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bookishwenchPart 36 in the ongoing weirdness that is Hermione telling the boys fairy tales.
For notes, see chapter 1.
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
The Lion and the M(ostly Mental)ouse
The Tortoise and the Hare(brained, Completely)
The Go(on with You, Now!)ose Girl
The Little Match G(ood Merlin, What Is Your Problem!?)irl
The Boy Who Cr(ikey, You Lot Are Weird)ied Wolf
Diamonds and To(taly Disgusting)ads
Little Brother and Little S(o Very, Very Wrong)ister
The Bremen Town Musi(ck! Completely Sick!)cians
Alad(Insane!)din: Night 1
A.N. - I've never posted a story in installments in this series before, but this one is so freaking huge that, plus the situation in the original story, made it seem appropriate. Fair warning.
Harry was starting to suspect the founders of Hogwarts had purposely wandered through every obscure hamlet and uninhabited valley in Great Britain purely so that centuries later three Gryffindors could drive themselves half-bonkers looking for some obscure belonging that now contained one-seventh of Voldemort’s soul. While his experience with Professor Trelawney didn’t make him all that keen on seers in general, somehow it seemed like there was just no possible way that their sheer misery at the endless chase they were on couldn’t have been the result of someone’s idea of a bad joke.
They’d just finished scouring a field outside of a tiny village named St. Somethingorother, Harry could no longer remember the exact name, which had supposedly once belonged to Godric Gryffindor’s maternal grandmother. For a brief moment, they’d all become very excited when Hermione had found what appeared to be a Medieval dagger with gold and red filigree work, hidden under a large rock shaped rather like a lion’s head. Unfortunately, upon closer examination, it had turned out to be a plastic letter opener. They’d also sighed in unison and pretty much on key as it had gotten to be something of a habit.
Ron, who had tolerated a slightly larger portion of Polyjuice than he normally would swallow, volunteered to find something to eat in town while Harry and Hermione went back to the tent, currently concealed via its usual bevy of charms and enchantments in a hay field. Ron was, Harry thought, at least trying to contribute to making dinner since the disastrous buffalo incident, even if he was more inclined to pinch supper than to make it. Harry didn’t particularly care either way as there was a little more peace, not to mention more food. For a whole week, they’d had a minimum of two decent meals every day, and that had to be a record.
“There has to be some sort of end to all of this, doesn’t there?” Hermione said as they crossed the threshold into the tent. Her hair was turning from grey back to brown even as Harry watched, and he could feel his own nose shrinking a bit as he dug in his pocket for his glasses.
“Does there?” Harry asked, surprising even himself with how down-hearted he sounded.
“Dumbledore wouldn’t have left you a task you couldn’t possibly finish,” Hermione said, but she looked uncertain. “I think he probably intended to give you more information about it, though, before he was—”
“Murdered by Snape,” Harry finished for her. “Yeah, I don’t think he saw that one coming, but I do wish he’d been a little more specific beforehand just in case.”
Hermione nodded in agreement and sat down on the couch, removing the now too small shoes from her feet and rubbing her soles. Harry could actually hear her joints cracking. He took off his own trainers, which thankfully were the correct size for both himself and the fellow he’d changed into, and flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.
“I think we might need to give up on Gryffindor for a bit,” Hermione said. “Maybe we should concentrate more on Helga Hufflepuff.”
“The cup, most likely,” Harry said. “Probably in a pub somewhere.”
“That’s not impossible,” Hermione said, but she didn’t sound at all convinced. “I was just trying to think, if I had something very precious that I wanted to hide, where would I put it?”
“Australia,” Ron said immediately as he entered the tent. “That’s what you did.”
Hermione looked pensive as Ron put two paper sacks filled with what turned out to be curry on the kitchen table.
“I suppose I did at that,” Hermione said. “I don’t know, though. I sent Mum and Dad as far away as I could so that they couldn’t be found by anyone. I don’t think You-Know-Who would want bits of his soul that far away.”
“He might,” Ron said, shrugging. “I can’t get into his mind. Maybe they’re in Antarctica or the Himalayas or on the ruddy moon for all we know.”
Harry thought about this as Ron took the cardboard boxes out and lined them up on the table. It really didn’t seem like there was any end to the possibilities. Dumbledore had thought Voldemort might keep the Horcruxes close by, but then he hadn’t been sure, had he? What if they really did need to go somewhere else, somewhere that no one would ever think of?
“Maybe we’re going about this wrong,” Hermione finally said.
“You think?” Ron said, and Harry was glad for the sake of the fragile peace that Hermione wasn’t looking at him at the moment he rolled his eyes.
“We’re doing the looking, but maybe we should make him do it,” Hermione said.
“You mean You-Know-Who?” Ron asked.
“Can’t we just say the stupid name?” Harry said.
“Oh, let it go,” Hermione said. “Yes, that’s what I mean anyway. What if we let him somehow know that someone not only knows about the Horcruxes but is finding and destroying them one by one?”
“Well, the diary, yes, and Dumbledore did the ring,” Harry said. “We’ve got the locket, but he haven’t destroyed it.”
“But he may well not know about that,” Hermione reasoned. “Wouldn’t he possibly be tempted to go check on the other ones to be sure they were still where he left them? Couldn’t we possibly find out somehow where he might go? Track him?”
“It’s a thought,” Ron said slowly. “It’s a good thought.”
“It is, but there’s a problem,” Harry said. “Once he does find the Horcruxes haven’t been touched, he’ll most likely move them again or put even worse enchantments on them, probably both. We’d need someone on the inside to tell us his movements, too, and we don’t have anyone. Worse, in order to leak what we’re doing, we’d have to expose ourselves, and I’m not sure we’d survive that.”
“Or our families,” Ron said, the brief moment of hope he’d experienced immediately snuffed out.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “It’s a good idea, but I think there’s just too much that could go wrong.”
Hermione looked crestfallen, but said, “You’re probably right.”
“It really was a good idea, ‘Mione,” Ron said consolingly, “and a fresh one. At least we’re still thinking, yeah? So maybe we’ll come up with the answer yet.”
Hermione nodded, taking a bite of butter chicken in consolation.
“Speaking of good, this is excellent, Ron,” she said, and he beamed at her.
Harry noted that she didn’t ask how he’d gotten it or where, and he was glad of it. He’d never had much in the way of curry before. Uncle Vernon hadn’t liked what he called “foreign food,” preferring steak and kidney pie or fish and chips and the like. It was really quite good, Harry thought.
“It’s not bad,” Ron said. “Not sure where it comes from, though. China? Somewhere in the Middle East?”
And Hermione giggled a little.
“What?” Ron asked.
“Oh, it’s just there’s a story with almost exactly the same problem of oddities of place in it,” Hermione said.
“A story, eh?” Ron said, settling in with his chicken tikka masala.
“Yes, well, it’s really a story inside of a story if you want to be technical about it,” Hermione said. “It’s part of the Arabian Nights.”
“What’s that?” Ron asked.
“Oh, a collection of stories told by a girl named Scheherazade,” Hermione said.
“Bless you,” Ron said.
“You did that the last time I mentioned her during the ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’! That’s her name,” Hermione said.
“Right! The one who told part of a story each night to her husband so he wouldn’t kill her off like all his other wives,” Harry said. “I remember now.
“Yeah, yet another weird Muggle mating ritual,” Ron said, shuddering. “I’m surprised you lot haven’t dwindled out by now. How did that bit go again?”
“His first wife had either tried to kill him or had committed adultery, possibly both depending on the story, so he went rather mad and started marrying girls, then killing them the next morning so that none of them would have time to betray him,” Hermione said.
“It does make a weird, warped kind of sense, I suppose,” Ron said, looking a bit sick.
“If someone has enough power to avoid being prosecuted for serial murder and has absolutely no moral compunction about killing innocent women simply because they’re the same gender as his first wife, I suppose it does,” Hermione said with a grimace. “Eventually Scheherazade, whose father was a high ranking official, asked to be married to him to stop the carnage because of her plan.”
“To string the bloke along with a partial story each night, hoping to keep his attention long enough to keep herself alive until the following night?” Ron said.
“Exactly,” Hermione said, “and it worked, too. She told the stories for a thousand and one nights, then, having had two children by him, she pleaded for her life, and he let her live.”
“That was big of him,” Ron said sarcastically. “And the story you’re thinking of is one of the ones she came up with?”
“Possibly,” Hermione said. “It’s also possible that it’s a French counterfeit that was inserted into the other stories at some point when the rest of them became popular in Europe. It’s very difficult to tell.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure that what I’m eating is not French,” Ron said firmly.
“No,” Hermione said, grinning. “It’s from Glasgow.”
“Come off it!” Ron said, fork partway to his mouth.
“Chicken tikka masala definitely is,” Hermione said. “Sometimes appearances can be deceiving.”
“It sure doesn’t taste like haggis,” Ron said, poking at it suspiciously. “So this story could be French or not?”
“Possibly. It’s never been really proven that it’s an impostor, but there’s a lot of evidence pointing that way, including the fact there aren’t any Arabic versions found that seem to predate the French so-called translation,” Hermione said. “Anyway, Scheherazade started the tale by saying that it took place in a faraway land called China.”
“Wait, China?” Harry said. “I thought this was supposed to be in Arabia?”
“Scheherazade is in what would have been Arabia, yes, but she places the story in China in most of the versions, especially the oldest ones we can find, even though most illustrators and storytellers depict the story happening in a non-specific Middle Eastern country,” Hermione said.
“So, once upon a time, in China, there lived—,” Ron provided hopefully.
Hermione gave him a withering look for stealing her line but said, “There lived a boy named Aladdin, son of Mustafa the tailor.”
“He has a name at least, and he isn’t named after a vegetable or a piece of millinery work or something, so that’s a good start,” Ron said. “This Scheherazade might have been on to something.”
“May I continue?” Hermione said. “It’s rather a long tale.”
“Go on,” Ron said magnanimously as he ate the Scottish chicken tikka masala.
“The problem was Aladdin was a lazy boy who did nothing but play all day with idle companions in the street and refused to learn his father’s trade or any other,” Hermione said. “This grieved his poor father so much that he died.”
“The father literally dropped dead of disappointment because his son wasn’t studious enough?” Ron asked.
“Yes,” Hermione said.
“Bit delicate, isn’t he?” Ron said.
“I suppose if he’d had an underlying heart condition exacerbated by stress over his son’s hijinks, it’s actually not impossible that Aladdin’s behavior might have been a major contributing factor to his father’s death,” Hermione said, “though still it wouldn’t technically be Aladdin’s fault.”
“I’m glad dad doesn’t have that, or mum either,” Ron said. “Fred and George would have finished them off for certain.”
“I don’t know about that,” Hermione said. “They were both always ambitious and clever even if they didn’t take school seriously, and they’ve turned out very well.”
“I suppose so,” Ron said, and Harry noted a bit of jealousy in his friend’s voice. “Now, Percy, on the other hand—“
“There you may have a point,” Hermione admitted. “Regardless, Mustafa the tailor died, leaving his widow and Aladdin alone in the world, and very poor into the bargain.”
“That’s sad,” Ron said. “Then what?”
“One day, as Aladdin was playing in the streets, a strange man came up to him and asked if Aladdin happened to be the son of Mustafa the tailor, and when he said he was, the man hugged him and wept, crying, ‘I am your long lost uncle, your father’s own brother!’” Hermione said.
“No, he’s not,” Ron said immediately.
“What makes you think so?” Hermione asked.
“It’s too convenient,” Ron said.
“Well, we’ll see whether you’re right or not,” Hermione said, barely suppressing a grin that made Harry suspect Ron was definitely right. “In any case, Aladdin told the man his father had died, and he wept all the harder, then asked to be taken to his brother’s widow.”
“Wait, is Aladdin’s mother, you know, really hot or something?” Ron asked.
“No, actually the stories say she’s quite homely,” Hermione said.
“Oh,” Ron said. “Okay, so he’s probably not pining over some old doomed love affair from his school days or something and using her son as a way to maintain contact with his unrequited romance.”
“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. “What an odd thing to say. Who would do that? Anyway, the man who claimed to be Aladdin’s uncle gave him several gold coins and told him to run home and tell his mother what had happened, and that she should go into the market and buy provisions for a great feast of welcome as he was coming to their home that night.”
“Bit bold, isn’t he? Inviting himself over and telling her to cook something special to celebrate his arrival?” Harry said.
“More than you know,” Hermione said. “The mother immediately told Aladdin that his father had not had a brother, but when she saw the gold, she reconsidered and said that there had indeed been a brother, but she had thought he had died long before she married Aladdin’s father.”
“Or she just wants a big dinner,” Ron said.
“Possibly, as they were starving,” Hermione said.
“I can’t really blame her, then,” Ron said. “At this point if some bloke walked up to me on the street claiming to be dad’s long lost brother and he happened to have a sack of fish and chips with him, I’d go along with it at least until the vinegar was gone. So what happened?”
“She went to the bazaar and bought wonderful things, then borrowed pots and bowls and pans from her neighbors and cooked a sumptuous dinner,” Hermione said.
“She had to borrow pots and pans?” Ron said.
“Yes, they were that poor,” Hermione explained.
“Wow,” Ron said, looking glum. “I hope I’m wrong and this bloke’s on the level. They need a break. Poor homely woman with pseudo-Percy as a son and no husband and no pots.”
“Again, we shall see,” Hermione said, but Harry noted the rather sweet smile she gave Ron. “The uncle showed up, dressed in the finest clothes Aladdin and his mother had ever seen, and he knelt to kiss the spot where his brother had once sat, and wept over his brother’s bronze bowl that he said he remembered from his childhood, and offered prayers and beat his breast in sorrow over his passing.”
“Laying it on a bit thick isn’t he?” Harry said. “Kissing the floor?”
“He’s faking it,” Ron said, folding his arms angrily. “She had to borrow the bowls from the neighbors, so he can’t be remembering it from his childhood.”
“Well spotted,” Harry said.
“The mother noticed as well, but she hoped the bowl was so like one her husband had once owned that he could be forgiven for confusing them,” Hermione said.
“Uh-huh,” Ron said. “Grasping a bit, isn’t she.”
“Perhaps. After dinner, the man asked Aladdin what trade he practiced, and the boy hung his head in shame as his mother took her turn at weeping and explained that he was an idle good-for-nothing,” Hermione said.
“Bit harsh, I suppose, but accurate,” Ron said.
“The uncle was deeply disturbed and said he would set Aladdin up in whatever business most took his fancy, get him a shop and new clothes as well as stock, and introduce him to the businessmen of the city,” Hermione said.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances.
“Pull the other one,” Ron said.
“The odd thing is, that’s just what he did,” Hermione said. “He bought a storefront and stocked it with fine goods, gave Aladdin a suit of beautiful clothes, and provided introductions to the merchants of the great city.”
“Right,” Ron said suspiciously. “Then what?”
“About a week later, he took Aladdin for a walk on a warm day, saying he wanted to show him the very finest houses and mansions, which were on the outskirts of the city along the river. They passed many beautiful houses, each finer than the next, and Aladdin was greatly taken with their grandeur. However, eventually, they reached the end of all the buildings, and his uncle began to lead him deeper and deeper into the wilderness,” Hermione said.
“Uh-oh,” Ron said. “This kid is none too bright, is he?”
“Not especially,” Hermione said, “at least, not from what we’ve seen so far. At long last, they came to a barren piece of wasteland, and Aladdin said, ‘Uncle, is it not time we went home?’ and the man struck him so hard across the face that the boy was thrown to the ground.”
“Whoa, that’s bang out of order!” Ron said. “He’s a bit of a prat, but that was a perfectly civil question.”
“The uncle realized at once that he had slipped, for he apologized but said, ‘Mark me well, Aladdin, you must follow all my commands as though I were your own father, and do not question me. Go, get kindling,’” Hermione said.
“He’s not planning on roasting him or something is he?” Ron asked, looking ill again.
“No, not that,” Hermione said. “Aladdin brought back the kindling, and the uncle, who was actually a magician, lit a fire and cast herbs into it while murmuring an incantation, and a large iron ring was revealed in the barren rocky ground, looking like a handle going down into a stone cellar door.”
“Yet another negative example of magic, I’m guessing,” Ron said.
“Yes, though at least for once it’s not a witch,” Hermione said. “The magician told Aladdin to call aloud the names of his father and grandfather, and then to pull the iron ring from the ground. Astounded, Aladdin did so, and when he pulled the ring up, which seemed as though it weighed nothing to him, it opened a great hole in the ground.”
“A subterranean chamber that only someone with the right parentage can open,” Ron said. “That seems rather familiar, doesn’t it? There isn’t a great ruddy snake in there by any chance?”
“No,” Hermione said, her eyes quite wide. “There do seem to be some parallels with the Chamber of Secrets at that, which, if the stories about Slytherin are true, would actually well predate the known versions of the story and suggest it really is authentic! On the other hand, though, it’s not so much Aladdin’s ancestry that opens the door as his lack of it, as you’ll see. It’s certainly still an interesting similarity, though.”
Ron gave a smug grin at Harry and folded his arms behind his head, relaxing against the sofa cushions.
“So, what did the wizard do next?” Harry asked.
“He told Aladdin to go down into the tunnel. He said there were great riches in the rooms beneath, and Aladdin could take all he wanted, but first he must bring him back a lamp that was sitting in the furthest chamber,” Hermione said.
“A lamp? That’s it?” Ron asked.
“That was all,” Hermione said. “Aladdin didn’t want to go, though, and the wizard became quite angry and threatened to beat him until at last Aladdin agreed. The wizard gave him a ring made of iron to keep him safe as he went to get the lamp.”
“The same one from the door in the ground?” Ron asked.
“No, this was the sort you wear on your finger,” Hermione said. “Usually iron is thought to be protection against fairies in some cultures, so perhaps that was being referenced here as well.”
“So he gives him a ring to keep him safe and throws him into the pit?” Ron asked.
“Not quite. He also told him not to touch anything else in the rooms until after he touched the lamp or else he would die,” Hermione said.
“Oh, that’s comforting,” Ron said. “And then he tossed him into the pit?”
“Basically, yes,” Hermione said.
“So what was down there?” Harry asked.
“Aladdin couldn’t believe what he saw, for the cavern was lit from the glowing piles of gold that stood in tall stone jars as far as he could see,” Hermione said. “Then came piles of silver and all sorts of magical objects from all around the world, and finally a great forest filled with trees bearing fruits that Aladdin had never seen before that glowed with their own fire. It was all so eerie and otherworldly, though, that Aladdin heeded the advice of the magician and touched nothing at all.”
“Let me get this straight. There’s gold and silver and magical gadgets all over the place, but all the wizard wants is a lamp?” Ron asked.
“Yes, and when Aladdin found it, all the way in the back of the cave and sitting on a little wooden table, it was actually very battered and ordinary,” Hermione said.
“Something fishy is going on here,” Ron said.
“There’s an underground cave full of amazing stuff,” Harry said. “I’d say something fishy was going on regardless of the lamp.”
“True,” Ron said. “So Aladdin grabs the lamp. Then what?”
“He realized that his supposed uncle must have been telling the truth about it being safe to take things after he had the lamp; otherwise, if it would kill him, Aladdin wouldn’t be able to bring him back what he asked for,” Hermione said.
“Good bit of reasoning,” Ron said. “He’s smarter than I thought.”
“Perhaps so,” Hermione said. “He began to stuff his pockets with some of the fruits from the trees, as well as gold and silver coins, until all of them were as full as they could be. Then he ran back to the steep stairs that led to the world above.”
“The fruits seem like a waste of space, but I suppose he could always come back later for the rest,” Ron said. “How’s the uncle fairing?”
“He was very glad to see that Aladdin had returned, and he told the boy to throw him the lamp and then he would help him climb out of the cave,” Hermione said.
“Uh oh,” Ron said.
“Yes, Aladdin saw a flaw in that logic as well,” Hermione said. “He instead said that if his uncle helped him out of the cave, he would then hand him the lamp.”
“He really isn’t a total idiot,” Harry said.
“Yes, but the uncle might be,” Hermione said. “The two of them argued back and forth until finally the wizard, who was of course no relation to Aladdin at all and was using him solely because he wanted the lamp and he could get it only if it were handed to him by someone to whom he was not related in any way, became so furious that he closed the door of the cavern, leaving Aladdin alone in the dark to rot.”
“Cutting off his nose to spite his face,” Harry said.
“Or cursing off your nose to spite your acne, if you’re Eloise Midgen,” Ron said.
“Poor girl. I do hope Madam Pomfrey figures out how to fix that at some point,” Hermione said. “I mean, she did at least reattach her nose, but it’s still a bit, well…”
“Crooked,” Ron finished. “It lists to the north no matter which way she turns, which is really weird, frankly.”
“Regardless, I still says she’s a very nice girl,” Hermione said firmly.
“I believe you. She’s a Hufflepuff, isn’t she?” Ron said with a shrug. “They’re usually nice. It’s sort of their trademark.”
With a small sting, Harry thought of Cedric Diggory, who really had been a decent sort, what with sharing information and treating him fairly. He realized he didn’t know many Hufflepuffs that well. Between Cedric and Tonks, though, he wondered if he might have been giving them short shrift.
“Anyway, Aladdin is stuck in the dark, buried alive,” Ron said with a shudder. “Now what?”
“For three whole days, nothing at all,” Hermione said.
“Three days underground with no food or water?” Ron asked. “Wouldn’t he be dead?”
“A lot of that would depend on when and what he’d last consumed as well as his constitution and a variety of other factors, but it would certainly be a very dangerous situation,” Hermione agreed.
“Why didn’t he just eat some of the fruit he picked?” Harry asked.
“He tried, but he found that each one was as hard as a stone and not edible at all,” Hermione said.
“That’s rotten luck,” Ron said.
“It was, but then he got quite a piece of good luck. Depending on the version, Aladdin either was ringing his hands in despair or clasping them in prayer, and he accidentally rubbed the iron ring the counterfeit uncle had given him, which was still on his finger,” Hermione said.
“And?” Ron asked.
“And a genie suddenly appeared in front of him,” Hermione said.
“A genie?” Ron asked. “What’s a genie?”
“It’s this sort of immortal spirit that’s connected to an object, and they’re supposed to be quite powerful. Whoever has control of the object, in this case Aladdin, also has control over the genie, and the genie must do whatever that person says,” Hermione said.
“A bit like a house-elf,” Ron said.
“A bit,” Hermione said, “but genies are supposed to be very intimidating looking, very large and sometimes blue or green or other unusual colors, and for some reason illustrators always seem to have them appearing out of clouds of billowing smoke.”
“Yeah, if Dobby were about thirty feet tall, bright blue, and showed up surrounded with eerie mist all the time, he’d probably seem a bit less cuddly,” Ron agreed.
Harry tried to imagine that for a moment and very nearly managed it, but he absolutely couldn’t picture Dobby without his tennis ball eyes or the squeaky voice greeting him with, “Harry Potter sir!” No, even at seventy feet tall, Dobby would still be Dobby.
“So, what did Aladdin do?” Ron asked.
“He asked the genie who he was, and he responded, ‘I am the slave of the ring. I must do anything the master of the ring commands me within my power,’” Hermione said, trying to drop her voice several octaves and succeeding in making herself gag a bit before muttering, “oh, drop it. I’ll use my own.”
“And he wished himself back home, right?” Ron asked.
“Close,” Hermione said. “He wished for the genie to get him out of the cave, which he did, putting him safely outside of it and then disappearing.”
“And then he rubbed the ring again and told the genie to carry him back home since he was nearly dehydrated to death and it was a really long walk, right?” Ron said.
“No, actually he walked home on his own,” Hermione said.
Ron looked at Harry in confusion, and Harry only shrugged.
“I don’t know why he did it that way. Maybe he was just so frightened from seeing the genie at all after being locked in pitch blackness for three days that his mind wasn’t working all that well,” Hermione said.
“Okay, fine, I’ll let the poor Muggle have a pass on that one,” Ron said. “So he went home?”
“Yes, and his poor mother was overjoyed to see him as she had been nearly out of her mind with worry not knowing where he was,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, I bet Mum would be the same way if we just randomly showed up on the Burrow’s doorstep,” Ron said with a wistful sigh. “Did she give him anything to eat?”
“He asked her for something to eat and drink, but she replied sorrowfully that they had no food or money left in the house, and she had been so worried about him that she had spun only a little flax, not enough to trade for food,” Hermione said.
“Rotten luck,” Ron said, looking glum.
“But then Aladdin produced a few coins from his pockets and told his mother to buy whatever she liked,” Hermione said.
“Oh yeah! I’d forgot about that,” Ron said. “That ought to give them a good dinner.”
“Indeed so, and while the mother asked Aladdin where he had gotten such riches, he told her there was no time to explain and if he did not eat soon, he would perish,” Hermione said.
“Normally I’d say he was over-reacting, but after three days without food or water, I’m guessing that’s probably pretty accurate,” Harry said.
“Most likely so. In fact, I’d assume his mother had already given him some water; otherwise, he probably wouldn’t be able to speak,” Hermione said. “In any case, she went out and bought food enough for both of them, and they ate, then Aladdin slept for a whole night and a day.”
“I’d say the bloke earned it,” Ron said, shuddering. “Buried alive like that in total darkness, he’s lucky he didn’t go out of his head completely.”
Harry silently agreed with him. It did sound like a horrible way to die. At least the Killing Curse gave off a good bit of light with it.
“Yes,” Hermione said, sounding unnerved herself. “That’s rather what being petrified by the Basilisk was like.”
Harry and Ron both looked at her.
“Wait, you were conscious during all of that?” Ron said, his mouth dropping open.
“Conscious isn’t quite the right word,” Hermione said. “I could hear some things, like Madam Pomfrey talking or people coming and going in the hospital wing, but I couldn’t see anything at all, of course. I was quite pleased when you and Harry turned up. I could tell you’d found the bit of paper in my hand, so I knew it wouldn’t be long until you figured it all out.”
Now Harry felt guilty. Neither he nor Ron had gone to the hospital wing at all other than their first glimpse of Hermione after her run-in with the giant snake and again in an effort to thwart Professor McGonagall that led to finding the ripped page.
“It must have been dead boring,” Ron said sympathetically.
“Yes,” Hermione said, but her tone suggested that boredom hadn’t exactly been her highest concern. “Yes, it was at times, I suppose. Well, on with the story. When Aladdin awoke, he told his mother all about his false uncle, the cave full of wonders, the battered lamp, and the genie that had appeared when he rubbed the ring. His mother was shocked, of course, for she had very nearly thrown out the seemingly worthless lamp while her son was sleeping, and now it seemed to her and her son that if that was what the magician had wanted most, then it must be worth more than all the silver and gold put together, though neither could see why.”
“Good point,” Ron said. “If the magician wanted it so badly, it must do something other than, you know, be a lamp.”
“It would seem so. Aladdin recovered over the next several days, and a few weeks later, the coins began to run out. One day, the mother took out the lamp and began to clean it, thinking perhaps it was made of gold or had writing on it or something of the sort to explain its value so they could sell it to buy more food, but no sooner had she begun to rub it than a great cloud of smoke appeared and a genie came forth from the lamp,” Hermione said.
“Seriously?” Ron said. “The same one?”
“No, this one was much larger and looked even more intimidating and frightening,” Hermione said.
“Those things are as common as garden gnomes in this story,” Ron said, shaking his head. “So I take it the magician wanted the lamp to get the genie?”
“Exactly,” Hermione said.
“So to get a genie, he gave Aladdin a ring with a genie, so he could get the lamp with another genie,” Ron said. “What was he, a collector or something?”
“It is odd,” Hermione admitted. “The story doesn’t say that the magician realized that the ring actually had its own genie, though.”
“But he never figured that out the whole time he had it? Didn’t he ever rub his hands even accidentally or something?” Ron said.
“Maybe he wasn’t in the habit of wearing it,” Hermione said. “And really, do you go around randomly rubbing all your belongings just to see if they have a genie in them?”
“I might now,” Ron said. “That umbrella over there looks a bit enchanted now that I think of it.”
“It does sound a little like a Portkey, doesn’t it?” Harry said. “An ordinary object with unusual power?”
“Or a Horcrux,” Ron said, instantly gloomy again. “Damn things just won’t leave us alone. For all we know, that umbrella really does have old You-Know-Who’s soul stuck in between its ribs.”
“I rather doubt it,” Hermione said. “It’s like Dumbledore said. He wouldn’t have used ordinary objects. It would have been far wiser, of course, as they wouldn’t call attention to themselves, but it isn’t in line with his level of vanity.”
“It’d be weird if we found part of his soul tucked into the Muggle crown jewels or the Minister of Magic’s orb of office or something loads of people walk past every day,” Ron said.
“It would be, though he’d never use the crown jewels since they’re Muggle, of course,” Hermione said.
“No,” Ron said, “they’re not.”
“What?” Hermione asked, shocked.
“No, they’re goblin-made, well, some of the bits are anyway,” Ron said. “For centuries there were presents given to the royals from the wizarding world and vice versa, and quite a lot of them ended up in the collection of crown jewels.”
“Really?” Hermione and Harry said in tandem, both stunned.
“Oh, yeah,” Ron said. “This was before the Statue of Secrecy, obviously. Then Oliver Cromwell came in and melted down a bunch of pieces and sold off jewels and things, which made the goblins absolutely furious, of course, and didn’t exactly endear old Ollie to the wizarding world either.”
“But… were they enchanted at all?” Hermione asked.
“A few pieces. One of the crowns was supposed to make the wearer able to speak the language of anyone in the room with him, and I think a couple of the christening things were supposed to give protection against the plague or summat,” Ron said.
“That’s… that’s incredible,” Hermione said breathlessly. “How did I never know about this?”
“We don’t talk about it much after what happened with the state crown of Mary of Modena,” Ron said, looking a bit embarrassed. “See, the Minister of Magic decided to try to reconnect with the royals after Cromwell died, so he commissioned the goblins to make a spectacular crown for her coronation.”
“So what happened?” Harry asked.
“Well, the Minister of Magic might have forgiven the destruction of the gifts, but the goblins hadn’t. They made a crown all right, a jolly pretty one at that, full of diamonds and pearls and the like that were supposed to be enchanted with a charm to make the queen extra smart,” Ron said.
“That sounds rather like Ravenclaw’s diadem,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, same general idea,” Ron said. “But they didn’t actually follow through on it. Not only weren’t the gems enchanted, they weren’t even real. Right smack in the middle of the coronation, all of them vanished as sort of a massive insult from the goblins to the royals, and the royals blamed the Minister of Magic, though he claimed not to have known about it. Most likely he really didn’t. To save face, the public were told that the gems in the crown had only been hired and had to be returned after the ceremony, though everyone who saw them disappear knew better.”
“I imagine that would have been massively embarrassing,” Hermione said.
“It might have been worse than that,” Ron said. “The royals were furious, of course, but then it turned out that Mary of Modena had twelve pregnancies, and only one of her children lived past age ten. They came to the conclusion that the crown was cursed, though the goblins denied it.”
“And were they telling the truth?” Harry asked.
“Who knows?” Ron said. “But it helped get the Statute of Secrecy passed, I can tell you that.”
“Maybe we really do need to look at the Tower of London, then,” Hermione mused. “It’s the sort of thing You-Know-Who would probably think was a good example of magical superiority or some such rot.”
“I’d be up for London again,” Ron said, then looked at Harry.
“I don’t see why not as we’ve tried stranger places,” Harry said. “But the second genie?”
“Oh, I’d nearly forgot!” Hermione said, slapping her forehead. “Yes, the second genie appeared when the mother rubbed the lamp, and she went into a dead faint when she saw him. The genie saw Aladdin, however, and asked, ‘How may I serve you, O Master?’”
“Wait, I thought you said the mother rubbed the lamp?” Ron said.
“I did,” Hermione said.
“Then why isn’t she the master of the genie instead of Aladdin?” Ron asked.
“Oh, take a wild guess,” Hermione said. “I’ll give you a hint. It involves millennia of patriarchy and the negating of women’s right to own property, often including themselves into the bargain.”
“Ah,” Ron said. “I thought it might be because she was out cold on the floor.”
“Well, there is that aspect as well, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Aladdin looked at the genie and asked him to bring them something to eat.”
“As requests go, that’s a pretty decent one,” Ron said. “I’m starting to wish we had one of those around here. So what’d the genie bring them? Sandwiches?”
“Actually, the genie produced twenty servants each carrying an enormous solid gold platter filled with food: bread, fruit, meat, cheese, all of it delicious,” Hermione said.
“The bloke doesn’t do things by half, does he?” Ron said. “Twenty gold platters full of food?”
“Yes, it’s a little excessive. When Aladdin’s mother awoke from her fit, they ate as much as they liked and stored the rest, and none of it went bad either,” Hermione said. “Then they hid the golden platters, and when at last the food ran out, Aladdin would take one platter to sell in the market and use the money to keep them well fed for a long time.”
“They got to keep the platters?” Ron asked.
“Yes, why wouldn’t they?” Hermione asked.
“Well, if I go into the Leaky Cauldron or Madam Puttifoot’s or something and order some food, I don’t go home with the dishes it’s served on, now do I?” Ron said. “Didn’t they belong to the genie?”
“As far as I can tell, nothing really belongs to the genie. Whatever Aladdin asks for, he gets,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but it’s got to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?” Ron said. “You can’t just conjure gold, or food for that matter.”
“True, but Muggles don’t know that,” Hermione said.
“Okay, I’ll give them a pass on not understanding the principles of what can and can’t be created with magic, but I hope Aladdin at least said please and thank you to the genie,” Ron said.
“I’m afraid he didn’t,” Hermione said.
“I’m not entirely sure I like this kid,” Ron said, frowning.
“He is rather a trickster character,” Hermione said.
“A what?” Ron asked.
“A character with somewhat dubious moral tendencies who gets what he, or occasionally she, wants by tricking other characters,” Hermione said. “Usually they’re also very clever and have a sharp, possibly scary sense of humor.”
“Eh, a bit, but not exactly then,” Ron said. “Aladdin still hasn’t proved he’s all that clever yet, and I’m not seeing too much of a sense of humor.”
“Yet,” Hermione said. “This is a very long story, after all.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking we may have to call it a night ourselves pretty quick,” Harry said, glancing at his watch from Mrs. Weasley. “It’s half past midnight.”
“Oh, is it?!” Hermione said. “I guess I’ll just need to tell you the rest of the story tomorrow night, then.”
“Yeah, guess we’ll keep you alive until then,” Ron said, winking at Harry, “but it better be a good one, right?”
“Your wish is my command, O master,” Hermione said in the fakest genie-voice she could muster, then hit Ron over the head with a cushion, “and that’s the only time you’ll ever catch me saying that!”
Harry chuckled to himself as he and Ron both bedded down for the night while Hermione took up her usual station behind her curtained alcove. The king in the story might have been a homicidal maniac, but Scheherazade had a point about spreading her stories over a few nights to keep herself alive. He really did find himself looking forward to the next night’s tale, and judging by the fact Ron was smiling in his sleep (and drooling), Harry guessed he wasn’t the only one.
For notes, see chapter 1.
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
The Lion and the M(ostly Mental)ouse
The Tortoise and the Hare(brained, Completely)
The Go(on with You, Now!)ose Girl
The Little Match G(ood Merlin, What Is Your Problem!?)irl
The Boy Who Cr(ikey, You Lot Are Weird)ied Wolf
Diamonds and To(taly Disgusting)ads
Little Brother and Little S(o Very, Very Wrong)ister
The Bremen Town Musi(ck! Completely Sick!)cians
A.N. - I've never posted a story in installments in this series before, but this one is so freaking huge that, plus the situation in the original story, made it seem appropriate. Fair warning.
Harry was starting to suspect the founders of Hogwarts had purposely wandered through every obscure hamlet and uninhabited valley in Great Britain purely so that centuries later three Gryffindors could drive themselves half-bonkers looking for some obscure belonging that now contained one-seventh of Voldemort’s soul. While his experience with Professor Trelawney didn’t make him all that keen on seers in general, somehow it seemed like there was just no possible way that their sheer misery at the endless chase they were on couldn’t have been the result of someone’s idea of a bad joke.
They’d just finished scouring a field outside of a tiny village named St. Somethingorother, Harry could no longer remember the exact name, which had supposedly once belonged to Godric Gryffindor’s maternal grandmother. For a brief moment, they’d all become very excited when Hermione had found what appeared to be a Medieval dagger with gold and red filigree work, hidden under a large rock shaped rather like a lion’s head. Unfortunately, upon closer examination, it had turned out to be a plastic letter opener. They’d also sighed in unison and pretty much on key as it had gotten to be something of a habit.
Ron, who had tolerated a slightly larger portion of Polyjuice than he normally would swallow, volunteered to find something to eat in town while Harry and Hermione went back to the tent, currently concealed via its usual bevy of charms and enchantments in a hay field. Ron was, Harry thought, at least trying to contribute to making dinner since the disastrous buffalo incident, even if he was more inclined to pinch supper than to make it. Harry didn’t particularly care either way as there was a little more peace, not to mention more food. For a whole week, they’d had a minimum of two decent meals every day, and that had to be a record.
“There has to be some sort of end to all of this, doesn’t there?” Hermione said as they crossed the threshold into the tent. Her hair was turning from grey back to brown even as Harry watched, and he could feel his own nose shrinking a bit as he dug in his pocket for his glasses.
“Does there?” Harry asked, surprising even himself with how down-hearted he sounded.
“Dumbledore wouldn’t have left you a task you couldn’t possibly finish,” Hermione said, but she looked uncertain. “I think he probably intended to give you more information about it, though, before he was—”
“Murdered by Snape,” Harry finished for her. “Yeah, I don’t think he saw that one coming, but I do wish he’d been a little more specific beforehand just in case.”
Hermione nodded in agreement and sat down on the couch, removing the now too small shoes from her feet and rubbing her soles. Harry could actually hear her joints cracking. He took off his own trainers, which thankfully were the correct size for both himself and the fellow he’d changed into, and flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.
“I think we might need to give up on Gryffindor for a bit,” Hermione said. “Maybe we should concentrate more on Helga Hufflepuff.”
“The cup, most likely,” Harry said. “Probably in a pub somewhere.”
“That’s not impossible,” Hermione said, but she didn’t sound at all convinced. “I was just trying to think, if I had something very precious that I wanted to hide, where would I put it?”
“Australia,” Ron said immediately as he entered the tent. “That’s what you did.”
Hermione looked pensive as Ron put two paper sacks filled with what turned out to be curry on the kitchen table.
“I suppose I did at that,” Hermione said. “I don’t know, though. I sent Mum and Dad as far away as I could so that they couldn’t be found by anyone. I don’t think You-Know-Who would want bits of his soul that far away.”
“He might,” Ron said, shrugging. “I can’t get into his mind. Maybe they’re in Antarctica or the Himalayas or on the ruddy moon for all we know.”
Harry thought about this as Ron took the cardboard boxes out and lined them up on the table. It really didn’t seem like there was any end to the possibilities. Dumbledore had thought Voldemort might keep the Horcruxes close by, but then he hadn’t been sure, had he? What if they really did need to go somewhere else, somewhere that no one would ever think of?
“Maybe we’re going about this wrong,” Hermione finally said.
“You think?” Ron said, and Harry was glad for the sake of the fragile peace that Hermione wasn’t looking at him at the moment he rolled his eyes.
“We’re doing the looking, but maybe we should make him do it,” Hermione said.
“You mean You-Know-Who?” Ron asked.
“Can’t we just say the stupid name?” Harry said.
“Oh, let it go,” Hermione said. “Yes, that’s what I mean anyway. What if we let him somehow know that someone not only knows about the Horcruxes but is finding and destroying them one by one?”
“Well, the diary, yes, and Dumbledore did the ring,” Harry said. “We’ve got the locket, but he haven’t destroyed it.”
“But he may well not know about that,” Hermione reasoned. “Wouldn’t he possibly be tempted to go check on the other ones to be sure they were still where he left them? Couldn’t we possibly find out somehow where he might go? Track him?”
“It’s a thought,” Ron said slowly. “It’s a good thought.”
“It is, but there’s a problem,” Harry said. “Once he does find the Horcruxes haven’t been touched, he’ll most likely move them again or put even worse enchantments on them, probably both. We’d need someone on the inside to tell us his movements, too, and we don’t have anyone. Worse, in order to leak what we’re doing, we’d have to expose ourselves, and I’m not sure we’d survive that.”
“Or our families,” Ron said, the brief moment of hope he’d experienced immediately snuffed out.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “It’s a good idea, but I think there’s just too much that could go wrong.”
Hermione looked crestfallen, but said, “You’re probably right.”
“It really was a good idea, ‘Mione,” Ron said consolingly, “and a fresh one. At least we’re still thinking, yeah? So maybe we’ll come up with the answer yet.”
Hermione nodded, taking a bite of butter chicken in consolation.
“Speaking of good, this is excellent, Ron,” she said, and he beamed at her.
Harry noted that she didn’t ask how he’d gotten it or where, and he was glad of it. He’d never had much in the way of curry before. Uncle Vernon hadn’t liked what he called “foreign food,” preferring steak and kidney pie or fish and chips and the like. It was really quite good, Harry thought.
“It’s not bad,” Ron said. “Not sure where it comes from, though. China? Somewhere in the Middle East?”
And Hermione giggled a little.
“What?” Ron asked.
“Oh, it’s just there’s a story with almost exactly the same problem of oddities of place in it,” Hermione said.
“A story, eh?” Ron said, settling in with his chicken tikka masala.
“Yes, well, it’s really a story inside of a story if you want to be technical about it,” Hermione said. “It’s part of the Arabian Nights.”
“What’s that?” Ron asked.
“Oh, a collection of stories told by a girl named Scheherazade,” Hermione said.
“Bless you,” Ron said.
“You did that the last time I mentioned her during the ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’! That’s her name,” Hermione said.
“Right! The one who told part of a story each night to her husband so he wouldn’t kill her off like all his other wives,” Harry said. “I remember now.
“Yeah, yet another weird Muggle mating ritual,” Ron said, shuddering. “I’m surprised you lot haven’t dwindled out by now. How did that bit go again?”
“His first wife had either tried to kill him or had committed adultery, possibly both depending on the story, so he went rather mad and started marrying girls, then killing them the next morning so that none of them would have time to betray him,” Hermione said.
“It does make a weird, warped kind of sense, I suppose,” Ron said, looking a bit sick.
“If someone has enough power to avoid being prosecuted for serial murder and has absolutely no moral compunction about killing innocent women simply because they’re the same gender as his first wife, I suppose it does,” Hermione said with a grimace. “Eventually Scheherazade, whose father was a high ranking official, asked to be married to him to stop the carnage because of her plan.”
“To string the bloke along with a partial story each night, hoping to keep his attention long enough to keep herself alive until the following night?” Ron said.
“Exactly,” Hermione said, “and it worked, too. She told the stories for a thousand and one nights, then, having had two children by him, she pleaded for her life, and he let her live.”
“That was big of him,” Ron said sarcastically. “And the story you’re thinking of is one of the ones she came up with?”
“Possibly,” Hermione said. “It’s also possible that it’s a French counterfeit that was inserted into the other stories at some point when the rest of them became popular in Europe. It’s very difficult to tell.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure that what I’m eating is not French,” Ron said firmly.
“No,” Hermione said, grinning. “It’s from Glasgow.”
“Come off it!” Ron said, fork partway to his mouth.
“Chicken tikka masala definitely is,” Hermione said. “Sometimes appearances can be deceiving.”
“It sure doesn’t taste like haggis,” Ron said, poking at it suspiciously. “So this story could be French or not?”
“Possibly. It’s never been really proven that it’s an impostor, but there’s a lot of evidence pointing that way, including the fact there aren’t any Arabic versions found that seem to predate the French so-called translation,” Hermione said. “Anyway, Scheherazade started the tale by saying that it took place in a faraway land called China.”
“Wait, China?” Harry said. “I thought this was supposed to be in Arabia?”
“Scheherazade is in what would have been Arabia, yes, but she places the story in China in most of the versions, especially the oldest ones we can find, even though most illustrators and storytellers depict the story happening in a non-specific Middle Eastern country,” Hermione said.
“So, once upon a time, in China, there lived—,” Ron provided hopefully.
Hermione gave him a withering look for stealing her line but said, “There lived a boy named Aladdin, son of Mustafa the tailor.”
“He has a name at least, and he isn’t named after a vegetable or a piece of millinery work or something, so that’s a good start,” Ron said. “This Scheherazade might have been on to something.”
“May I continue?” Hermione said. “It’s rather a long tale.”
“Go on,” Ron said magnanimously as he ate the Scottish chicken tikka masala.
“The problem was Aladdin was a lazy boy who did nothing but play all day with idle companions in the street and refused to learn his father’s trade or any other,” Hermione said. “This grieved his poor father so much that he died.”
“The father literally dropped dead of disappointment because his son wasn’t studious enough?” Ron asked.
“Yes,” Hermione said.
“Bit delicate, isn’t he?” Ron said.
“I suppose if he’d had an underlying heart condition exacerbated by stress over his son’s hijinks, it’s actually not impossible that Aladdin’s behavior might have been a major contributing factor to his father’s death,” Hermione said, “though still it wouldn’t technically be Aladdin’s fault.”
“I’m glad dad doesn’t have that, or mum either,” Ron said. “Fred and George would have finished them off for certain.”
“I don’t know about that,” Hermione said. “They were both always ambitious and clever even if they didn’t take school seriously, and they’ve turned out very well.”
“I suppose so,” Ron said, and Harry noted a bit of jealousy in his friend’s voice. “Now, Percy, on the other hand—“
“There you may have a point,” Hermione admitted. “Regardless, Mustafa the tailor died, leaving his widow and Aladdin alone in the world, and very poor into the bargain.”
“That’s sad,” Ron said. “Then what?”
“One day, as Aladdin was playing in the streets, a strange man came up to him and asked if Aladdin happened to be the son of Mustafa the tailor, and when he said he was, the man hugged him and wept, crying, ‘I am your long lost uncle, your father’s own brother!’” Hermione said.
“No, he’s not,” Ron said immediately.
“What makes you think so?” Hermione asked.
“It’s too convenient,” Ron said.
“Well, we’ll see whether you’re right or not,” Hermione said, barely suppressing a grin that made Harry suspect Ron was definitely right. “In any case, Aladdin told the man his father had died, and he wept all the harder, then asked to be taken to his brother’s widow.”
“Wait, is Aladdin’s mother, you know, really hot or something?” Ron asked.
“No, actually the stories say she’s quite homely,” Hermione said.
“Oh,” Ron said. “Okay, so he’s probably not pining over some old doomed love affair from his school days or something and using her son as a way to maintain contact with his unrequited romance.”
“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. “What an odd thing to say. Who would do that? Anyway, the man who claimed to be Aladdin’s uncle gave him several gold coins and told him to run home and tell his mother what had happened, and that she should go into the market and buy provisions for a great feast of welcome as he was coming to their home that night.”
“Bit bold, isn’t he? Inviting himself over and telling her to cook something special to celebrate his arrival?” Harry said.
“More than you know,” Hermione said. “The mother immediately told Aladdin that his father had not had a brother, but when she saw the gold, she reconsidered and said that there had indeed been a brother, but she had thought he had died long before she married Aladdin’s father.”
“Or she just wants a big dinner,” Ron said.
“Possibly, as they were starving,” Hermione said.
“I can’t really blame her, then,” Ron said. “At this point if some bloke walked up to me on the street claiming to be dad’s long lost brother and he happened to have a sack of fish and chips with him, I’d go along with it at least until the vinegar was gone. So what happened?”
“She went to the bazaar and bought wonderful things, then borrowed pots and bowls and pans from her neighbors and cooked a sumptuous dinner,” Hermione said.
“She had to borrow pots and pans?” Ron said.
“Yes, they were that poor,” Hermione explained.
“Wow,” Ron said, looking glum. “I hope I’m wrong and this bloke’s on the level. They need a break. Poor homely woman with pseudo-Percy as a son and no husband and no pots.”
“Again, we shall see,” Hermione said, but Harry noted the rather sweet smile she gave Ron. “The uncle showed up, dressed in the finest clothes Aladdin and his mother had ever seen, and he knelt to kiss the spot where his brother had once sat, and wept over his brother’s bronze bowl that he said he remembered from his childhood, and offered prayers and beat his breast in sorrow over his passing.”
“Laying it on a bit thick isn’t he?” Harry said. “Kissing the floor?”
“He’s faking it,” Ron said, folding his arms angrily. “She had to borrow the bowls from the neighbors, so he can’t be remembering it from his childhood.”
“Well spotted,” Harry said.
“The mother noticed as well, but she hoped the bowl was so like one her husband had once owned that he could be forgiven for confusing them,” Hermione said.
“Uh-huh,” Ron said. “Grasping a bit, isn’t she.”
“Perhaps. After dinner, the man asked Aladdin what trade he practiced, and the boy hung his head in shame as his mother took her turn at weeping and explained that he was an idle good-for-nothing,” Hermione said.
“Bit harsh, I suppose, but accurate,” Ron said.
“The uncle was deeply disturbed and said he would set Aladdin up in whatever business most took his fancy, get him a shop and new clothes as well as stock, and introduce him to the businessmen of the city,” Hermione said.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances.
“Pull the other one,” Ron said.
“The odd thing is, that’s just what he did,” Hermione said. “He bought a storefront and stocked it with fine goods, gave Aladdin a suit of beautiful clothes, and provided introductions to the merchants of the great city.”
“Right,” Ron said suspiciously. “Then what?”
“About a week later, he took Aladdin for a walk on a warm day, saying he wanted to show him the very finest houses and mansions, which were on the outskirts of the city along the river. They passed many beautiful houses, each finer than the next, and Aladdin was greatly taken with their grandeur. However, eventually, they reached the end of all the buildings, and his uncle began to lead him deeper and deeper into the wilderness,” Hermione said.
“Uh-oh,” Ron said. “This kid is none too bright, is he?”
“Not especially,” Hermione said, “at least, not from what we’ve seen so far. At long last, they came to a barren piece of wasteland, and Aladdin said, ‘Uncle, is it not time we went home?’ and the man struck him so hard across the face that the boy was thrown to the ground.”
“Whoa, that’s bang out of order!” Ron said. “He’s a bit of a prat, but that was a perfectly civil question.”
“The uncle realized at once that he had slipped, for he apologized but said, ‘Mark me well, Aladdin, you must follow all my commands as though I were your own father, and do not question me. Go, get kindling,’” Hermione said.
“He’s not planning on roasting him or something is he?” Ron asked, looking ill again.
“No, not that,” Hermione said. “Aladdin brought back the kindling, and the uncle, who was actually a magician, lit a fire and cast herbs into it while murmuring an incantation, and a large iron ring was revealed in the barren rocky ground, looking like a handle going down into a stone cellar door.”
“Yet another negative example of magic, I’m guessing,” Ron said.
“Yes, though at least for once it’s not a witch,” Hermione said. “The magician told Aladdin to call aloud the names of his father and grandfather, and then to pull the iron ring from the ground. Astounded, Aladdin did so, and when he pulled the ring up, which seemed as though it weighed nothing to him, it opened a great hole in the ground.”
“A subterranean chamber that only someone with the right parentage can open,” Ron said. “That seems rather familiar, doesn’t it? There isn’t a great ruddy snake in there by any chance?”
“No,” Hermione said, her eyes quite wide. “There do seem to be some parallels with the Chamber of Secrets at that, which, if the stories about Slytherin are true, would actually well predate the known versions of the story and suggest it really is authentic! On the other hand, though, it’s not so much Aladdin’s ancestry that opens the door as his lack of it, as you’ll see. It’s certainly still an interesting similarity, though.”
Ron gave a smug grin at Harry and folded his arms behind his head, relaxing against the sofa cushions.
“So, what did the wizard do next?” Harry asked.
“He told Aladdin to go down into the tunnel. He said there were great riches in the rooms beneath, and Aladdin could take all he wanted, but first he must bring him back a lamp that was sitting in the furthest chamber,” Hermione said.
“A lamp? That’s it?” Ron asked.
“That was all,” Hermione said. “Aladdin didn’t want to go, though, and the wizard became quite angry and threatened to beat him until at last Aladdin agreed. The wizard gave him a ring made of iron to keep him safe as he went to get the lamp.”
“The same one from the door in the ground?” Ron asked.
“No, this was the sort you wear on your finger,” Hermione said. “Usually iron is thought to be protection against fairies in some cultures, so perhaps that was being referenced here as well.”
“So he gives him a ring to keep him safe and throws him into the pit?” Ron asked.
“Not quite. He also told him not to touch anything else in the rooms until after he touched the lamp or else he would die,” Hermione said.
“Oh, that’s comforting,” Ron said. “And then he tossed him into the pit?”
“Basically, yes,” Hermione said.
“So what was down there?” Harry asked.
“Aladdin couldn’t believe what he saw, for the cavern was lit from the glowing piles of gold that stood in tall stone jars as far as he could see,” Hermione said. “Then came piles of silver and all sorts of magical objects from all around the world, and finally a great forest filled with trees bearing fruits that Aladdin had never seen before that glowed with their own fire. It was all so eerie and otherworldly, though, that Aladdin heeded the advice of the magician and touched nothing at all.”
“Let me get this straight. There’s gold and silver and magical gadgets all over the place, but all the wizard wants is a lamp?” Ron asked.
“Yes, and when Aladdin found it, all the way in the back of the cave and sitting on a little wooden table, it was actually very battered and ordinary,” Hermione said.
“Something fishy is going on here,” Ron said.
“There’s an underground cave full of amazing stuff,” Harry said. “I’d say something fishy was going on regardless of the lamp.”
“True,” Ron said. “So Aladdin grabs the lamp. Then what?”
“He realized that his supposed uncle must have been telling the truth about it being safe to take things after he had the lamp; otherwise, if it would kill him, Aladdin wouldn’t be able to bring him back what he asked for,” Hermione said.
“Good bit of reasoning,” Ron said. “He’s smarter than I thought.”
“Perhaps so,” Hermione said. “He began to stuff his pockets with some of the fruits from the trees, as well as gold and silver coins, until all of them were as full as they could be. Then he ran back to the steep stairs that led to the world above.”
“The fruits seem like a waste of space, but I suppose he could always come back later for the rest,” Ron said. “How’s the uncle fairing?”
“He was very glad to see that Aladdin had returned, and he told the boy to throw him the lamp and then he would help him climb out of the cave,” Hermione said.
“Uh oh,” Ron said.
“Yes, Aladdin saw a flaw in that logic as well,” Hermione said. “He instead said that if his uncle helped him out of the cave, he would then hand him the lamp.”
“He really isn’t a total idiot,” Harry said.
“Yes, but the uncle might be,” Hermione said. “The two of them argued back and forth until finally the wizard, who was of course no relation to Aladdin at all and was using him solely because he wanted the lamp and he could get it only if it were handed to him by someone to whom he was not related in any way, became so furious that he closed the door of the cavern, leaving Aladdin alone in the dark to rot.”
“Cutting off his nose to spite his face,” Harry said.
“Or cursing off your nose to spite your acne, if you’re Eloise Midgen,” Ron said.
“Poor girl. I do hope Madam Pomfrey figures out how to fix that at some point,” Hermione said. “I mean, she did at least reattach her nose, but it’s still a bit, well…”
“Crooked,” Ron finished. “It lists to the north no matter which way she turns, which is really weird, frankly.”
“Regardless, I still says she’s a very nice girl,” Hermione said firmly.
“I believe you. She’s a Hufflepuff, isn’t she?” Ron said with a shrug. “They’re usually nice. It’s sort of their trademark.”
With a small sting, Harry thought of Cedric Diggory, who really had been a decent sort, what with sharing information and treating him fairly. He realized he didn’t know many Hufflepuffs that well. Between Cedric and Tonks, though, he wondered if he might have been giving them short shrift.
“Anyway, Aladdin is stuck in the dark, buried alive,” Ron said with a shudder. “Now what?”
“For three whole days, nothing at all,” Hermione said.
“Three days underground with no food or water?” Ron asked. “Wouldn’t he be dead?”
“A lot of that would depend on when and what he’d last consumed as well as his constitution and a variety of other factors, but it would certainly be a very dangerous situation,” Hermione agreed.
“Why didn’t he just eat some of the fruit he picked?” Harry asked.
“He tried, but he found that each one was as hard as a stone and not edible at all,” Hermione said.
“That’s rotten luck,” Ron said.
“It was, but then he got quite a piece of good luck. Depending on the version, Aladdin either was ringing his hands in despair or clasping them in prayer, and he accidentally rubbed the iron ring the counterfeit uncle had given him, which was still on his finger,” Hermione said.
“And?” Ron asked.
“And a genie suddenly appeared in front of him,” Hermione said.
“A genie?” Ron asked. “What’s a genie?”
“It’s this sort of immortal spirit that’s connected to an object, and they’re supposed to be quite powerful. Whoever has control of the object, in this case Aladdin, also has control over the genie, and the genie must do whatever that person says,” Hermione said.
“A bit like a house-elf,” Ron said.
“A bit,” Hermione said, “but genies are supposed to be very intimidating looking, very large and sometimes blue or green or other unusual colors, and for some reason illustrators always seem to have them appearing out of clouds of billowing smoke.”
“Yeah, if Dobby were about thirty feet tall, bright blue, and showed up surrounded with eerie mist all the time, he’d probably seem a bit less cuddly,” Ron agreed.
Harry tried to imagine that for a moment and very nearly managed it, but he absolutely couldn’t picture Dobby without his tennis ball eyes or the squeaky voice greeting him with, “Harry Potter sir!” No, even at seventy feet tall, Dobby would still be Dobby.
“So, what did Aladdin do?” Ron asked.
“He asked the genie who he was, and he responded, ‘I am the slave of the ring. I must do anything the master of the ring commands me within my power,’” Hermione said, trying to drop her voice several octaves and succeeding in making herself gag a bit before muttering, “oh, drop it. I’ll use my own.”
“And he wished himself back home, right?” Ron asked.
“Close,” Hermione said. “He wished for the genie to get him out of the cave, which he did, putting him safely outside of it and then disappearing.”
“And then he rubbed the ring again and told the genie to carry him back home since he was nearly dehydrated to death and it was a really long walk, right?” Ron said.
“No, actually he walked home on his own,” Hermione said.
Ron looked at Harry in confusion, and Harry only shrugged.
“I don’t know why he did it that way. Maybe he was just so frightened from seeing the genie at all after being locked in pitch blackness for three days that his mind wasn’t working all that well,” Hermione said.
“Okay, fine, I’ll let the poor Muggle have a pass on that one,” Ron said. “So he went home?”
“Yes, and his poor mother was overjoyed to see him as she had been nearly out of her mind with worry not knowing where he was,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, I bet Mum would be the same way if we just randomly showed up on the Burrow’s doorstep,” Ron said with a wistful sigh. “Did she give him anything to eat?”
“He asked her for something to eat and drink, but she replied sorrowfully that they had no food or money left in the house, and she had been so worried about him that she had spun only a little flax, not enough to trade for food,” Hermione said.
“Rotten luck,” Ron said, looking glum.
“But then Aladdin produced a few coins from his pockets and told his mother to buy whatever she liked,” Hermione said.
“Oh yeah! I’d forgot about that,” Ron said. “That ought to give them a good dinner.”
“Indeed so, and while the mother asked Aladdin where he had gotten such riches, he told her there was no time to explain and if he did not eat soon, he would perish,” Hermione said.
“Normally I’d say he was over-reacting, but after three days without food or water, I’m guessing that’s probably pretty accurate,” Harry said.
“Most likely so. In fact, I’d assume his mother had already given him some water; otherwise, he probably wouldn’t be able to speak,” Hermione said. “In any case, she went out and bought food enough for both of them, and they ate, then Aladdin slept for a whole night and a day.”
“I’d say the bloke earned it,” Ron said, shuddering. “Buried alive like that in total darkness, he’s lucky he didn’t go out of his head completely.”
Harry silently agreed with him. It did sound like a horrible way to die. At least the Killing Curse gave off a good bit of light with it.
“Yes,” Hermione said, sounding unnerved herself. “That’s rather what being petrified by the Basilisk was like.”
Harry and Ron both looked at her.
“Wait, you were conscious during all of that?” Ron said, his mouth dropping open.
“Conscious isn’t quite the right word,” Hermione said. “I could hear some things, like Madam Pomfrey talking or people coming and going in the hospital wing, but I couldn’t see anything at all, of course. I was quite pleased when you and Harry turned up. I could tell you’d found the bit of paper in my hand, so I knew it wouldn’t be long until you figured it all out.”
Now Harry felt guilty. Neither he nor Ron had gone to the hospital wing at all other than their first glimpse of Hermione after her run-in with the giant snake and again in an effort to thwart Professor McGonagall that led to finding the ripped page.
“It must have been dead boring,” Ron said sympathetically.
“Yes,” Hermione said, but her tone suggested that boredom hadn’t exactly been her highest concern. “Yes, it was at times, I suppose. Well, on with the story. When Aladdin awoke, he told his mother all about his false uncle, the cave full of wonders, the battered lamp, and the genie that had appeared when he rubbed the ring. His mother was shocked, of course, for she had very nearly thrown out the seemingly worthless lamp while her son was sleeping, and now it seemed to her and her son that if that was what the magician had wanted most, then it must be worth more than all the silver and gold put together, though neither could see why.”
“Good point,” Ron said. “If the magician wanted it so badly, it must do something other than, you know, be a lamp.”
“It would seem so. Aladdin recovered over the next several days, and a few weeks later, the coins began to run out. One day, the mother took out the lamp and began to clean it, thinking perhaps it was made of gold or had writing on it or something of the sort to explain its value so they could sell it to buy more food, but no sooner had she begun to rub it than a great cloud of smoke appeared and a genie came forth from the lamp,” Hermione said.
“Seriously?” Ron said. “The same one?”
“No, this one was much larger and looked even more intimidating and frightening,” Hermione said.
“Those things are as common as garden gnomes in this story,” Ron said, shaking his head. “So I take it the magician wanted the lamp to get the genie?”
“Exactly,” Hermione said.
“So to get a genie, he gave Aladdin a ring with a genie, so he could get the lamp with another genie,” Ron said. “What was he, a collector or something?”
“It is odd,” Hermione admitted. “The story doesn’t say that the magician realized that the ring actually had its own genie, though.”
“But he never figured that out the whole time he had it? Didn’t he ever rub his hands even accidentally or something?” Ron said.
“Maybe he wasn’t in the habit of wearing it,” Hermione said. “And really, do you go around randomly rubbing all your belongings just to see if they have a genie in them?”
“I might now,” Ron said. “That umbrella over there looks a bit enchanted now that I think of it.”
“It does sound a little like a Portkey, doesn’t it?” Harry said. “An ordinary object with unusual power?”
“Or a Horcrux,” Ron said, instantly gloomy again. “Damn things just won’t leave us alone. For all we know, that umbrella really does have old You-Know-Who’s soul stuck in between its ribs.”
“I rather doubt it,” Hermione said. “It’s like Dumbledore said. He wouldn’t have used ordinary objects. It would have been far wiser, of course, as they wouldn’t call attention to themselves, but it isn’t in line with his level of vanity.”
“It’d be weird if we found part of his soul tucked into the Muggle crown jewels or the Minister of Magic’s orb of office or something loads of people walk past every day,” Ron said.
“It would be, though he’d never use the crown jewels since they’re Muggle, of course,” Hermione said.
“No,” Ron said, “they’re not.”
“What?” Hermione asked, shocked.
“No, they’re goblin-made, well, some of the bits are anyway,” Ron said. “For centuries there were presents given to the royals from the wizarding world and vice versa, and quite a lot of them ended up in the collection of crown jewels.”
“Really?” Hermione and Harry said in tandem, both stunned.
“Oh, yeah,” Ron said. “This was before the Statue of Secrecy, obviously. Then Oliver Cromwell came in and melted down a bunch of pieces and sold off jewels and things, which made the goblins absolutely furious, of course, and didn’t exactly endear old Ollie to the wizarding world either.”
“But… were they enchanted at all?” Hermione asked.
“A few pieces. One of the crowns was supposed to make the wearer able to speak the language of anyone in the room with him, and I think a couple of the christening things were supposed to give protection against the plague or summat,” Ron said.
“That’s… that’s incredible,” Hermione said breathlessly. “How did I never know about this?”
“We don’t talk about it much after what happened with the state crown of Mary of Modena,” Ron said, looking a bit embarrassed. “See, the Minister of Magic decided to try to reconnect with the royals after Cromwell died, so he commissioned the goblins to make a spectacular crown for her coronation.”
“So what happened?” Harry asked.
“Well, the Minister of Magic might have forgiven the destruction of the gifts, but the goblins hadn’t. They made a crown all right, a jolly pretty one at that, full of diamonds and pearls and the like that were supposed to be enchanted with a charm to make the queen extra smart,” Ron said.
“That sounds rather like Ravenclaw’s diadem,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, same general idea,” Ron said. “But they didn’t actually follow through on it. Not only weren’t the gems enchanted, they weren’t even real. Right smack in the middle of the coronation, all of them vanished as sort of a massive insult from the goblins to the royals, and the royals blamed the Minister of Magic, though he claimed not to have known about it. Most likely he really didn’t. To save face, the public were told that the gems in the crown had only been hired and had to be returned after the ceremony, though everyone who saw them disappear knew better.”
“I imagine that would have been massively embarrassing,” Hermione said.
“It might have been worse than that,” Ron said. “The royals were furious, of course, but then it turned out that Mary of Modena had twelve pregnancies, and only one of her children lived past age ten. They came to the conclusion that the crown was cursed, though the goblins denied it.”
“And were they telling the truth?” Harry asked.
“Who knows?” Ron said. “But it helped get the Statute of Secrecy passed, I can tell you that.”
“Maybe we really do need to look at the Tower of London, then,” Hermione mused. “It’s the sort of thing You-Know-Who would probably think was a good example of magical superiority or some such rot.”
“I’d be up for London again,” Ron said, then looked at Harry.
“I don’t see why not as we’ve tried stranger places,” Harry said. “But the second genie?”
“Oh, I’d nearly forgot!” Hermione said, slapping her forehead. “Yes, the second genie appeared when the mother rubbed the lamp, and she went into a dead faint when she saw him. The genie saw Aladdin, however, and asked, ‘How may I serve you, O Master?’”
“Wait, I thought you said the mother rubbed the lamp?” Ron said.
“I did,” Hermione said.
“Then why isn’t she the master of the genie instead of Aladdin?” Ron asked.
“Oh, take a wild guess,” Hermione said. “I’ll give you a hint. It involves millennia of patriarchy and the negating of women’s right to own property, often including themselves into the bargain.”
“Ah,” Ron said. “I thought it might be because she was out cold on the floor.”
“Well, there is that aspect as well, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Aladdin looked at the genie and asked him to bring them something to eat.”
“As requests go, that’s a pretty decent one,” Ron said. “I’m starting to wish we had one of those around here. So what’d the genie bring them? Sandwiches?”
“Actually, the genie produced twenty servants each carrying an enormous solid gold platter filled with food: bread, fruit, meat, cheese, all of it delicious,” Hermione said.
“The bloke doesn’t do things by half, does he?” Ron said. “Twenty gold platters full of food?”
“Yes, it’s a little excessive. When Aladdin’s mother awoke from her fit, they ate as much as they liked and stored the rest, and none of it went bad either,” Hermione said. “Then they hid the golden platters, and when at last the food ran out, Aladdin would take one platter to sell in the market and use the money to keep them well fed for a long time.”
“They got to keep the platters?” Ron asked.
“Yes, why wouldn’t they?” Hermione asked.
“Well, if I go into the Leaky Cauldron or Madam Puttifoot’s or something and order some food, I don’t go home with the dishes it’s served on, now do I?” Ron said. “Didn’t they belong to the genie?”
“As far as I can tell, nothing really belongs to the genie. Whatever Aladdin asks for, he gets,” Hermione said.
“Yeah, but it’s got to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?” Ron said. “You can’t just conjure gold, or food for that matter.”
“True, but Muggles don’t know that,” Hermione said.
“Okay, I’ll give them a pass on not understanding the principles of what can and can’t be created with magic, but I hope Aladdin at least said please and thank you to the genie,” Ron said.
“I’m afraid he didn’t,” Hermione said.
“I’m not entirely sure I like this kid,” Ron said, frowning.
“He is rather a trickster character,” Hermione said.
“A what?” Ron asked.
“A character with somewhat dubious moral tendencies who gets what he, or occasionally she, wants by tricking other characters,” Hermione said. “Usually they’re also very clever and have a sharp, possibly scary sense of humor.”
“Eh, a bit, but not exactly then,” Ron said. “Aladdin still hasn’t proved he’s all that clever yet, and I’m not seeing too much of a sense of humor.”
“Yet,” Hermione said. “This is a very long story, after all.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking we may have to call it a night ourselves pretty quick,” Harry said, glancing at his watch from Mrs. Weasley. “It’s half past midnight.”
“Oh, is it?!” Hermione said. “I guess I’ll just need to tell you the rest of the story tomorrow night, then.”
“Yeah, guess we’ll keep you alive until then,” Ron said, winking at Harry, “but it better be a good one, right?”
“Your wish is my command, O master,” Hermione said in the fakest genie-voice she could muster, then hit Ron over the head with a cushion, “and that’s the only time you’ll ever catch me saying that!”
Harry chuckled to himself as he and Ron both bedded down for the night while Hermione took up her usual station behind her curtained alcove. The king in the story might have been a homicidal maniac, but Scheherazade had a point about spreading her stories over a few nights to keep herself alive. He really did find himself looking forward to the next night’s tale, and judging by the fact Ron was smiling in his sleep (and drooling), Harry guessed he wasn’t the only one.
