- Rating:
- PG
- House:
- Riddikulus
- Characters:
- Hermione Granger
- Genres:
- Humor
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Stats:
-
Published: 10/28/2002Updated: 12/27/2002Words: 1,719Chapters: 2Hits: 744
Magda, The Lilliputian Shrew
The Jew in Gryffindor
- Story Summary:
- Hermione goes crazy and starts a new religion with some pretty interesting requirements.
Chapter 01
- Posted:
- 10/28/2002
- Hits:
- 455
- Author's Note:
- Welcome to the fic! The true disclaimer is down aways.
Magda, the Lilliputian Shrew
Important! Before You Read!
Importante! Antes de você leia!
Wichtig! Vor ihnen lesen Sie!
Important! Avant vous lisez!
¡Importante! ¡Antes de usted lea!
Mportant-iay! Efore-bay Ou-yay Ead-ray!
The story you are about to read, contrary to popular belief, has nothing to do with
small rodents named Magda. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. I mean, halfway
through, I may change my mind and say, "Hey! What if I write a lovable children's
story about a flying rodent named Magda..somewhat like thumbalina?!" But really, I
wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. That is, unless you are trying to commit
suicide. If you are, I suggest you get therapy. Rosebushes can help.
Hermione Granger had gone completely insane. Why, we'll get to in the next chapter.
She was lying down, clutching a ketchup bottle, and talking to her therapist. She
was, in actuality, lying down on the grass, and it was causing her eyes to water, just
a tad, and, in actuality, her therapist wasn't really a therapist, but, rather, a
rosebush. A rosebush, that, upon first inspection, appears completely normal, about
the average size for a rosebush, not infected by worms or by fungus, but one that
would shortly be arrested for practicing medicine without a license, But that, we'll get
to later.
We'll get to a lot of things later. But that's the whole point, isn't it? Being as this is a
story, and you, as of now, are my captive audience. Wait until the story unfolds, my
chickadees, and then we'll make judgments, okay?
Spiffy.
So…where was I? Oh, yes. The rosebush.
"Talk to me about your problems, dear," said the rosebush in a very Molly-Weasley-
ish way as it fluttered a bit in the breeze.
"You sound a lot like Molly Weasley," Hermione mused, polishing a spot on her ketchup
bottle in a very matter-of-fact way, happy to change the subject. Talking about her
problems, whether she was insane or not, was still not her strong point.
The rosebush, had it been able to, would have smiled as the wave of nostalgia
washed over it like a refreshing sprinkle from a watering can. "It's because I used to
be her therapist when she was a girl. She got herself into a similar position as you did,
dear. Running around in a turban, proclaiming the world was going to end when the
giant brownie god came to judge all those that had eaten its disciples. But I fixed her
up right quick." The rosebush said this with a swell of pride. I can understand that it
may be hard for you to envision a proud rosebush, being as most rosebushes you
come in contact with are a bit moody, and tend to speak with a bit of a lisp, but this
rosebush was special. It was a happy little rosebush, with round pink blossoms, but
one that had been dispensing advice for over fifty years. The Ann Landers of
rosebushes, if you will. "So, dear, your problems?" The rosebush eyed Hermione. She
was certainly one with problems.
"Oh, I don't know..." Hermione stood up, turned around three times, and laid back
down again. She sniffed the air for a moment, then wrinkled her nose. "Could you
mind… not…smelling so..rosey? It's making my allergies act up."
"Oh, I'm sorry dear." The rosebush blushed. "I thought it was rather calming, myself.
Well, though, if you need to, you can borrow the handkerchief that just blew into my
branches. It seems clean enough."
Hermione reached over and plucked a plaid handkerchief from the branches of the
rosebush. It was, in actuality, quite a dirty handkerchief, but Hermione was in on
state of mind to care or to complain, so, quickly and as to not make too much of a
fuss, she blew her nose in it. She sounded like a dying elephant, but let's move on to
happier topics, shall we?
"Thanks," Hermione said, still sounding a bit stuffy. She placed the handkerchief back
on the branch and turned to stare the rosebush in the face. "I don't know. I'm
just...frustrated! I can't get anyone to see the truth!"
"The truth, dear?"
"Yes! The truth!" Hermione stood up once more and collected a large amount of
sticks. She took these sticks and began to build an alter. It wasn't a very good one,
being as it resembled something made out of demented Lincoln Logs, but it served its
purpose. The ketchup bottle was placed in the alter, and Hermione began searching
for a worthy goat to sacrifice. However, being as she was still near the rosebush, she
felt the need to continue talking. "The truth! The light! Or, I guess I should say, the
red."
"Oh my," the rosebush whispered to itself. "I can see we're going to be here a while
dear, do you mind if I put the kettle on?" The rosebush was never one to dispense
worthy advice without a good, strong, cup of tea. But, before the rosebush could
even fetch its kettle, the police came and arrested it for practicing medicine without
a license. The rosebush died of lethal injection after being on death row for three
years. Its last meal consisted of three slug killing pellets, some fertilizer, and, to wash
it all down, a strong cup of tea, laced with miracle grow and currant vodka.
But that's all beside the point. Let's zoom back to this morning, shall we?
"Harry, Ron, are you two part of the light side or the dark side?"
Harry stared. Ron was gaping, his mouth hanging open, his oatmeal slowly dripping off
his spoon.
Important! Before You Read!
Importante! Antes de você leia!
Wichtig! Vor ihnen lesen Sie!
Important! Avant vous lisez!
¡Importante! ¡Antes de usted lea!
Mportant-iay! Efore-bay Ou-yay Ead-ray!
The story you are about to read, contrary to popular belief, has nothing to do with
small rodents named Magda. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. I mean, halfway
through, I may change my mind and say, "Hey! What if I write a lovable children's
story about a flying rodent named Magda..somewhat like thumbalina?!" But really, I
wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. That is, unless you are trying to commit
suicide. If you are, I suggest you get therapy. Rosebushes can help.
Hermione Granger had gone completely insane. Why, we'll get to in the next chapter.
She was lying down, clutching a ketchup bottle, and talking to her therapist. She
was, in actuality, lying down on the grass, and it was causing her eyes to water, just
a tad, and, in actuality, her therapist wasn't really a therapist, but, rather, a
rosebush. A rosebush, that, upon first inspection, appears completely normal, about
the average size for a rosebush, not infected by worms or by fungus, but one that
would shortly be arrested for practicing medicine without a license, But that, we'll get
to later.
We'll get to a lot of things later. But that's the whole point, isn't it? Being as this is a
story, and you, as of now, are my captive audience. Wait until the story unfolds, my
chickadees, and then we'll make judgments, okay?
Spiffy.
So…where was I? Oh, yes. The rosebush.
"Talk to me about your problems, dear," said the rosebush in a very Molly-Weasley-
ish way as it fluttered a bit in the breeze.
"You sound a lot like Molly Weasley," Hermione mused, polishing a spot on her ketchup
bottle in a very matter-of-fact way, happy to change the subject. Talking about her
problems, whether she was insane or not, was still not her strong point.
The rosebush, had it been able to, would have smiled as the wave of nostalgia
washed over it like a refreshing sprinkle from a watering can. "It's because I used to
be her therapist when she was a girl. She got herself into a similar position as you did,
dear. Running around in a turban, proclaiming the world was going to end when the
giant brownie god came to judge all those that had eaten its disciples. But I fixed her
up right quick." The rosebush said this with a swell of pride. I can understand that it
may be hard for you to envision a proud rosebush, being as most rosebushes you
come in contact with are a bit moody, and tend to speak with a bit of a lisp, but this
rosebush was special. It was a happy little rosebush, with round pink blossoms, but
one that had been dispensing advice for over fifty years. The Ann Landers of
rosebushes, if you will. "So, dear, your problems?" The rosebush eyed Hermione. She
was certainly one with problems.
"Oh, I don't know..." Hermione stood up, turned around three times, and laid back
down again. She sniffed the air for a moment, then wrinkled her nose. "Could you
mind… not…smelling so..rosey? It's making my allergies act up."
"Oh, I'm sorry dear." The rosebush blushed. "I thought it was rather calming, myself.
Well, though, if you need to, you can borrow the handkerchief that just blew into my
branches. It seems clean enough."
Hermione reached over and plucked a plaid handkerchief from the branches of the
rosebush. It was, in actuality, quite a dirty handkerchief, but Hermione was in on
state of mind to care or to complain, so, quickly and as to not make too much of a
fuss, she blew her nose in it. She sounded like a dying elephant, but let's move on to
happier topics, shall we?
"Thanks," Hermione said, still sounding a bit stuffy. She placed the handkerchief back
on the branch and turned to stare the rosebush in the face. "I don't know. I'm
just...frustrated! I can't get anyone to see the truth!"
"The truth, dear?"
"Yes! The truth!" Hermione stood up once more and collected a large amount of
sticks. She took these sticks and began to build an alter. It wasn't a very good one,
being as it resembled something made out of demented Lincoln Logs, but it served its
purpose. The ketchup bottle was placed in the alter, and Hermione began searching
for a worthy goat to sacrifice. However, being as she was still near the rosebush, she
felt the need to continue talking. "The truth! The light! Or, I guess I should say, the
red."
"Oh my," the rosebush whispered to itself. "I can see we're going to be here a while
dear, do you mind if I put the kettle on?" The rosebush was never one to dispense
worthy advice without a good, strong, cup of tea. But, before the rosebush could
even fetch its kettle, the police came and arrested it for practicing medicine without
a license. The rosebush died of lethal injection after being on death row for three
years. Its last meal consisted of three slug killing pellets, some fertilizer, and, to wash
it all down, a strong cup of tea, laced with miracle grow and currant vodka.
But that's all beside the point. Let's zoom back to this morning, shall we?
"Harry, Ron, are you two part of the light side or the dark side?"
Harry stared. Ron was gaping, his mouth hanging open, his oatmeal slowly dripping off
his spoon.