For notes, please see chapter 1.
The Boy Who Cr(ikey, You Lot Are Weird)ied Wolf
"I'm telling you, it was a Skrewt!" Ron yelled, peering nervously over his shoulder as he and Harry entered the tent.
"A Skrewt?" Hermione said, looking up from her book.
"No, it wasn't," Harry said, taking off his snow-covered hat and hanging it on a hook near the door, his soaked gloves following immediately after.
"It was," Ron said firmly, dropping his gloves on the floor before starting to pull off his boots. "I'm certain of it."
"If it was a Skrewt, that's a very serious problem," Hermione said, and Harry noticed a slight flare of panic in her voice. "Only Hagrid ever had access to the Skrewts directly, and most of them wound up killing one another until there were only a handful left. If you just found one wandering the Yorkshire countryside, that could mean the Death Eaters have figured out how to breed them on their own, or worse that they've got Hagrid, maybe under a very strong version of the Imperius Curse, and are forcing him to create mutations of various animals to use against the Order and the general population!"
"It was a cow," Harry said calmly as he removed his own boots and set them on the mat.
"That hideous thing was not a cow!" Ron said sharply. "It was a Skrewt!"
"So far as I remember, Skrewts didn't really go about mooing all that much," Harry said.
"Skrewt," Ron said firmly.
"Cow," Harry countered.
"Well, which is it!" Hermione almost screamed at them. "It's not like they look very much alike!"
"We were going along an old road, a dirt one, and there was a heavy fog," Harry said.
"Very thick fog," Ron said, nodding in agreement. "That much you've got right."
"We were going past this particularly ancient farm, and I admit it was dead creepy since we never know now if it's just regular fog or if Dementors are breeding," Harry said.
"Then there was this horrifying, murderous, ear-splitting shriek," Ron said.
"A rooster crowed," Harry told her.
"It did not!" Ron said. "It was an unearthly wailing, like a banshee or summat."
"It was a rooster," Harry repeated, giving his friend a deeply tired look.
"Then this terrible, repulsive shape rose out of the mist and bellowed and started coming after us down the road," Ron said.
"I'll admit I didn't know what it was at first either," Harry said. "It was just a big shadowy thing that was in the middle of the road, and it did start coming toward us."
"So we ran for it," Ron said, "and I'm 100% sure it was a Skrewt."
"It was a cow that had gotten out of its pasture," Harry said, sitting down on one of the chairs and glaring at Ron. "Look, I ran too, so it's no big stain on your honor or something, but you know as well as I do that Skrewts don't have hooves that make a clopping sound, they don't have horns, they don't wear bells, and they most definitely do not moo."
Ron looked between Harry and Hermione angrily, then sighed and threw himself on the couch in a snit.
"Fine! It was a ruddy cow!" he said. "I still think mine was the better story though."
Hermione buried her face in her hands, and for a moment Harry wasn't sure if she was laughing, crying, or just trying to block out the sight of both of them because her head was about to explode.
"A cow?" she finally managed to say. "I was two seconds away from planning a rescue mission to save Hagrid, and you got a cow mixed up with a ruddy Skrewt?"
It had been the third option, Harry decided. One of these days the poor girl's skull was going to shatter like a pumpkin shell after Halloween.
"Mostly," Ron said.
"Mostly?" she repeated back at him with an expression worthy of Mrs. Weasley trying to get to the bottom of something the twins were saying.
"Okay, I knew it was a cow, but, well, it's embarrassing admitting a cow ate my bleeding hat, isn't it!" Ron said.
"It ate your hat?" Hermione said.
"Yeah," Ron admitted. "It fell off in the middle of the road while we were running, and when I looked back I could see the red and gold pompom on the top sticking out of its mouth while it was chewing."
Hermione seemed to be rather valiantly struggling not to laugh as she added in a calm and controlled tone, "Oh. Um, that's a shame. I'll have to set about knitting you a new one tomorrow as it's so cold now. I should have enough yarn tucked away. Still, you shouldn't go about crying wolf just to save face."
"I didn't cry wolf," Ron said, looking confused. "I cried Skrewt. And I didn't cry, either!"
"It's an expression from an old story," Hermione said, "one from Aesop again."
"Like that weird turtle and rabbit story?" Ron asked.
"Tortoise and hare, but yes," Hermione said, and Harry had to hand it to Ron. He'd managed to subtly shift the conversation away from his lie and into a much less explosive topic.
"Okay, so tell us about the weeping wolf, then," Ron said.
"Not a crying wolf, someone who cries out the word wolf," Hermione said. "The story is called 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf.'"
"Well, off with you, then," Ron said, waving his hand. "Give us the story."
"Oh, may I?" Hermione said, giving him a fake moony-eyed look of adoration worthy of Pansy Parkinson before rolling her eyes and beginning. "Once upon a time, there was a town that had a small flock of sheep."
She paused, looking at Ron expectantly.
"What?" he said.
"This is usually when you interrupt me to make some comment or ask a question or say something doesn't make sense," Hermione said.
"Yeah, but so far everything pretty much does make sense," Ron said. "It's a town and they have sheep. I'm not seeing a problem yet besides the whole 'once upon a time' bit, and we've had that part out before."
Harry considered this for a moment before nodding.
"He's got a point. So far, everything is normal," Harry said.
"A whole ten seconds. It's a new record," Ron said, grinning.
"Every day, a little boy from the town would lead the sheep out to feed in a green meadow, watching them to be sure they were safe," Hermione said.
"Now that doesn't make sense. That's a fairly tall order for a kid. Just how little is the boy?" Ron asked.
"And the record ends," Hermione said. "Young children in olden times were often given serious chores to help their families or even communities, as in this case. For example, children might tend geese or sheep or goats, or stand in fields of crops to frighten away birds or other animals, or they might draw water from wells or streams that were a good distance away. Most of the illustrations I've seen would suggest the boy was probably six or so years old, perhaps a little older."
"So how is a six-year-old kid supposed to keep a whole flock of sheep safe?" Ron asked. "I'm assuming there are predators who want to eat the sheep."
"Yes, but that was fairly typical still," Hermione said. "The child would be expected to throw stones at the animal or make noise to frighten it into going away."
"Which would probably result in scaring the sheep, too, resulting in a sheep stampede," Ron said, shaking his head.
"A sheep stampede?" Harry said. "I don't think they really move fast enough for it to be called that."
"Actually, sheep have been clocked running at up to twenty-five miles an hour," Hermione said, "though only for short bursts."
"How do you know this stuff?" Ron asked, looking partly frightened and partly impressed.
"I read," Hermione said. "Still, it's a fair point, the sheep would most likely scatter if frightened, but probably not very far."
"And they give the job of fending off hungry wolves and lions and Manticores and what-have-you via a few rocks and some shouting to a little kid?" Ron said.
"Yes," Hermione said. "Children back then would have had a well-developed sense of community responsibility early on."
"It's not the responsibility I'm worried about so much as the kid becoming an hors d'ouevre," Ron said.
"Point taken," Hermione said. "Regardless of the possibility of that, this little boy—"
"No name, I take it," Ron said.
"No," Hermione said.
"Fine, I'll just go with it," Ron said.
"What, you're not going to name her like the girl with the matches?" Harry said.
"Her I felt sorry for. This one, what with the whole wolf thing, I don't think I want to get too emotionally attached," Ron said.
"As you wish," Hermione said, and Harry wondered for one wild moment whether Hermione had seen The Princess Bride at some point and this was meant as a code, but as she didn't seem at all flustered or out of the ordinary, he assumed he was grasping at straws. He shrugged and tried to come to terms with the inevitable fact that his two friends were going to remain in denial for at least another decade.
"One day," Hermione continued, "after the boy had spent several hours watching the sheep in the meadow with no sign of excitement at all, he became bored."
"I can't blame him," Ron said. "Standing around watching sheep munch grass can't be very exciting. Even worse than one of Binns's lectures."
"Am I the only one who ever feels a bit sorry for Professor Binns?" Hermione asked.
"Yes," Harry and Ron said together.
"Oh," Hermione said, blushing at the abrupt answer. "It's just he doesn't seem to have had very much of a life, and now he doesn't even have very much of a death either, and he's so committed to the school that he didn't even let dying stop him from showing up to class, and he does know an awful lot about history, even if he is rather, well…"
"I believe the word you're looking for is 'dull,'" Ron said.
"Still, is that really reason enough for everyone to hate the poor man, err, ghost?" Hermione said.
"I don't hate him," Ron said.
"Yeah, I hate Snape or Lockhart or Umbridge," Harry said. "He's not like that lot. Binns I just sort of suffer through."
"Yeah, like having to eat veg before you can have pudding," Ron said.
"So you view Professor Binns as a rather soggy cauliflower?" Hermione said.
"Add in that he's a bit burnt and without any sauce," Ron said, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, that's fair."
It looked as though Hermione were about to tell Ron off for not appreciating Binns's literally undying commitment to Hogwarts before she seemed to deflate a bit and sigh.
"I admit you have a point," she said glumly. "I still feel rather sorry for him, though."
"I'd feel sorry for a burnt, soggy, unsauced cauliflower as well, so that just makes sense," Ron said. "Anyway, the kid is out watching the sheep and gets bored. What sort of hijinks ensue?"
"He decided to see what would happen if he called out for help," Hermione said.
"That's his idea of hijinks?" Ron said. "Pathetic. Fred and George would have had the sheep knitting their own sweaters off each other in argyle patterns or performing Grumhilda the Sulky Sorceress or something."
"Grumhilda the Sulky Sorceress?" Hermione asked cautiously, and Harry wasn't sure he quite bought that Ron hadn't made that up either.
"It's a wizard ballet," Ron said, seeming very earnest. "The whole plotline is there's a cranky but very pretty witch named Grumhilda who's angry she wasn't invited to a royal party, so she makes it rain anvils on the king's house until it looks like Swiss cheese."
Hermione and Harry both gave Ron somewhat suspicious looks.
"Really!" he said. "I'm telling the truth! There's a choral ballet section of the anvils dancing that's actually very famous. That's the one Boris the Barmy was trying to teach trolls in that tapestry outside the Room or Requirement!"
"Trolls as dancing anvils," Hermione said, pondering it. "It does make a sort of sense."
"And at the end of the ballet, Grumhilda gets reinvited to the party, but when she shows up, someone's poisoned her food and she dies. She does a fifteen minute solo dance first, though, called 'Writhing in Endless Agony.' I always found that part a bit much," Ron said, grimacing. "Still, productions of it get mounted every year on Boxing Day."
"Why Boxing Day?" Hermione asked, obviously intrigued by this odd little story.
"It was supposed to be a Boxing Day party," Ron said with a shrug, "so it's tradition. Ginny was in an amateur production of it once when she was just a tiny thing. Played the Littlest Anvil, she did. It wasn't much of a part, really. Mostly she just toddled around the stage and everyone cooed over how adorable she was, but Mum seemed dead chuffed over it. Anyway, it would probably be improved a lot by having sheep dance the main roles."
Harry decided not to focus his attention on imagining a pint-size Ginny dressed as an anvil. It just didn't fit with the images of her his subconscious usually chose to dwell on. He might well trot out that particular picture the next time he was desperately not trying to focus on her charms, though.
"Now I can't stop imagining a herd of sheep baaing 'The Anvil Chorus' from Verdi's Il Trovatore," Hermione said, shaking her head as thought trying to be rid of the tune. "Anyway, the boy decided to cry 'Wolf!' at the top of his lungs to see if anyone would notice."
"Hence the title. Why a wolf, though?" Ron asked.
"Well, wolves do go after sheep, so they would be a realistic threat that the villagers would almost certainly believe was possible," Hermione explained. "A lion or a tiger or something like that wouldn't be as likely and might tip the villagers off that he was lying."
"I suppose, but really, of all the scary things to pick, a wolf is pretty tame," Ron said. "Now a Manticore or a dragon or summat, that'd be more exciting."
"Yes, but remember Muggles don't believe those really exist, well, not now, though some of them probably would have believed it when this story is set," Hermione said.
"The more fools they," Ron said.
"As You Like It?" Hermione asked, looking stunned.
"As I like what?" Ron asked.
"You just quoted Touchstone from the play As You Like It, or nearly. The actual line is 'The more fool I,' but still," Hermione said, obviously impressed.
"Oh, that," Ron said. "Nah, I haven't read that one. I think McGonagall said that to Harry and me once when we were in her class and kept turning our hamsters into Grindylows instead of teacups."
"Yes," Hermione said, "that does seem rather more apt. In any case, when the boy cried out 'Wolf!' in a loud voice, all the villagers came running to help him defend the sheep from the threat, bringing shovels and hoes and anything else that might be useful as a weapon and making a great commotion."
"Just how far away is this kid?" Ron asked.
"I don't know," Hermione said. "Probably not terribly far, but the human voice can carry quite a long way under the right conditions."
"Hmm," Ron said doubtfully. "It seems like if they were close enough to hear him, they'd be close enough to see there wasn't a wolf, and if they were far enough away not to see him, they might not be able to hear what he was yelling."
"Perhaps," Hermione admitted, "but we can assume there might be something blocking their view, say a hill or some trees, so he wouldn't need to be that far to be obscured from sight."
"Fine," Ron said. "So the little urchin decides to make up an imaginary wolf and everyone comes running. Then what?"
"Then, when all the villagers got there, he fell down laughing at them because he'd made up the whole story," Hermione said.
"Muggles have a weird sense of humor," Ron said.
"The people didn't find it very funny either, and they warned him not to do it again," Hermione said.
"I think the Dursleys would have done a bit more than warn me if I'd pulled that trick on them," Harry said, then frowned. "Actually, come to think of it, I wouldn't have been able to do it. If I'd screamed a wolf was eating me, they wouldn't have done anything."
"Oh, sure they would have, mate," Ron said, slugging his friend in the shoulder. "They'd have come running."
Harry raised an eyebrow at him.
"Okay, running with a bottle of catsup and a serviette to help the wolf along, but still, they would have run," Ron said.
Harry snorted a laugh, mostly because he was fairly sure Ron was right, but Hermione didn't join in. She never really seemed to find anything about the Dursleys humorous. Frankly, Harry wouldn't be surprised if Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wound up with pigs' tails to match their son's if they ever ran into Hermione.
"The tale doesn't actually mention the villagers threatening the boy, but it wouldn't have been out of place for parent-child relationships of the era," Hermione said. "In any case, the very next day the boy was bored again, so once more he cried 'Wolf!' as loud as he could. The people looked at one another for a moment, but decided it would be far too much to think the boy would lie twice in such a ridiculous way, and they feared for their sheep."
"So they ran out with various farm implements of doom again?" Ron asked.
"Yes, and again the boy held his sides and laughed at them for being fools," Hermione said.
"Nice kid," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "About as interesting as day old bread and about as bright as your average troll. Granted, the villagers aren't any brighter if they fall for this a third time."
"That's precisely what they thought," Hermione said. "They all came to an agreement that if the boy cried 'Wolf!' again, none of them would come."
"Okay, now that's stupid," Ron said.
"I thought you said they shouldn't let themselves be fooled again," Hermione said.
"Yeah, but if they've got this kid out there watching the sheep because there really could be a wolf, and they don't trust him enough to actually do his job, they need to sack him and get a new shepherd, not just ignore him," Ron said.
Hermione paused for a moment, frowning.
"You have a good point there. Maybe there wasn't anyone else available to take the job?" she suggested.
"If the sheep are that important and the wolves are that dangerous, somebody should have done it," Ron said firmly.
"Okay, well, they don't do that in this story," Hermione said.
"Because these stories are full of bloody idiots," Ron said quietly to Harry.
"Instead, on the third day, just as the little boy was about to try one last time to see if the people would come running, a gigantic and very much real wolf appeared and began to eat the sheep," Hermione said.
"Told you," Ron said to Harry. "Now what?"
"The boy cried out with all his might for the people to come, saying there was a real wolf and it was eating the sheep, but the people decided he was lying. Not one of them came to his aid," Hermione said.
"Uh-huh, and what happened to sheep-boy?" Ron asked.
"Well, the wolf ate every last sheep, then ate the little boy for good measure," Hermione said.
"So the wolf makes the boy pudding, the villagers lose all their sheep, and there's a happy wolf running around ancient Greece with a nice, full belly," Ron said. "What's the point of this story supposed to be again?"
"That liars are never believed, even if they tell the truth," Hermione said.
"Or that you shouldn't let a liar guard the sheep," Ron said, listing on his fingers. "Or if you don't run when you hear an alarm, your sheep and the neighbor's kid will get eaten. Or that this village provided all the village idiots for all of Europe back in the day."
"Or maybe that mutton is tasty?" Harry suggested.
"Or perhaps that turning a cow into a Skrewt means I might not believe you the next time you tell some stupid story," Hermione said, glowering at both of them.
"I really want some mutton," Ron said dolefully, completely ignoring her last comment. "Mum used to make the best shepherd's pie with these little onion things on the side. Merlin, those were good!"
"Honestly!" Hermione yelled in exasperation.
"Yeah, honestly," Ron said innocently. "They were fantastic."
Harry never even saw the cushion that Hermione managed to launch at both of their heads simultaneously, but by the time he and Ron had picked themselves up from the floor, she had marched from the room to the nook where her bed was and gotten in.
"Shepherd's pie," Harry heard her muttering to herself. "Scheherazade herself could show up and he'd turn every tale into a menu entrée!"
"I still say it looked like a Skrewt," Ron said to Harry as the two of them turned in for the night as well.
"Ron, you look more like a Skrewt than that cow ever did," Harry said with a laugh.
Somewhere in the snowy pastures surrounding them, a single cow wandered about the fields, completely lost. It very nearly stumbled onto their campsite, but Hermione's protective spells managed to ward it off. It lowed miserably and ambled off into the night, entirely unaware of the very large Fire Crab that was following it until it was far too late. At least its last meal, Ron's hat, had been quite delicious.
