Fic: The Princess(antly Bizarre) on the Glass Hill (MFTAM)

[bookishwench]

The full masterlist for Muggle Fairy Tales Are Mad is here.


Harry wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from Dumbledore’s summer residence, but what he found had left him feeling glum. The little cottage was unassuming, plopped in a row of houses on an average street. The back garden by which they had entered over a brick wall had probably been magically enlarged at some point, but on Dumbledore’s death, that spell had dissolved, and only a few scrubby bushes and plants remained in the late autumn landscape. The door that led inside had opened of its own accord for them, leaving Ron, Hermione, and Harry to glance at one another with matching wary expressions, but it appeared Dumbledore had suspected they might show up at some point and prepared for it.

When they entered, the interior gave off a feeling of abandonment. The rooms were mostly empty. Rows and rows of bookshelves lined almost every wall, but not a single volume remained, giving the place an eerie sort of echo. Hermione had run a finger over one of the vacant shelves and looked like she might cry.

“Someone’s already taken all of them,” she said. “I hope it wasn’t Death Eaters. I can’t bear to think of them getting their hands on his books.”

“They probably couldn’t do the spells in them anyway,” Ron said dismissively. “I kind of doubt half of them can even read.”

“Even so, it’s not so much the spells as, well, you know, they were his,” she said. “If they’d burned them or something horrible like that… oh, I don’t want to think about it!”

Ron gave her a look behind her back that suggested he didn’t see what the fuss was about, but as the only book Harry knew he owned outside of his schoolbooks was a collection of Marvin Miggs the Mad Muggle, Ron probably didn’t understand how personal books could be.

“What did you do with all your books when you sent your Mum and Dad to Australia?” Ron asked, and Harry winced, knowing it wasn’t a good topic.

“They’re in here,” she said, gesturing to her little beaded bag.

“All of them?” Ron said, looking positively alarmed.

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave them there, could I?” Hermione said.

“Crikey, is everything you own in that bag?” Ron asked.

“Pretty much,” Hermione said. “I left a few odds and ends at the Burrow. Most of it I intended to take with us, but we had to leave so quickly I didn’t get the chance.”

“Like what?” Ron asked curiously.

“Oh, I had a couple of jumpers I’d washed that were still hanging in the loo to dry,” Hermione said. “The nightstand had a quill, a pair of earrings that didn’t go with my dress for the wedding, my diary…”

“You keep a diary?” Ron said, surprised.

“More of a series of checklists and things, but yes,” Hermione said. “Why do you find that so shocking?”

“After second year, I wouldn’t think any of us would write in a diary again,” Ron said. “Do you, Harry?”

“No, Riddle cured me of that,” he said.

“I can imagine so,” Hermione said, “but this is just a plain, ordinary Muggle notebook, though.”

“Technically, so was Riddle’s diary,” Harry reminded her.

“I refused to be terrified of all paper products on account of a horrid person who shall remain nameless,” she said. “Besides, sometimes it’s illuminating and even comforting to go back and read what I was thinking about before all this happened.”

“So when we go back, can I read it?” Ron asked.

“No.”

“Why not? You said it was just checklists and things,” Ron said, grinning. “Nothing too shocking, right?”

“Do you really want to read sections from fourth year when I was seeing Viktor?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Ron said, suddenly looking a little ill. “No. Ehm, I wouldn’t want to intrude, not if it’s personal.”

“Speaking of personal, is there anything at all of Dumbledore’s left in here?” Harry asked, trying to stop the topic before it become too contentious. “This place looks about as cozy as a cave.”

“I suppose we’d better look, but I was really hoping to learn something from his books,” Hermione said, sighing. “I’ll take the upstairs.”

“I’ll do the kitchen,” Ron said.

“It looks like I have the sitting room, then” Harry said.

It felt strange to be in the surprisingly normal little house while knowing that one of the most powerful wizards ever had once lived in it. Harry looked around the room carefully, but there simply wasn’t much to see. Two rather battered armchairs covered in red and white striped cotton upholstery stood in front of a brick fireplace that showed smoke stains. Harry experimentally prodded the chairs, remembering Slughorn’s trick, but nothing happened. He looked under the cushions and found a couple of perfectly normal Muggle coins, one Knut, and some lint, but that was all. He shined a light up the chimney and was met with an uninterrupted view of the sky above. None of the bricks were loose. The mantelpiece, the floorboards, the windowsills, all of them were ordinary, almost shockingly so.

“Anything?” Harry called out.

“Not up here,” Hermione’s voice called down, followed by the sound of her shoes squeaking on the boards of the old staircase. “There’s a bedframe, but no mattress, and nothing seems to be hidden in it. The loo was empty except for an old, empty wastebin with nothing.”

“Every cupboard is bare,” Ron said mournfully, and even from the next room Harry heard his stomach grumbling loudly. “The plumbing’s working, though, so we have water, but there’s no cups or glasses or things, not so much as an old spoon hanging about. I think we were wrong again.”

It certainly appeared so, but Harry kept thinking back to how the door had opened for them. Dumbledore had suspected they might come. Maybe whatever help he had planned to give them had been carted off, but that didn’t seem to be his style. He would have thought of that.

“Okay, so nothing’s here,” Harry said, looking around the room again as Ron joined Hermione a few feet away. “But what else isn’t here?”

“What?” Ron asked. “I don’t follow you.”

“Is this a wizarding house or a Muggle one?” Harry asked, starting to notice something odd.

“The street is Muggle,” Hermione said. “The architecture of the house suggests it was probably built in the early twentieth century, which would be rather modern for wizarding tastes. I’d say before Dumbledore moved in, Muggles lived here.”

“And more than likely will again soon,” Ron said. “It looks ripe to be rented or sold or something.”

“But it’s not,” Harry said. “Ron, you might not notice, but Hermione, what’s missing here from a Muggle house?”

She glanced around, then suddenly blinked.

“There’s no outlets,” she said.

“What, for eccle-tricity?” Ron said. “Dumbledore wouldn’t need that.”

“No, but Muggles would, and the outlets would still be here even if he didn’t use them. There isn’t even any trace of gas lighting,” Hermione said, looking critically at the walls and ceiling. “It’s like he removed it or it was never installed at all. Something odd is going on.”

“And it’s something pure-bloods would never notice,” Harry said. “Only a Muggle-born or someone who grew up around Muggles would.”

“Oh, he really was clever,” Hermione said, smiling. “Okay, no offense, Ron, but I’m going to have another look at the kitchen.”

“Suit yourself. It’s empty,” Ron said.

All three of them went back in, but it certainly looked as vacant as Ron had said. Hermione and Harry opened cupboards and drawers, but nothing appeared.

“See?” Ron said.

“I guess there really isn’t anything here,” Harry said, but Hermione kept staring fixedly at every object in the room.

“The fridge,” she said.

“What about it?” Ron said, opening it to reveal a brightly lit interior with nothing on the shelves. “Empty.”

“But how is the light inside of it on when there’s no electricity?” she said.

“I… don’t know?” Ron said.

Harry closed the door and gave the small refrigerator a shove, revealing the back, which was definitely not plugged into anything at all.

“That’s weird,” he said. “I don’t get it.”

“I think I might,” Hermione said, pulling her wand out of her sleeve. “Aparecium!”

Immediately, the light in the fridge flickered out, and a moment later, it came back on to reveal—

“FOOD!” Ron yelled, staring at piles of perfectly preserved fruits, vegetables, sausages, and a dozen other delicacies. “There’s enough here for weeks!”

“But is it safe, though?” Harry asked, grabbing the back of Ron’s jumper as he looked like he was about to launch himself bodily into the fridge.

“Look, there’s a note,” Hermione said, and sure enough, an envelope sat on the topmost shelf right on top of a plate of chipolatas.

Ron grabbed it and tore it open with wild enthusiasm. Harry just barely noted Dumbledore’s familiar handwriting in looping purple ink on the outside of the envelope, addressing it to “Our Hope.”

“Dearest Harry, as well as Ron and Hermione, I should think,’” Ron read. “’If you find this, I hope you will be able to use these supplies for your task. I have endeavored over the Christmas holidays to make this cache of food as well preserved and hidden as possible. Should all go well, I will simply eat it myself over the summer. If not (and if you are reading this letter, that is not a good sign), you may take this with you without fear of its going bad for at least two years.’ Blimey, he’s my favorite person ever right now!”

“Does he say anything else?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, um, ‘I wish you luck in what we discussed. Due to the possibility of Death Eaters raiding my residence, I am unable to leave anything that might aid both you and them here. You may tell Miss Granger my books have been safely ensconced elsewhere, though I am not at liberty to say where that is.’”

Harry heard her heave a sigh of relief.

“The closet upstairs has a few supplies hidden in the same manner. The house opened for you, and once you entered, a veil of protection dropped, allowing you three days of respite before anyone can trace you here. Harry, should you wish to check if this is indeed I, I once told you my preferred Christmas present was socks.’”

“He did,” Harry said, smiling at the memory.

“Barking mad,” Ron said fondly. “’I wish I could be of more use to you, but know that I have faith in your ability to see this through to the end. Best of luck, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.’ Three days of peace and a fridge full of food. It’s like Christmas has come early!”

Hermione was already bounding up the stairs to see what was in the closet.

“Oh, this is marvelous!” she called down. “He’s put aside blankets and socks and soap and bandages and Muggle money and all sorts of things!”

“That’s it. I’m declaring whoever of us has a son first has to name him Albus,” Ron said, grabbing a gigantic turkey leg out of the fridge and tearing into it.

Hermione came back down the stairs with a smile wider than Harry remembered seeing for months. She put her nose into the fridge and took out a plate with a roast on it. She produced cutlery, glasses, plates and napkins from her beaded bag, and as she and Ron set an abundant table, Harry grabbed a steak and kidney pie, which was somehow not only still good but actually piping hot.

A whole hour passed in blissful eating as potatoes, salad, rolls, and a parade of other wonderful things made their way to the table, culminating in a delicious treacle tart.

“I literally do not remember the last time I felt this full,” Ron said, patting his stomach. “Italy, maybe?”

Neither Harry nor Hermione answered. Harry was sprawled across one of the striped chairs, and Hermione was propped up near the fireplace on a blanket, looking wonderfully sleepy.

“We’ve got three whole days to not be on the run,” Harry finally said. “No looking over our shoulders, no worrying about Polyjuice wearing off at the wrong moment, no scrabbling for food.”

“That last one is bloody brilliant,” Ron said, smiling. “And we can sleep as late as we like.”

“And there’s hot water for a real shower,” Hermione said. “I think I might actually feel human again with a shower.”

Harry smiled and grabbed a blanket for himself. Hermione had already filled the fireplace with her bluebell flames, and they cast a shifting light over the trio. It was only after Harry was able to relax that he realized how tense every muscle he possessed had been for longer than he cared to admit.

“Sleep, then food, then showers all round, followed by some planning?” Ron suggested.

“What, no story?” Hermione asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Ron said. “Right now, I just want to sleep without thinking everything is going to blow up at any moment.”

Harry silently agreed, and in very little time, he was sound asleep.

Judging by how high the sun was in the sky when he opened his eyes, Harry realized he had slept through nearly the whole morning, and to his surprise, he was still the first one awake. Ron was curled into the other chair, and Hermione had chosen to sleep on top of four blankets near the hearth. Quietly, Harry got to his feet and went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, bread, and beans. He found a kettle in the newly filled cupboards and filled it with water, then heated it for tea. He was just trying to decide between using magic to toast the bread or doing it the Muggle way over the fire on a stick when Hermione came into the kitchen.

“Morning,” she said, smiling, and it wasn’t until now that he noticed how much less strained she looked. The bags under her eyes had faded, and she looked like a seventeen-year-old girl again instead of a tired, anxious woman twice her age.

“Morning,” Harry said, surprised by the sound of his own voice, which seemed equally normal again. “Tea?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said, pulling a cup out of her bag and holding it steady as Harry poured good, strong Assam into it. She took a sip and sighed, “Lovely.”

“Did I die in my sleep?” Ron asked, coming into the kitchen while rubbing his eyes. “If so, I was sight more holy then Mum kept telling me because it smells downright heavenly in here.”

Hermione had produced the rest of the dishes they needed from her bag, and they sat down to a good, old fashioned full English breakfast. Sunlight flooded the little kitchen, even in the late autumn weather, and all three of them ate in companionable silence. The Horcrux, for once, whether through some lingering spell of Dumbledore’s or the sheer goodwill in the house, seemed unable to make a dent in their moods.

Eventually, the sounds of forks and knives on plates slowed to a halt as they all finished. Harry strangely wanted to do dishes the Muggle way, just wanting to handle things slowly and enjoy knowing they had enough to eat and a safe place to stay for another night without a rush to move on to the next location. He washed the dishes as Ron dried them, managing to need to repair only a couple that he dropped, and Hermione stowed them back in her beaded bag.

“Full?” Hermione asked, looking at Ron with a grin.

He considered for a moment, then said, “Nearly.”

“Nearly! You’ve eaten half your own weight in bacon!” Harry said, laughing.

“There’s still one small corner that isn’t quite filled up yet,” Ron said, shrugging. “What else have we got? Nothing too fancy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but went to the fridge and opened it again.

“Ham?”

“No, I’ve had enough pork.”

“Bread?”

“The toast was enough there.”

“Cherry tart?”

“I’m not in the mood for something really sweet.”

“What about an apple, then?”

Ron screwed up his mouth, debating, then asked, “Green, red, or yellow?”

“There’s actually a few of each,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore must have enlarged this refrigerator. I can’t figure out how else he stuffed this much food in it.”

“I’ll take one yellow apple, if you please,” Ron said.

“Fine,” she said, and tossed it over to him. No sooner had he caught it than she began to grin.

“What?” Ron asked, then took a bite of the apple.

“Oh, just the usual,” she said.

“A story again?” Harry asked, drying his hands on one of the towels Hermione had brought down from the closet.

“Yes. Specifically, one about tossing apples.”

“Well, I’m well fed and watered, I’ve got a snack, we’re warm as toast, and no one is going to bother us in the foreseeable future,” Ron said wandering back into the sitting room and leaning back in a chair. “I say a story is called for. What say you, Harry?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry agreed, taking the other chair. “Hermione, if you’d do the honors?”

She sat cross-legged on the blankets before the fireplace, then bit her lip as though she were trying to remember.

“It starts with ‘Once upon a time,’” Ron said helpfully.

“No, not that, it’s just there’s so many different ways to tell this one that I’m trying to decide which to choose. This one’s popular everywhere from America to India and just about all the places in between, but everyone has a different take on it,” she said. “They do all start with ‘Once upon a time,’ though.”

“Okay, that’s a good beginning,” Ron said, taking another bite of his apple.

“So, once upon a time, there lived a farmer with three sons,” Hermione began.

“Mum’s dead again?” Ron asked.

“It’s never specified, but we’re meant to assume it,” Hermione said, looking a little sad.

“How many dead mothers have we had in these again?” Ron asked. “I know, you said it’s meant to make the children be put in a more perilous situation, but still. It’s a bit much.”

“I quite agree,” Hermione said. “Anyway, the farmer was growing crops fairly well until suddenly, ever year on Midsummer’s Eve, they would just disappear overnight.”

“Fae,” Ron said, “obviously.”

“Wait, when’s Midsummer’s Eve?” Harry asked.

“The twenty-third of June,” Hermione said. “It’s usually the shortest night of the year. Even in the old days Muggles knew enough to realize it was an unusual time.”

“So, what did the farmer do?” Ron asked.

“The following year, he sent out his oldest son to the fields to see what would happen that night. The son came back not long after dark, screaming there had been an earthquake, and the next morning the crops were gone again,” Hermione said.

“But why didn’t the farmer go instead?” Ron asked.

“We aren’t told. Maybe he was too old, or maybe he was just afraid. Whatever the case, the following year he sent the middle son to the field with the same order to see what was happening, and exactly like the previous time, the boy came back terrified by a horrible earthquake, and the crops disappeared again,” Hermione said.

“Let me guess. The next year, the farmer sends out son number three,” Ron said.

“Actually, not quite,” Hermione said.

“Oh,” Ron said, his face falling. “I thought I’d finally got the hang of this.”

“The farmer thought his youngest son was a fool. He slept every night among the cinders from the hearth, so they called him Cinderlad,” Hermione said.

“Wait, wait, this is familiar,” Ron said excitedly. “The very first one you told us had that nutty girl who sat crying among the cinders and was called Cinderella, right!”

“Yes.”

“And now this one sleeps among the cinders and gets called Cinderlad?” Ron said.

“Yes.”

“So Ashyweeper and Ashysleeper need to meet immediately,” Ron said. “Forget the prince. She has way more in common with this fellow.”

Harry laughed and said, “He’s got a point.”

“Perhaps so,” Hermione said, laughing too. “The third son insisted on having his chance, though, so off he went into the fields, his father and brothers laughing at him on his way and certain he would soon be running back in terror.”

“This is where it changes,” Ron said confidently. “It’s almost always with the third one.”

“You’re quite right,” Hermione said. “The youngest brother went into the field, and a great earthquake came again, but he stayed where he was, and eventually, it stopped. Then a second earthquake happened, even worse than the first, but he still didn’t move, and it stopped as well. Finally, a third earthquake came, the worst of them all, but the youngest brother remained standing until it too stopped.”

“Fairy tales and the number three,” Ron said, shaking his head. “The other brothers didn’t even make it to the second quake. Good for Cinderlad. What happened next?”

“Then a great, strong horse came trotting out of the woods, and it had a beautiful suit of armor all made of bronze sitting on its back along with a saddle and bridle,” Hermione said.

“Okay, Fae gifts aren’t usually a good idea,” Ron said uncertainly.

“Ah, but it wasn’t quite a gift,” Hermione said. “The horse was wild, and the youngest brother had to figure out how to tame it.”

“Which he did how?” Harry asked.

“He took a piece of steel out of his tinderbox and tossed it over the horse from one side to the other,” Hermione said, “and that did the trick.”

There was a moment’s quiet before Ron spoke.

“I have so many questions.”

“I thought you might,” Hermione said. “Go on, then.”

“First, what’s a tinderbox?” Ron asked.

“It’s a little box Muggles used to carry around with them to help them start fires before they made matches,” Hermione said. “Even after they had matches, sometimes they’d carry those around in a tinderbox, too.”

“Right,” Ron said, still looking uncertain. “And the steel?”

“Inside a tinderbox, there would be a piece of what was called firesteel and a bit of flint, a kind of rock, along with some tinder like dried grass or twigs. The Muggle would strike the firesteel and the flint together to make a spark, then use the tinder to keep it going to make a fire,” Hermione explained. “There’s actually a whole other fairy tale called ‘The Tinderbox.’ They used to be very common.”

“So this bloke took the firesteel out and threw it over the horse,” Ron said.

“Yes.”

“But, why?”

“Because it tamed the horse.”

“Yeah, but why? Why would throwing a piece of steel over a horse make it tame?” Ron asked. “The Fae are supposed to hate iron, not steel.”

“Well, steel is an iron alloy, but it’s a bit of a stretch,” Hermione said. “I suppose the steel could be a representation of a technological human advancement in the form of a portable fire-starting kit, which would imply that the steel was a manifestation of the power of science over magic, and thereby the mastery of the human boy over the magic horse.”

“Yeah, because magic can’t make a fire,” Ron said, pointing at Hermione’s blue flames in the fireplace. “Blimey, they really think they’ve beaten us, don’t they, with their one little metal bit and a rock in a box with twigs.”

“To be fair, it’s only my interpretation,” Hermione said. “Maybe it means something else.”

“Like what?” Ron asked.

“Maybe the horse just didn’t like having things chucked over him,” Harry suggested.

“I suppose that’s as good an answer as any,” Ron said. “So what did his father and brothers say when he came home with the horse and armor?”

“He didn’t tell them,” Hermione said. “He claimed nothing at all had happened, only that he’d spent a dull night out in the fields and the crops were fine.”

“So he lied,” Ron said.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He hid the horse and armor in the woods and kept quiet about the whole thing.”

“Why?” Ron asked.

“Probably because his father and brothers would have tried to take them away from him and sell them or something,” Hermione said, shrugging. “They aren’t very nice.”

“Okay, fair enough, I guess it’s his stuff,” Ron said. “Fred and George once hid a Niffler out in the fields behind the Burrow when they were about ten. It didn’t turn out well. Dad was out taking a walk, and he had on a jumper Mum knit him that had these shiny buttons on it. The Niffler caught sight of them and went utterly berserk. Dad was so surprised he tried to cast a spell with his brolly instead of his wand and wound up hitting the Niffler upside the head, which it very much did not like. The next thing he knew, he was sitting halfway up a tree, his jumper ripped to shreds, and a Niffler growling at him from the ground, sitting on his dropped wand. He was up there a good three hours. Mum only noticed when he was late for dinner.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione said, “thankfully, the horse didn’t do that.”

“Be interesting if it did, though,” Ron said, tipping his head and considering. “All three of them are rotten, so I wouldn’t mind so much. Maybe it could eat a straw hat one was wearing or something.”

Hermione stared into the middle distance for a while, then said, “Wonderful. Now I can’t get the image of a horse eating a hat out of my head, only it’s Harry’s cousin Dudley wearing it.”

“Dudley does have a straw boater he wears at Smeltings,” Harry said, “so it’s not impossible.”

“I suddenly have an idea of what we can do to celebrate when we’re finally done with this never-ending quest,” Ron said, grinning.

“You’re on,” Harry said, laughing. “We just need to figure out where to get a horse.”

“After searching for Tommy’s horcruxes for months on end, I think finding a horse will be pretty easy by comparison,” Ron said.

“So, if you’re done plotting revenge via a hungry horse, the youngest brother was sent back to the fields the following year, and the result was very similar,” Hermione said.

“Three earthquakes?” Harry asked.

“Yes, each one stronger than the one before,” Hermione said.

“And then a horse?” Ron asked.

“Precisely, though this one was even grander than the one before, and it had a saddle and bit and suit of armor all done in silver,” Hermione said.

“From bronze up to silver,” Harry said. “Things are looking better and better.”

“Yeah, I have a wild guess what happens next,” Ron said.

“Illuminate us all,” Hermione said, sitting back.

“Okay, so after hiding horse number two and the silver armor, he goes home and says nothing happened. The next year, he comes back again, and there are three earthquakes, each one worse than the one before, and then another horse comes out with a saddle and bridle and a suit of armor made entirely of bacon,” Ron said, crossing his arms in satisfaction.

“Bacon?” Hermione said, giving him a look of deepest fatigue.

Harry just started laughing his head off.

“Okay, so probably gold, but it would be funnier if it were bacon,” Ron said, shrugging.

Hermione continued to regard him with a look that was part deep frustration and part concern for his sanity.

“What?” he said, blushing. “I like bacon.”

“You were right the second time,” Hermione said. “It was indeed a suit of golden armor. All kidding aside, you did get the general repetition very well.”

“It wasn’t quite as bad as Henny Penny and Ducky Lucky and Goosey Loosey and Hippogriff Lippogriff, but I caught on,” Ron said.

“Hippogriff Lippogriff?” Hermione said.

“Sounds like a bad Muggle cosmetic surgery,” Harry said.

“What’s cosmetic surgery?” Ron said, looking intrigued.

“Believe me when I say we could discuss that for the next five years,” Hermione said. “Let’s not and say we did, okay?”

“Wow, okay then,” Ron said, then quietly mouthed to Harry, “Tell me later, yeah?”

“So, is that the end of the story?”

“No, actually, it’s only the first part,” Hermione said. “You see, the country had a king who had an only daughter.”

“Oh, that always ends well in these things,” Ron said sarcastically.

“You really have got the knack of it,” Hermione said, and he beamed. “Anyway, the king wanted to marry off his daughter, but he came up with an odd test that the prospective bridegroom had to pass.”

“Did it involve bacon?” Ron asked.

“No,” Hermione said. “Apples.”

“Apples?” Ron repeated, then shrugged. “Okay, at least it’s still food. What’s he got to do?”

“Juggle them, maybe?” Harry suggested.

“No, though that would at least be amusing,” Hermione said.

“Bake them into a pie?” Ron asked.

“Something actually useful, but no,” Hermione said.

“Climb up a tree to get the apples?” Harry said.

“You’re starting to get warmer.”

“Hurl the apples at a dragon until it breathes fire at them, then collect the roasted apples and then make a pie out of them!” Ron said, nodding decidedly. “Now that would have been a more interesting first task during the Triwizard Tournament.”

“What would I have done to hear the mermaids telling me about the second task though?” Harry asked.

“Same thing as you did the first time. Just go bobbing for apples,” Ron said.

“As creative as your answer is, Ronald, that’s not actually what happened,” Hermione said.

“Then what did?”

“The king put his daughter on the top of a hill made of glass,” Hermione said.

“Okay, I was with you up until the last word there,” Ron said. “Did you say grass or glass?”

“Glass.”

“I thought you did,” Ron said sadly. “Grass would have been slightly more plausible, like a big haystack or something. Where would he get a hill made of glass? Wait, is it a pile of shattered glass, all sharp bits and things?”

“No, it’s specified as being slippery,” Hermione said. “The challenge was he had his daughter hold three apples in her lap at the top of the glass hill, and the knight who could ride a horse all the way to the top and claim the apples would win the princess’s hand in marriage,” Hermione explained. “Making the hill glass would mean it was slick and hard to ride up.”

“Well, a hill of shattered glass would have been even worse,” Ron said.

“Actually, it really would,” Hermione said, shuddering. “As it is, the challenge is bad enough.”

“Wait, is the glass hollow or like a giant, solid mass of glass?” Ron asked.

“I believe it’s supposed to be a solid hill of glass,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, a thin, fragile layer of glass would be liable to shatter when the rider was going up it and kill him,” Harry said.

“And the daughter,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it before, but it would be an opportunity for the king to rid himself of an unwanted female heir if the task was also dangerous for her.”

“That’d be rotten,” Ron said. “Setting his daughter up on a great high hill made of paper-thin glass, able to see the ground hundreds of feet below and knowing that all it would take is one horse stepping just so and she’d be tumbling to her death surrounded by razor-sharp bits?”

“I wasn’t overly fond of heights to begin with, and now you’ve given me vivid nightmare material for at least the next thirty-odd years,” Hermione said, going a little green.

“Oops,” he said, looking apologetic. “Ehm, sorry?”

“Yes, well, thankfully, that’s not what happened,” Hermione said, and Harry noticed her hands shaking a little. “Loads of would-be fiancés showed up, but all of them tumbled off the hill the moment their horses stepped on it.”

“Wait, how did the princess get to the top?” Ron asked.

“You know, that’s a valid question,” Hermione said. “I don’t know.”

“What did you say?” Ron asked, grinning as his eyes twinkled.

“I said I don’t know,” Hermione said.

“It’s so rare that you say it, I had to hear it again,” Ron said, chuckling.

“It’s possible only one side of the hill was glass and the back had stairs or a ladder or something,” Hermione said.

“I think we’re skipping the other big question here,” Harry said. “How did the king build a hill of solid glass to begin with?”

“Stacked sheets of glass atop one another? Used a regular hill and had glassworkers drip molten glass down it to coat it? Created a system of interlocking glass bricks that could be assembled into a mound?” Hermione suggested.

“You really don’t want to say that you don’t know again, do you,” Ron said.

“Not only that, but you managed to provide a thrilling fictional backstory for the invention of Legos,” Harry added.

“What’s a Legos?” Ron asked.

“Children’s plastic building blocks that snap together and are insufferably painful to step on,” Hermione said.

“At least they’re not glass,” Ron pointed out.

“No, that would indeed be worse,” Hermione agreed. “Where were we?”

“The princess was able to climb up the impossible-to-climb plot hole of glass,” Harry said.

“Yes, right,” Hermione said. “So, none of the knights was able to ride up the hill and take the apples from the princess’s lap.”

“What happened to them?” Ron asked.

“Nothing,” Hermione said. “The king just sent them away.”

“In the one with all the dancers, the king had the failed suitors killed,” Ron said. “At least this one isn’t that bad.”

“No, he just wants to marry off his only child to whoever can ride up a steep slope,” Hermione said. “He’s not exactly father of the year.”

“But he’s also not a murderer,” Ron said.

“That we know of,” Hermione said. “Eventually, the third son heard of the competition, and he put on the bronze suit of armor and road the first horse to the hill.”

“Why not the third horse with the golden armor?” Harry asked.

“Obviously because he’s going to do this three times,” Ron said, then glanced uncertainly at Hermione. “He is going to do it three times, isn’t he?”

“We shall see,” Hermione said. “He galloped a third of the way up the hill with no trouble at all.”

“A third, eh?” Ron said knowingly. “Then what?”

“Then the princess tossed him one of the apples, which he caught,” Hermione said.

“Now that I didn’t see coming,” Ron said.

“Apparently she liked the look of him or was impressed by his ability to ride up the hill so easily,” Hermione said.

“I was thinking it was something else,” Ron said.

“Oh? What?” Hermione said.

“I thought she might have thrown him the apple to get him to stop,” Ron said. “He was the first one to look like he might make it to the top of the hill, right?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe she didn’t want to marry some random person with a freakishly sure-footed horse,” Ron said, shrugging. “So to stop him, she threw an apple at him, as it was all she had on her. Maybe she wanted him to be distracted by the apple or thought it might scare the horse.”

“You know, that’s possible,” Hermione said, and Harry could almost see the gears turning in her head. “Now that I think of it, it’s a bit like the myth of Atalanta.”

“Who?”

“She was a princess who could run very fast, and her father said anyone who could beat her in a footrace could marry her. No one could, and the losers were all executed. Finally, one fellow, Hippomenes, brought three magic, irresistible golden apples with him. He threw them at various times in the race, and she was so intrigued by them that she ran off course to grab them, thinking she had such a big lead that she would still win easily, but he threw the third one very far, and by the time she had recovered it, he’d won.”

“There’s quite a few similarities,” Harry said.

“The suitors, the princess, the apples, throwing them, a sort of race,” Hermione said. “But here the one throwing the apples is the princess, and you’re quite right; she really might be doing it not to show her approval but to draw him away from his goal. That’s a very astute deduction, Ron.”

She looked very impressed, and Ron blushed but glowed with the attention. Harry looked around for anywhere else he could hide in the bare living room and came up with nothing, so he became fascinated with the woodgrain in the flooring for a few seconds until they’d quite recovered themselves.

“Yes, so as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, the Cinderlad came again the next day with the second horse and the silver suit of armor, rode two-thirds of the way up the hill easily, the princess threw the second apple, and he turned around and galloped back off again,” Hermione said.

“Okay,” Harry said, “I think Ron’s right. She’s trying to get rid of him.”

“What’s convinced you?” Hermione asked.

“It’s a completely different horse and a different suit of armor, right?” Harry said. “I’m assuming he’s riding with the face plate down.”

“That’s correct,” Hermione said. “No one could see his face, which will come up later.”

“So if that’s the case, she’d have no way of telling he was the same knight as before,” Harry said. “She’s not weirdly in love with this knight, because as far as she can tell, it’s a different one entirely.”

“Or maybe she just thinks that a knight in silver has more money than one in bronze and she’s being financially motivated,” Hermione thought aloud, but then she looked at Harry. “You’re right, of course. There’s no hint in the story that she has any way to tell he’s the same knight.”

Ron gave Harry a look of such pure jealousy that Harry actually inched away instinctively.

“Yes, well, what happens the third time?” Harry asked quickly as Ron rather viciously chewed an apple.

“Precisely the same thing, which is the odd part,” Hermione said.

“He shows up with the third horse and the gold armor, goes up the hill, probably all the way to the top this time, and she throws him the apple or he takes it, and they get married and live happily ever after, right?” Ron said.

“Nearly,” Hermione said. “When she throws him the apple, he does what he’s done the previous two times.”

“What, turns around and rides away?” Ron said, his mouth dropping open.

“Yes.”

“But he won the princess’s hand in marriage, right?” Ron said.

“Yes, the king declared him the winner,” Hermione said.

“But he left?”

“Yes.”

Ron was obviously so confused that he completely forgot to be angry at Harry and instead turned to him and asked, “What am I missing?”

“Maybe the bloke just really liked apples and those were the only ones around?” Harry said, shrugging.

“So, is that the end?” Ron asked.

“No, the king goes to all the nobles and asks them if they have the three apples, and none of them do,” Hermione said.

“Maybe Harry’s right. Nobody had three apples?” Ron asked. “Was there some sort of apple shortage?”

“You know, I’m starting to wonder,” Hermione said. “I think that in some versions of the story the apples are actually gold, like the ones in the story of Atalanta.”

“Okay, so that’s either an even clearer connection to that one, or the Cinderlad’s real motivation wasn’t to marry the princess but to get three solid gold apples,” Ron said.

“Possibly both,” Hermione said. “Huh.”

“I kind of like the idea that he was just really peckish myself, though,” Ron said shrugging. “There’ve been times I’ve been so hungry I would have tried running up a glass hill for an apple.”

“So what happened when none of the nobles had the apples?” Harry asked.

“The king’s soldiers started going from farm to farm, looking for the apples, but no one had them. Eventually they came to the farm where the Cinderlad lived, and the soldiers asked the father and the two older brothers if they were the knight with the apples, and both said no,” Hermione said.

“This is so much like Ashyweeper and her bizarre glass trainers,” Ron said.

“It really is,” Hermione said. “Then the soldiers asked if there was no one else who lived there, and they admitted that the Cinderlad did as well, but said he wasn’t worth speaking to since he slept in the hearth and was none too bright.”

“Only bright enough to tame three Fae horses, get three expensive suits of armor, and win the princess in marriage,” Ron said. “They really don’t know him very well.”

“No, they don’t,” Hermione said. “The Cinderlad comes forward, and when asked, he produces the three apples. Then he was taken back to the castle and married the princess and got half the kingdom into the bargain.”

“And they all lived happily ever after?” Ron said uncertainly.

“Honestly, considering what we’ve figured out, it sounds more like the princess is married against her will in a competition she tried to sabotage, and the groom isn’t happy about it either and would rather have been left alone,” Hermione said.

“At least he’s not sleeping in the cinders anymore,” Harry said. “That’s a plus.”

“So, what was this one actually called again?” Ron asked.

“’The Princess on the Glass Hill,’” Hermione said.

“I think it should have been called ‘Too Many Threes to Count,’” Ron said, discarding the apple core. “Let’s see. There were three brothers.”

“Three earthquakes,” Harry said.

“Three times out in the fields,” Hermione said.

“Three horses.”

“Three saddles and bridles.”

“Three suits of armor.”

“Three apples.”

“Three times riding up the hill.”

“Yes, I’d say it’s safe to assume whoever wrote this story, a weird combination of ‘Cinderella’ and the myth of Atalanta, really liked the number three,” Hermione said, laughing. “And Dumbledore gave us three whole days to recuperate in his home. We still have two and half or so left. What should we do next?”

“I know we need to plan and figure out where we’ll go next, but right now, I just want to do nothing at all for a while,” Harry said, lying back in the chair.

“I think we can do that for a bit,” Hermione agreed.

“Really?” Ron said, looking delighted. “You’re not going to make us spend the whole time studying maps and historical documents on the Hogwarts founders or the life of You-Know-Who?”

“I couldn’t very well make you do those things anyway,” Hermione said, sounding a little miffed. “But no, I really do think we need a true break, even if it’s only for a day. Everyone can do as they please, as long as we stay inside the house. It’s not clear from the note whether the garden is protected or not.”

“I can manage that,” Ron said, wandering back into the kitchen and just staring at the food again and smiling before taking a single grape and popping it in his mouth.

Harry didn’t think it was possible for him to sleep any more, but he was wrong. He found himself nodding off and eventually drifting asleep again, with no nightmares or feelings of guilt and anger. The Horcrux, still sitting in Hermione’s bag, for once stayed silent.