“Suddenly feeling more generous, aren’t they?” Harry said.
“Yes, now that they know there’s something in it for them,” Hermione agreed. “Finally, the soldier sipped the soup and proclaimed it absolutely perfect. Each villager came up to the great pot to get a bowl of freshly made stone soup, and they all declared it to be the most savory and outstanding dish they had ever eaten. ‘Who would ever have thought such fine soup could come from only a stone?’ they said, and the soldier smiled as he ate his dinner. The end.”
“Apparently the soldier really wasn’t a complete idiot then,” Ron said. “In fact, he was quite clever.”
“Yes, but you didn’t say the usual last bit. Did he live happily ever after?” Harry asked.
“I suppose so,” Hermione said. “He was certainly smart enough to make his way to the next town and keep food in his belly.”
“Unless the stone had lead in it and they all died of poisoning,” Ron pointed out.
“Yes, or that,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “So what did you think?”
“Well, if he really was a wizard, it’s a case of fooling Muggles into giving you what you want again because they’re supposed to be gullible idiots, isn’t it?” Ron said. “I mean, they should be able to realize that the stone had nothing at all to do with the soup, that they were the ones who were really making it, but they’re too dim to get it, aren’t they? So we’ve got another story about how stupid Muggles are and how to make them do all the work while the wizard really does nothing.”
Hermione wrinkled her forehead with thought as Harry worked that one out for himself and realized Ron could indeed be right.
“I’m starting to think every story I know is either pureblood propaganda or the ravings of a violence-obsessed misogynist culture,” Hermione said. “Maybe we really shouldn’t analyze these quite so much.”
“What’d be the fun in that?” Ron asked.
“None at all, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Well, I haven’t any stones or potentially offensive, stereotypically naive Muggle villagers about, so I think we should call it a night.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said with a yawn.
“Any idea where we’re off to tomorrow?” Ron asked, though Harry wasn’t sure if he was asking Hermione, him, or both. He did know there was a bit of an edge to Ron’s voice, though.
“At this point I’m up for sticking a pin in a map while blindfolded,” Harry said with a sigh as he looked at the collection of atlases and maps still strewn about the tent’s main room. “We can’t do much worse.”
“Suppose not,” Ron said.
“Actually, I have no problem with that,” Hermione said, digging out a pin from the sewing kit she had stashed away in her bag. She opened one book to a section on Great Britain, let it fall open to a random page, then looked doubtfully from the pin to the book, obviously struggling internally with something.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s only a pinhole, Hermione!” Ron said in exasperation. “We are not desecrating books or whatever term old pinched-up Pince would use.”
“I suppose not,” Hermione said, still looking deeply uncomfortable before thrusting the pin away from her and averting her eyes. “Here, Harry, you do it.”
“Okay,” he said, taking the pin, then closing his eyes and plunging it full force into the page.
“Ow!” Ron yelled at the top of his lungs and Hermione screamed.
“What! Did I stab you?!” Harry said, immediately opening his eyes and gaping at Ron in a panic.
“Nah, I just wanted to see your face if I did that,” Ron said, then the pair of boys laughed madly as Hermione buried her face in her hands and muttered something about saving her from idiots.
They went to bed and then moved on to another nearby valley the next morning, never having checked where the pin had actually landed: a map of London, and more specifically, the exact location of Gringott’s.
Previous chapters:
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
The Emperor's New Clo(se to Bonkers)thes
The Gingerbread M(an, What Are You People On?)an
The Little R(ight Bunch of Nutters You Lot Are)ed Hen
Bluebe(reasonable, now!)ard
The Three Billy Go(on with You, Now!)ats Gruff
Once again, a promising lead in the search for the remaining Horcruxes had culminated in a dead end, though Harry took a moment to remind himself that at least that hadn’t been literal. Ron had actually come up with the idea that the Sorting Hat’s song about the Founders of Hogwarts might possibly have been a clue, which Hermione had roundly applauded. Since they were looking for Hufflepuff’s cup and the hat had mentioned she had come from a “valley broad” during the song that opened their fourth year, he had suggested they try looking at maps for a valley not far from Hogwarts that might fit the description.
What had followed was Hermione unloading a truly massive number of books from her beaded bag, including several atlases, history books, and encyclopedias of Great Britain, until practically the entire floor of the tent was covered. Ron had turned more than a little pale just looking at the sheer number of them.
“Seriously, Hermione, did you leave any books at all in the Hogwarts library?” Ron said, gaping at the collection.
“Of course,” she replied. “I only took what I thought we might need, but I admit I imagined rather a lot of scenarios, so certain sections are a bit depleted.”
“A bit?” Ron said in disbelief, poking one of the books with his toe cautiously as though he thought it might bite. Granted, after The Monster Book of Monsters, Harry thought he had a point.
“Well, yes, plus there were a few volumes I was concerned about leaving behind during the war since it was logical You Know Who would probably take over the school and put his retainers there,” Hermione said, shuddering. “I don’t even want to think what he might have done to the Muggle Studies collection or any of the books that dealt with pureblood supremacy being an unproven myth. So I took them to protect them.”
“You were worried about protecting books from Death Eaters?” Ron said, looking at her like she’d gone mad.
“Of course,” Hermione said. “What’s so odd about that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly, though Harry could tell that “nothing” in this context meant “you are one weird witch.”
They had spent hours upon hours searching through the books that day, combing through them for any reference at all to broad valleys (“or wide hollows or big topographical depressions or the like” as Hermione had added), and they had indeed turned up a few possibilities. The following days had been spent examining valleys that had included an enormous shopping mall, an abandoned castle, and a forest that reminded Harry uneasily of the one surrounding Hogwarts, though thankfully there hadn’t been any giant spiders.
What there really had been at the last possibility, though, was a very angry group of guard dogs who had barked loudly enough to alert their Muggle owners to three trespassers on their grounds. Before they could Apparate away, Harry was sure at least two Muggles had seen them, and now they were almost certainly going to be a nine days’ wonder in the village nearby, a bit of attention they most definitely did not need. Obviously, they had packed up at once and changed their location to be as far as they could from the mishap, but all of them were jumpy now.
“Well, it could have been worse,” Harry said.
Ron slowly swiveled his head to look at him and paused dramatically before saying, “How, exactly?”
“We didn’t get caught, did we?” Harry said.
“No,” Ron said, sighing. “Just sighted, which is nearly as bad, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” Hermione said. “We moved immediately, and there shouldn’t be any way to trace our path from that little forest in Scotland to a campsite on the Severn near Forden Gaer, now is there?”
“Logically, no,” Ron admitted. “But I’m not feeling logical at the mo. And I’m the one that loused this one up. Stupid to think that bloody song meant anything other than a catchy ditty and an appeal for interhouse unity or some such idiocy.”
“You did not louse it up,” Hermione said consolingly, “and it really was an excellent idea that nobody else even considered.”
“Yeah, because it was wrong,” Ron said gloomily.
“I’m still not sure it is,” Hermione said. “There are any number of broad valleys about, and who’s even to say it was in Britain? Perhaps Helga Hufflepuff was from the continent. Helga certainly isn’t traditionally an English name, is it? Isn’t it Old Norse?”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, tell me we’re not going to have to go climbing up and down fjords or some such thing now!” Ron said pleadingly.
“I don’t think so. It would probably be better to exhaust all the possibilities closer to home first,” Harry said, not so much because he actually believed that Hufflepuff’s cup was lying near at hand in a broad valley somewhere as he thought Ron’s head might explode if he gave any other answer.
“Harry’s most likely correct,” Hermione said, “though really, the Scandinavian countries are very pretty.”
“And cold,” Ron pointed out. “It’s nigh on freezing here. I don’t really fancy tromping about in snow deep enough to bury Grawp in unless we really have to.”
“Agreed,” Harry said, then glanced at Hermione.
“Oh, agreed,” Hermione said. “It was a bit of a thin lead on my part.”
“Speaking of thin, is there anything to eat?” Ron asked.
“No,” Harry and Hermione chorused together in identically frustrated huffs.
“Oh,” Ron said, seeming to collapse into himself even further. “I thought not.”
“You know, that raises a question I’ve always had,” Harry said, deciding that distraction might be the best goal, and also because this point of magic really was one that bothered him. “Why exactly can’t wizards just conjure food?”
“It’s part of Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” Hermione answered at once. “Food cannot be created.”
“Yeah, I remember, but why?” Ron asked.
“It just can’t,” Hermione said. “Five things can’t just be created: food, gold, silver, copper, most gemstones, and living beings.”
“Which is why wizarding money uses those particular metals?” Harry asked.
“Yes, although technically knuts are bronze, but that’s an alloy made with copper, hence it’s inability to be properly copied as currency,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but why?” Ron repeated, looking forlorn.
“I don’t know. They just can’t,” Hermione said. “Of course, if you’ve got something to start with, you can make more of it if you know how or turn it into something else, but there has to be a base to begin it.”
“Which he haven’t got,” Ron said. “Say, what sort of base do we need? If I had, say, a rock or something, could one of us turn it into an apple?”
“I don’t think so,” Hermione said, but Harry noticed she was smiling. “Well, not outside of a Muggle story, anyway.”
“There’s a fairy tale about rocks turning into food?” Ron asked, looking more interested.
“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “In fact, I suppose it’s not really a fairy tale per se. The only real magic in it is how clever the main character is.”
“So it makes logical sense?” Ron said, looking doubtful.
“I suppose so,” Hermione said. “Shall I tell it?”
“Please do. If one of these has a tiny bit of sanity in it, I’m dying of curiosity,” Harry said, and Ron nodded in agreement.
“All right then. Once…,” Hermione began.
“Upon a time?” Ron asked.
“Yes, but why do you sound so unsure. We’ve done this dozens of times now,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if the mental start would be the same if the story itself wasn’t quite so mental as usual,” Ron said.
Hermione sighed but plunged gamely on.
“Once upon a time, there was a soldier who became lost during a war,” Hermione said.
“So, basically, us,” Ron said.
“Except we’ve got one another,” Hermione pointed out. “This poor fellow was all alone, having got separated from the rest of his regiment. He wandered for a long time through the countryside with nothing to eat until at last he came to a small village. Being very hungry, he went from door to door, knocking and begging for scraps of food, but no one would give him anything or even open the door.”
“Poor bloke,” Ron said, then paused. “Wait, is this in enemy territory or his own?”
“It’s a good question, but different versions of the story set it in different places, sometimes in friendly territory and sometimes not. Honestly, I’ve heard it set everywhere from Russia to America and from the 1600s to the 1800s and just about everywhere and every time in between, so the background is rather vague,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, because really you’d think if he’d blundered into a village on the opposite side, someone probably would have killed him or at least captured him,” Ron said.
“True,” Hermione said, tilting her head to one side and pondering. “Most likely it’s on his own side then, although the ramifications of a village refusing sustenance and shelter to a soldier fighting on the side they espouse would be particularly inhospitable and cynical. On the other hand, if it’s meant to be a town from the opposite side of the war, their refusal to aid and abet an enemy combatant is more understandable, though the lack of open hostility could suggest that this specific town doesn’t care one way or the other. Of course, the soldier might have wandered so far from the field of battle that he’s reached neutral territory, which might explain a good deal too.”
“And thus we have a summation of why this lot won’t give him any food,” Ron said. “Whatever the case, they’re stingy and the bloke’s hungry.”
“Yes, and those are the important bits. When he realized no one in the town would help him, he came up with a brilliant plan,” Hermione said.
“He ate at a local pub and then ran out the door without paying?” Ron asked.
“No, he did not stoop to petty theft,” Hermione said with a disapproving tone in her voice, though silently Harry thought Ron’s idea had some merit. “He took a great cauldron out of his pack, got a small cooking fire going on the village green in full view of all the town’s windows, and filled the cauldron with water from the village well. Then he put the otherwise empty pot over the fire.”
“Boiled water. Delicious,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “He’s gone bonkers, this one.”
“That’s precisely what all the villagers thought, but you’ll notice he had their attention, which was really what he wanted,” Hermione said.
“No, what he really wanted was food,” Ron said.
“Ah, but one will get him the other,” Hermione said mysteriously. “As soon as he was completely certain that absolutely everyone was watching him, he went back into his pack and pulled out a very big rock,” Hermione said.
“And he threw it through the window of one of the tightfisted villagers and ran off with some of their food?” Ron asked.
“No,” Hermione said frostily. “He put the stone in the boiling water.”
“Right,” Ron said, looking at Harry. “Boiled rock. One of my favorites. Second only to boiled water. How about you?”
“I think I’ll pass. Might sit a bit heavy in the stomach,” Harry said.
“True,” Ron said, then turned back to Hermione. “Why exactly was this exhausted, hungry bloke carrying around a giant cauldron and a big rock in his rucksack? Was he not miserable enough without the extra pointless weight?”
“Or was he wizard?” Harry asked suddenly. “That might explain the cauldron.”
“Hey, yeah!” Ron said excitedly. “Is that possible?”
“Now that you mention it, there’s really nothing to contradict that he could be a wizard anywhere in the story. Wizards can’t make food, he was hungry, and he was carrying a bag full of heavy supplies including a cauldron, though Muggles at the time certainly would have cooked in ones just like it. I suppose the only solutions are that he was either a wizard or the army cook,” Hermione said.
“He’s definitely not the cook,” Ron said firmly.
“Why not?” Hermione asked.
“Two reasons. First, any army that lost its cook would go looking for him,” Ron said.
“Yeah, that’s reasonable,” Harry said. “If hundreds of hungry fellows have only one man to feed them, they’re not likely to misplace him without a full search party.”
“Agreed,” Hermione said, her stomach growling as though to underscore her thought. “What’s the other reason he can’t be the cook?”
“Boiled rock?” Ron said, raising his eyebrows. “Doesn’t seem likely he’s cooked much, does it?”
“Hmm,” Hermione said, pursing her lips and thinking. “There’s actually a very good explanation for what he’s doing, but quite frankly, I think Harry’s right. It’s entirely possible the soldier is a wizard.”
“He might not even be a soldier,” Ron said. “Maybe he just found some clothes lying about and wanted to try to blend in with the Muggles, like at the World Cup.”
“A fair few of those didn’t exactly do the best job with that either,” Harry said.
“Are you speaking of Poncho and Kilt Man, by any chance?” Hermione said, giggling at the memory.
“Among others,” Harry said, returning the laugh.
“What was so wrong with the poncho and kilt anyway?” Ron asked. “It didn’t look all that odd to me, really. No odder than the rest of the stuff Muggles wear at any rate.”
“I’m not sure I can explain Muggle fashion all that well at the best of times since in terms of female styles it’s usually based on idealized fetishism of impossibly caricatured bodies paired with freakishly inaccurate anatomical knowledge leading to clothing that only looks good on a hanger and makes any human wearing it appear bloated and misshapen, which oddly we then tend to blame on ourselves rather than on the clothing,” Hermione said, becoming rather scarlet in the face with suppressed anger. “But men’s fashions, well, kilts are rarely seen outside of Scotland and never worn with ponchos, if that helps at all.”
Ron had slowly inched closer to Harry as Hermione had been near explosion level, and he carefully said, “Yes, that’s helpful, thank you,” in a particularly cautious tone.
“So, the soldier, if that’s even what he is at this point, tipped the stone into the cauldron and…” Hermione began, but Ron immediately interrupted her again.
“Just out of curiosity, how many cauldrons are you carrying in your bag?” Ron said.
Hermione gave a pained expression but stopped, dug around behind some cushions, and pulled out her beaded evening bag. She opened it and rummaged around inside, then produced no less than five cauldrons.
“Pewter, copper, brass, iron, and granite,” she said. “Those should hopefully cover any eventuality.”
“So how many do you think the soldier had?” Ron asked.
“What, in his bag? Most likely one as that would be all the room he’d have,” Hermione said.
“Unless he could do the same little trick as you to make it bigger on the inside,” Ron said.
Harry felt oddly that he’d heard that phrase somewhere before, but shrugged and added, “Two tricks, you mean. There’s no point in making the bag huge if you can’t move it, too.”
“Fair enough,” Ron said. “So is there anything else in there besides a cauldron and a big rock?”
“Nothing that enters into the story,” Hermione said. “Certainly not any food at any rate.”
“Oh,” Ron said, then asked suddenly, “why didn’t you bring more food with you?”
“Excuse me?” Hermione said, looking rather angry.
“Why didn’t you? If you packed half the library and five cauldrons and a tent and changes of clothes and medical supplies and Merlin knows what all, why didn’t you bring loads and loads of food, too? We ran out fairly fast,” Ron said.
“Pardon me, Ronald, but exactly what was your contribution to our future safety, comfort, and success when we had to evacuate Fleur and Bill’s wedding?” Hermione said in a tone so cold Harry could practically see her breath turning into frost.
“Ehm… I had a couple of those cheese and cracker appetizers in my suit pocket?” Ron said sheepishly.
“I hadn’t intended to flee for my life at that exact moment, and I was fortunate to have thought to bring everything I’d been putting together with me to the wedding reception in the first place. So if you think I didn’t do well enough, kindly shut it,” Hermione said, glaring daggers.
“I guess nobody can think of everything, even you,” Ron said before adding magnanimously, “I forgive you.”
“Or we might possibly try saying thank you,” Harry said, giving him a glare himself.
“Oh, right. Or that,” Ron said, looking uncomfortable.
Hermione sighed deeply, and for a moment Harry thought she might be about to stop the story entirely and go to bed, but she went on.
“The soldier took a spoon out of his bag, dipped it into the pot, and blew on it to cool the water, making a great show of it, then popped it into his mouth and made a face of unparalleled bliss as though he had just tasted the most wonderful thing in the world,” Hermione said.
“Crackers,” Ron said to Harry. “Mental, I’m telling you.”
“Not at all. He knew that the people were watching and would be too curious for their own good, and sure enough, one of the villagers came out of her front door and went up to him to ask what he was doing,” Hermione said.
“I’m surprised they waited this long,” Harry said. “What did the soldier say?”
“He said, ‘Oh, I’m making a great delicacy from my hometown. It’s called stone soup, and it’s the most delicious thing you can imagine,’” Hermione said, giving the soldier a gruff voice that reminded Harry simultaneously of both Sirius and Neville with a head cold, which was odd.
“Uh-huh,” Ron said. “And she fell for that?”
“Completely,” Hermione said.
“Whatever country this was supposed to be, it’s definitely not inhabited by geniuses,” Ron said.
“The woman asked if she could taste the soup, and the soldier sighed, saying he would love to share it with her, but the soup really should have a few potatoes in it to make it really perfect,” Hermione said. “No sooner had he said this than the woman, who was very curious about stone soup, went back to her home and returned with a large bag of potatoes.”
“And he took the potatoes and Apparated?” Ron asked.
“No, he peeled them, cut them up, and put them in the pot. By now other townsfolk had arrived as well, and the soldier once again sipped the soup and declared it very good, but that it would be improved by some carrots. Another villager brought a great bunch of them, and then the soldier suggested that a bit of bacon was required, and yet another villager brought a rasher of bacon too,” Hermione said.
“Why is it called a rasher, anyway?” Ron asked. “I never got that. You don’t really have a rasher of anything but bacon, do you?”
“It can be used for slices of ham as well,” Hermione explained. “It probably comes from the Old English word rashen, which means to cut, since bacon is cut thinly to cook.”
“Okay, yeah, and I’ll just gloss over that you know the etymology of a word pulled from Old English at the drop of a hat, but people slice onions thinly too, and that’s not a rasher of onion, and the same goes for lettuce or noodles or apples or such. Why just ham and bacon?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with being pork as well,” Hermione said irritably. “At any rate, by the time the soldier was done, the villagers had produced not only potatoes, carrots and bacon, but peas and salt and barley and mushrooms and loaves of crusty bread and great slabs of cheese, all sorts of things they’d been hiding away.”
“Suddenly feeling more generous, aren’t they?” Harry said.
“Yes, now that they know there’s something in it for them,” Hermione agreed. “Finally, the soldier sipped the soup and proclaimed it absolutely perfect. Each villager came up to the great pot to get a bowl of freshly made stone soup, and they all declared it to be the most savory and outstanding dish they had ever eaten. ‘Who would ever have thought such fine soup could come from only a stone?’ they said, and the soldier smiled as he ate his dinner. The end.”
“Apparently the soldier really wasn’t a complete idiot then,” Ron said. “In fact, he was quite clever.”
“Yes, but you didn’t say the usual last bit. Did he live happily ever after?” Harry asked.
“I suppose so,” Hermione said. “He was certainly smart enough to make his way to the next town and keep food in his belly.”
“Unless the stone had lead in it and they all died of poisoning,” Ron pointed out.
“Yes, or that,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “So what did you think?”
“Well, if he really was a wizard, it’s a case of fooling Muggles into giving you what you want again because they’re supposed to be gullible idiots, isn’t it?” Ron said. “I mean, they should be able to realize that the stone had nothing at all to do with the soup, that they were the ones who were really making it, but they’re too dim to get it, aren’t they? So we’ve got another story about how stupid Muggles are and how to make them do all the work while the wizard really does nothing.”
Hermione wrinkled her forehead with thought as Harry worked that one out for himself and realized Ron could indeed be right.
“I’m starting to think every story I know is either pureblood propaganda or the ravings of a violence-obsessed misogynist culture,” Hermione said. “Maybe we really shouldn’t analyze these quite so much.”
“What’d be the fun in that?” Ron asked.
“None at all, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Well, I haven’t any stones or potentially offensive, stereotypically naive Muggle villagers about, so I think we should call it a night.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said with a yawn.
“Any idea where we’re off to tomorrow?” Ron asked, though Harry wasn’t sure if he was asking Hermione, him, or both. He did know there was a bit of an edge to Ron’s voice, though.
“At this point I’m up for sticking a pin in a map while blindfolded,” Harry said with a sigh as he looked at the collection of atlases and maps still strewn about the tent’s main room. “We can’t do much worse.”
“Suppose not,” Ron said.
“Actually, I have no problem with that,” Hermione said, digging out a pin from the sewing kit she had stashed away in her bag. She opened one book to a section on Great Britain, let it fall open to a random page, then looked doubtfully from the pin to the book, obviously struggling internally with something.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s only a pinhole, Hermione!” Ron said in exasperation. “We are not desecrating books or whatever term old pinched-up Pince would use.”
“I suppose not,” Hermione said, still looking deeply uncomfortable before thrusting the pin away from her and averting her eyes. “Here, Harry, you do it.”
“Okay,” he said, taking the pin, then closing his eyes and plunging it full force into the page.
“Ow!” Ron yelled at the top of his lungs and Hermione screamed.
“What! Did I stab you?!” Harry said, immediately opening his eyes and gaping at Ron in a panic.
“Nah, I just wanted to see your face if I did that,” Ron said, then the pair of boys laughed madly as Hermione buried her face in her hands and muttered something about saving her from idiots.
They went to bed and then moved on to another nearby valley the next morning, never having checked where the pin had actually landed: a map of London, and more specifically, the exact location of Gringott’s.
