The Little Match G(ood Merlin, What Is Your Problem!?)irl
To say it was cold was an understatement of gargantuan proportions. The three of them had enjoyed a brief warm spell, but that had ended abruptly with a huge dumping of snow while they were staying in northern Scotland, hopping from one small town to another while looking for another Horcrux. They had awoken that morning to no less than eleven inches of snow piled against the door and snowflakes falling so fast that nothing was visible more than ten feet away. Harry was certain of this because they had set up the tent very near three large oak trees, and as far as he could tell they had got up and walked away in the night.
"Well, we're not going out today," Harry said as he close the tent's flap. "We'd freeze in no time.
"I suppose it's another research day, then," Hermione said, pulling a frightening number of books from her little beaded bag. "We're going to start having more and more trouble with this as we're getting into winter."
"Maybe we could try looking for parts of You-Know-Who's soul somewhere warmer for a while?" Ron suggested.
"Fine by me," Harry said. "Like where?"
"Dunno. Fiji, maybe?" Ron asked hopefully.
"What connection is there between You-Know-Who and Fiji?" Hermione said, giving him a look that suggested the highest level of suspicion.
"None?" Ron said sheepishly. "But anyone who's been through this kind of weather in Scotland is going to want to go there, so maybe he did and we just didn't hear about it."
"I highly doubt we'll run into the Hufflepuff cup in Suva," Hermione said disdainfully as she opened a particularly enormous book. "Now Albania, that does hold some chance."
"How cold is it there?" Ron asked, and Harry thought he sounded pessimistic.
"Well, it should be above freezing along the coastland and in the southern bits, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was probably more in the northern section by the mountains, so—" Hermione started.
"So, cold," Ron said, shivering.
"Most likely, yes," Hermione said.
"Then let's stay in Britain," Ron said with a note of defeat. "At least the snow is familiar here."
"I'm fairly sure Albanian snow is much the same as Scottish snow," Hermione said.
"Nah," Ron said, waving his hand dismissively. "You've heard that every snowflake is unique, right?"
"Theoretically, that's true," Hermione said.
"So the snow in Albania can't look like the snow in Scotland because no snowflake looks like any other snowflake," Ron said. "I prefer to stay where I recognize the snowflakes if I'm going to freeze to death."
"We're not going to freeze to death. Stop being so melodramatic!" Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "The warming charms on the tent are actually fairly good most of the time."
"Maybe, but I never really feel warm when I hear the wind pelting snow on the tent's walls," Ron said.
"I just never feel warm at all," Harry said, and it came out a bit more eerie than he'd meant it to. Sometimes he really did feel that something was wrong inside of him, but he put the thought aside again.
"What about a warm breakfast at least?" Hermione said. "I picked up some oatmeal at that shop yesterday and I've had it soaking overnight. Now we just need to cook it."
"Overnight?" Ron said. "Doesn't that seem a little overly zealous?"
"No. These are regular oats, not the quick kind, so they need to soak to cook correctly," Hermione said. "Your own mum does it; I've seen her."
"I suppose," Ron said uncertainly. "I generally stay out of the kitchen unless I'm there to eat, so I don't really know what she gets up to in there. For all I know she's building a portal to France."
"Is it, um, something you've made before?" Harry asked, dubiously eyeing the bowls of porridge Hermione had brought to the table.
"In the Muggle world, yes," Hermione said. "I'm not much of a cook, I admit, but I think I can handle a bit of simple oatmeal, particularly in Scotland, for pity's sake. It seems like they use it in everything."
Harry gave Ron a despairing look behind Hermione's back. For someone who was brilliant at spells, she was pretty much hopeless in the kitchen. Still, what could possibly go wrong with porridge? Unfortunately, the moment Harry had formed that thought, he realized he was tempting fate. With trepidation, he watched Hermione flick her wand towards the bowls in what to his unpracticed eye did look remarkably like the same spell Mrs. Weasley had cast at breakfast more than once when he'd visited the Burrow. At first, everything seemed to go well. The porridge bubbled up in the bowls, steam rising and a pleasant, oaty smell permeating the tent. Harry smiled in relief, and Ron seemed to have let go of a breath Harry hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Unfortunately, the porridge went straight from pleasantly cooked into slightly burnt and then unidentifiable lumpy rock-like-things in less than ten seconds. Hermione's face fell.
"Oh, that was most definitely not how this was supposed to work!" she said, shaking her wand as though it had insulted her. "Now what are going to eat?"
"I think there's some bread left in the box on the kitchen counter," Harry said. "Toast?"
"Yeah, Hermione, think you can handle something as complicated as toast?" Ron asked with an alarmingly nasty sneer. For one brief second, Harry was reminded of Malfoy.
"No, I don't," Hermione said, her voice shaking with her fight to control it. "You can bloody well make your own toast if you're going to be so rude! Burning the porridge was a mistake, as though you've never made a single one in your life!"
"I've never burned porridge, no," Ron said as though that somehow explained it.
"Because you've never even attempted making breakfast even once in your whole life unless you were practically compelled by force," Hermione shot back. "Please, your mum still makes your bed, does your laundry, and cooks all your meals for you and you're nearly eighteen."
"Not at Hogwarts," Ron said defensively.
"No, not at Hogwarts," Hermione said. "There you have a fleet of house-elves doing all of it for you. What are you planning on doing once you've finished school?"
"Maybe I can save up and buy a house-elf of my own," Ron said defiantly.
"That or marry some poor girl and work her like one," Hermione said with bitter laugh. "I doubt Lav-Lav is up to that, though."
"All right, all right, enough," Harry said, getting up and moving towards the remains of the loaf from yesterday. "We've not had breakfast, we're all cranky, and fighting like this isn't warming things up at all. I'll make the toast. If it catches fire and looks like the charred remains of one of Neville's Potions mishaps, well, eat it anyway."
"Fine," Hermione said, pulling a book towards her, "and thank you."
The silence in the tent was deafening as Harry popped the bread into the toaster (removing a few spots of mold from it beforehand). Hermione was obviously seething as she flipped through the pages, though Harry would bet fifty Galleons she still was scanning hard for any sign of a Horcrux mention, while Ron stared at the wall and fumed, but, as Harry noticed, otherwise really did do nothing. Hermione had a point there, he thought.
In short order, the toast was done, and to Harry's satisfaction it wasn't the least bit burnt. After a bit of butter and a smear of what was left of a jar of blackberry preserves, it didn't look at all unpleasant.
"Ready," he said, and the other two joined him at the table, choosing opposite sides to munch on the toast, Hermione taking extremely small bites that she chewed almost past the point of sanity before swallowing and Ron finishing his two slices in three bites each without appearing to chew at all.
"Okay," Ron said, staring at his empty plate. "Now what?"
"You could start the washing up?" Hermione suggested coldly.
Ron glared and said nothing for several beats, and all three of them listened to the sound of the snow hitting the tent.
"I'm cold," Ron complained, then sighed.
Hermione and Harry said nothing but continued to eat. Harry wouldn't admit it, but Ron was right. Whether it was the heavy snow or the enchantment keeping the tent warm not working properly or possibly even the doing of the Horcrux, it really was bitterly cold, and he felt like he might never warm up. He wondered if Hermione felt the same, but as he glanced over at her hand, still gripping the toast, he could see for himself the gooseflesh on her arm and the bluish tone of her skin.
"Hermione, do you think we could risk an actual fire?" Harry asked. "It really is freezing in here."
"It is," she said, putting down the crust of her toast forlornly.
"Probably your warming charm not working," Ron said, shooting her a dirty look.
"Cast your own, then," Hermione said, not even bothering to look at him. "No, it's not that. I think… is it the Horcrux?"
"I was wondering the same thing," Harry said. "Ron, have you got it?"
"Yeah," he said, taking it out from his shirt, then almost shrieking. "Blimey, look at the thing!"
It was glowing malevolently with a cold, green light that did nothing to warm or brighten the tent. It almost felt as though it was eating the light rather than adding to it.
"What on earth is it doing?" Hermione said with a look of repulsion.
"If you don't know, I reckon it's safe to say nobody else in this tent does," Ron said. "I don't think it's anything good, though."
"No," Harry said. "Better get it off your neck, Ron. Hang it on the back of the chair or something."
It seemed to take Ron a long time to get the chain off, as though the locket had become very heavy and was refusing to move. Not for the first time, Harry silently noted that the locket seemed to affect Ron particularly badly, like it preferred him or had some way of provoking him that was worse than anything it could find with himself or Hermione, though he knew neither of them had been acting quite normally for the last few months either. Finally, the chain slipped from Ron's head and hung on the chair with a surprising loud smack for something so small. The light had tapered off a tiny bit, but it still looked, well, hungry was the word that came to Harry's mind, and he didn't like to think what it might be hungry for.
"You wouldn't happen to feel any better by chance, would you?" Hermione asked Ron, looking so critically at the locket that Harry could almost hear the gears of her brain turning.
"Maybe a little," Ron admitted. "Do I act like a total prat with that thing on sometimes?"
"Yes," Hermione and Ron said together, neither taking their eyes from the Horcrux.
"Oh," Ron said. "Ehm, sorry about that."
"Oh, don't bother," Hermione said with a sigh. "We both do the same thing when it's our turn to wear it, I think. It's getting stronger, and it seems to be acting like, well…"
She didn't want to finish the sentence, which scared Harry more than the glowing.
"Like what?" Ron asked.
"It's almost like a miniature Dementor," Hermione said.
Now it was Harry's turn to look at the locket with repulsion.
"It's weird, but I think you're right," Harry said. "We feel colder, we get hopeless, we…"
"Start treating each other like prats," Ron added. "But… you don't really think there's one locked in there, do you?"
"I don't think so," Hermione said, though she looked uncertain. "You-Know-Who might have cast some sort of protective spell on it to mimic some of the properties of a Dementor, though. And if that's the case, then Dementors get stronger and breed in environments that cause human misery, so the worse we feel—"
"The worse it can make us feel," Ron finished for her. "Oh, blimey, that would be something he'd come up with it. It just feels like him."
Harry nodded, then took out his wand and looked questioningly at Hermione.
"What if I called up my Patronus?" Harry asked. "What if all three of us did? Might it finish the thing off?"
"I don't see that it could hurt anything by trying, and it might very well help," Hermione said, taking her wand in hand. "Ron?"
"It's worth a shot," Ron said, gripping his wand tightly. Harry noted he really did seem personally offended by the Horcrux's defense mechanism hitting him hardest, and all he could think was that if he'd been on the receiving end of that look Ron was giving the locket, he would have run for it.
"On three?" Hermione suggested.
"On three," Ron said through gritted teeth. "One…"
"Two…," Harry said.
"Three!" Hermione said.
"Expecto patronum!" all three cried out, and the small tent filled with a silvery glow. Harry noticed that his stag wasn't appearing as quickly as normal, but in a moment it was cantering around the inside of the tent. Ron's terrier yipped at the larger animal's heels a few moments later, and Hermione's otter, rather wispy-looking and transparent, appeared last of all, but it made a beeline for the Horcrux itself. Harry was startled to see the otter actually knock the Horcrux off the chair. The terrier picked up the chain and began worrying it between its teeth. Once it had dropped the locket back on the floor, the stag began pounding the horrible locket between its front hooves as though it were trying to kill it. All three of the humans in the room held their collective breath, waiting to see the outcome of the fight.
None of them was quite prepared for the faint, unearthly shriek that split through the room. The three of them covered their ears reflexively, but at least something seemed to be happening. A few seconds went by, but the three Patronuses slowly began to fade into mist, and as they dissipated, the shriek faded away to nothing as well. The locket was still glowing, but only barely.
"Okay, that's a bit better," Harry said, looking mildly impressed.
"Can it finish it off?" Ron said, looking more hopeful than Harry had seen him in months. The change was shocking. He hadn't realized just how mournful his best friend had taken to being until he saw him almost normal again.
"I'm afraid not," Hermione said sadly, and Harry watched as Ron's face fell back into hardened disappointment.
"Why not?" Harry asked, and while he knew it was stupid and irrational he felt like he wanted to blame her for it.
"Because a Patronus is meant to protect people, but it's not really meant as an offensive device," Hermione said. "In some cases, like when Malfoy and his goons were pretending to be Dementors on the Quidditch pitch, they can actually knock people or other beings over, and they can dispel actual Dementors, of course, since they're more a solidified form of depression than actual living beings, but then can't really smash things to bits or kill attackers. It's not in a Patronus's nature to be able to fight something as evil as a Horcrux and destroy it, but apparently it can stave off the side effects it can cause, like aggravation and arHarry ahd seen himill will."
"For a while," Ron added, looking gloomy.
"It's still better than nothing," Hermione said in a small voice.
"Yeah," Ron said, and all three of them looked at the Horcrux, which somehow even appeared smaller than it had been a few minutes ago. "Yeah, I guess it is."
There was a silence that lasted a few seconds before Hermione asked, "Are you still cold?"
"No, I think I'm getting warmer now," Ron said. Harry wasn't quite sure if he believed him or not, but as he thought about it, he realized he didn't feel as cold either.
"It's warming up a bit, yeah," Harry said, putting his wand back in his pocket. "We're going to need to do this more often."
"That's a good idea," Ron said. "I really was freezing."
Hermione's expression changed just a bit, but Harry knew what that meant.
"He just reminded you of a story, didn't he," Harry said.
"Well, yes, though I warn you it's not an especially happy one," Hermione said. "In fact it's quite depressing."
"Oh, why not?" Ron said, leaning back against the couch and looking oddly comfortable. "Go ahead."
"All right then," she said, then took a deep breath. "Once upon…"
"… a time," Ron finished.
"I though you might have broken that habit," Hermione said.
"I think you thought wrong," Ron said. "It's too mad not to play with. Anyway, continue."
"There lived a little girl whose family was very poor," Hermione said.
"Okay, I can sympathize on that front," Ron said.
"I'm not sure you can, really," Hermione said. "Her parents paid her no attention at all and kicked her soundly when they got the chance. She wasn't permitted to go to school, but instead she had to go out every day to sell matches."
"Oh," Ron said. "No. Things might be rather tight, but Mum and Dad wouldn't do anything like that. Why matches?"
"People did used to make them a long time ago, so it would work as a cottage industry product. Muggles needed matches a lot in the days before electricity for everything from light and heat to cooking. Wizards can simply conjure up fire, of course, but it's not so easy for Muggles," Hermione said.
"Wouldn't that be kind of dangerous, letting a little kid sell matches?" Harry asked.
"It probably would," Hermione agreed. "However, children were more used to dealing with fire back then and had to learn proper safety and all that as part of their daily life."
"Yeah, kids shouldn't play with matches," Ron said. "For that matter, neither should my dad. He was having far too much fun at the World Cup with those things. He might have the makings of a pyromaniac there."
"I highly doubt it," Hermione said, but she was hiding a smile.
"Oh, it happens," Ron said. "My cousin Floobus Weasley had this weird thing about fire. You know how wizarding kids sometimes do automatic* magic when they're little, and that's how their parents know they've inherited it? Well, when Floobus was just a little tyke, maybe two, he kept lighting things on fire with magic: the laundry, the pictures on the walls, even the cat."
"That's actually rather disturbing," Hermione said.
"You think you're disturbed, try being the cat," Ron said. "Poor thing high-tailed it to a Muggle family the next county over after the third time. Still, most kids outgrow that once they're old enough to have some control."
"So whatever happened to Floobus?" Harry asked.
"Last I heard he was in Azkaban for arson. He burned down a fireworks plant somewhere in Belgium. Flanders, I think it was," Ron said.
"So Floobus flamed a fireworks factory in Flanders?" Harry said, unable to resist.
Ron snorted, and Hermione just shook her head in disbelief at the two of them.
"If you're both through giggling at arson," Hermione said reproachfully, but Harry thought he caught a small grin pulling at the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, right. Back to the little sprog selling matches in spite of a bevy of safety risks," Ron said.
"Thank you," Hermione said. "It was New Year's Eve, and a hard snow was falling. The little girl stood on the corner of a normally busy street, but there was no one about. Everyone had hurried indoors for their New Year's dinners and to be with their families, so the girl was quite alone, and there was no one to buy her matches."
"Okay, it's bad enough having lousy parents and getting stuck with a stupid and potentially dangerous job, but standing alone on a street corner on New Year's Eve in the snow is just plain depressing," Ron said. "Poor kid."
"On top of that, she had no shoes, so her little toes were freezing," Hermione said.
"Wild guess. That Andersen weirdo wrote this one, didn't he?" Ron said.
"Yes," Hermione said. "I did mention this particular story once before in another tale of his."
"Yeah, not really recalling it. All the foot torture sort of blends together. What is it with this bloke and feet?" Ron asked. "And why hasn't the kid got any shoes at the end of December?"
"She'd originally taken a pair of her father's slippers, as she had no shoes of her own, since it was so very cold, but some cruel boys had come up to her, making fun of her for her enormous shoes. Eventually they shoved her into a snowbank and took the shoes as spoils. One of the little boys said he couldn't use the shoe for his foot as it was so big, but he might save it for his firstborn to use as a cradle," Hermione said.
"Okay, now I'm angry," Ron said, frowning. "Bunch of rotten bullies."
"Sounds a bit like Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle," Harry said.
"More like a lot," Ron said. "So her family's poor! That's no reason to steal the little she's got."
"I quite agree," Hermione said, and Harry was pleased to see the two of them at least like-minded about something.
"I'm guessing she's nameless as well as shoeless?" Ron asked.
"Yes, so far as I know she has no name," Hermione said.
Ron tilted his head to the side for a moment, considering.
"Betsy," he finally said. "I'm calling her Betsy."
"Why Betsy?" Harry asked.
"Dunno," Ron said, shrugging. "It's a nice, normal, Muggle-friendly name, isn't it?"
"Perfectly acceptable," Hermione said.
"Well, the girl deserves something decent even if it's only her name," Ron said, then repeated firmly, "Betsy."
"Betsy," Hermione said as though conferring her agreement, and Harry had to admit something about Ron's naming of the little waif was oddly touching.
"So what happened next?" Ron asked again.
"She, that is to say, Betsy, was afraid to go home without having sold any matches at all as she knew her father would beat her horribly for it," Hermione said.
"And hello Uncle Vernon," Harry said.
"But they didn't actually beat you, did they?" Ron asked, turning his surprisingly concerned face towards Harry.
"No," Harry said. "I think they would have if they thought the neighbors wouldn't notice, and of course Dudley punched me whenever he could, but he and my aunt didn't. Still, I think if Uncle Vernon had been expecting money from someone and they didn't follow through, he could have got pretty violent."
"This kid has got it bad," Ron said. "So what happens to Betsy?"
"After several hours in the cold, she finally decided that perhaps she could chance lighting just one of the matches to warm herself, even if her father became angry with her for it," Hermione said.
"One match? He's going to beat her over one match when she's freezing to death?" Ron said.
"Apparently so," Hermione said.
"How expensive were these bloody matches?" Ron asked.
"Hmm," Hermione said, considering for a moment. "Probably about the equivalent of a penny or so, which in modern money would be a bit more but not by all that much."
"I have a sudden desire to buy several Galleons' worth of matches," Ron said through gritted teeth. "So she lights a match?"
"Yes," Hermione said. "She huddled into an alley between two great houses and lit the match with a great 'scratch,' when suddenly something unexpected happened."
"Father Christmas arrived late?" Ron asked hopefully.
"No, the wall beside her became transparent, and she could see through it as though through a veil," Hermione said.
"Okay, that's weird," Ron said.
"Inside, she could see the family's dinner sitting on the table: a roast goose on a platter, potatoes, puddings, bread and butter, apples, plums, sweets, all sorts of wonderful things," Hermione said.
Harry looked nervously at Ron, expecting to see his usual reaction to any mention of food, which was an expression so ravenous it would send werewolves running. Instead, though, Ron merely looked thoughtful and a little sad.
"Did she get any of it?" Ron asked.
"Almost," Hermione said. "As she watched, the goose hopped off the table, complete with the carving knife and fork stuck in its breast, and began to waddle towards her, waving its wings in greeting."
"I think that goose might possibly be a bit undercooked," Harry said, and Ron snorted.
"But before the goose could reach her, the match went out, and the wall was solid once again," Hermione said.
"Could she be doing some kind of magic?" Ron asked.
"I'm not sure," Hermione said. "Food can't be created from nothing, of course, but if there really was food on the other side of the wall, then she wouldn't be creating it, just trying to summon it to her. Remember when Flitwick had us make pineapples tapdance during exams? It does seem a bit like that."
"Yeah," Harry said. "I'm not so sure about seeing through walls, but I bet it's possible."
"Oh, it is," Hermione said. "It's just considered highly rude, so it isn't taught at Hogwarts."
"So maybe Betsy is a witch," Ron said.
"She might be," Hermione said. "I suppose it's possible."
"When the match went out, what happened to her?" Ron asked.
"She lit another match, hoping to see the goose again," Hermione said.
"Even though that really is kind of nightmarish, walking around with a knife stuck in it and offering itself up to be eaten," Harry said.
"I'm hungry," Ron mumbled, and Harry shrugged, realizing it had to happen eventually.
"What happened with the next match?" Harry asked.
"Oh, the wall on the other side became transparent, and she could see the family's Christmas tree, an absolutely enormous one, glowing in their parlor," Hermione said.
"I think I'd rather have the freakish zombie goose," Ron said, "but she's only a kid, I guess."
"The tree had hundreds of lit candles on it, and beautiful decorations like she had seen in the store windows, a glorious sight, and it seemed to her that the tree was so large that the lights on it blended with the stars in the sky," Hermione said.
"All those candles and they couldn't have bought even one little match from her to light them?" Ron said.
"They probably never noticed her there, which is usually the problem with people," Hermione said. "Why do you think it's impolite for house-elves to be seen? Someone might take pity on them if they were more visible."
"I don't know, Hermione," Harry said. "There are plenty of homeless people in every big city, usually sitting in plain view, and it's pretty rare anyone notices them either."
Hermione seemed to consider this for a moment before admitting, "You have me there. In any case, the match went out, and she was left in the dark again. Just at that moment, she looked up in the sky and saw a shooting star. 'Someone is dying' she said, for that is what her old grandmother had told her that shooting stars meant."
"I think I know where this is going," Ron said.
"Probably," Hermione said. "Andersen isn't being terribly subtle. The girl, I mean, Betsy, lit another match, hoping to see the beautiful tree again, but instead she saw her dear old grandmother, who had died some time ago and was the only person who had ever been kind to her in her life, standing before her in the glow of the flame."
"Uh huh," Ron said. "I get it."
"'Oh, Grandmother!' she cried, 'Stay with me!' and she lit match after match to keep her there with her," Hermione said. "At long last, she burned the only one remaining, and when its light went out, her grandmother was still there. She took the little girl in her arms and soared with her up into the sky to heaven, where there was no cold or hunger."
Harry glanced over at Ron as heard a sniffle, but he decided to let it pass without comment.
"The next morning, the little match girl's body was found, frozen to death in the alleyway with a bunch of burned matches next to it. 'She must have been trying to warm herself,' the people said, for none of them knew what glories she had seen," Hermione said. "The end."
There was a long pause before anyone said anything.
Finally, Hermione said, "I did warn you that it was sad."
"I'm just trying to decide whether Andersen wrote the story to make people feel guilty about kids freezing to death on their doorsteps without their noticing or to make them feel better because the kids go someplace better afterwards," Ron said.
"If that's even what happens," Harry said. "I mean, it's nice to think that when you die your family comes to get you so it's not so bad, but I wouldn't bet that's going to be what happens to me some day."
"I hope they buried her wearing shoes," Ron said sullenly, "even if it was too late to do any good."
"I would think they did," Hermione said, patting his hand kindly.
Harry looked over at the locket, and while it certainly wasn't glowing the way it had when it was busily attacking their minds, he could still see a dim, barely perceptible light emanating from it. Somehow he knew that it was waiting, recovering from the attack by their Patronuses, biding its time before it tried to turn them against one another again. But not today. There were people to remember, people counting on them.
"I'm not as cold as I was," Ron said, though Harry suspected he wasn't so much feeling the cold less as feeling determination more.
"Me neither," Harry said, listening to the wind whistling around the corners of the tent.
Hermione merely nodded, but it was enough. All three of them waited for the storm to pass, and then they would keep going on, one point of light at a time, even if each one burned out in turn, until finally they reached the one that held their goal.