One morning in Care of Magical Creatures, Hermione discovers that a creature from her childhood cartoons is, in fact, real. Unfortunately, they're not much like they were on the telly...
A Harry Potter fanfic
By Andrew yclept Aelfwine,
The characters and situations of the Harry Potter series are copyright J.K. Rowling. The characters and situations of the Smurfs are copyright Studio Peyo, IMSP, Hanna-Barbera Productions, Warner Brothers, etc. They may not be used or reproduced commercially without permission. The use of these characters and situations is not to be construed as challenge to said copyright. They are merely borrowed for this work of non-commercial fanfiction, from which the author derives no financial benefit.
Warnings: Gratuitous silliness. Parodic elements. Comedic violence. Yours Truly.
"My God," Hermione said, "look at them, Harry!" She could scarce believe her eyes. A cage sat on a stump outside Hagrid's cottage, and in the cage were a dozen or more tiny blue humanoid creatures, each dressed in white trousers and aPhrygian cap. They sat crosslegged, circled about a pile of small red berries. Every so often one would reach out, take ahandful of berries, and eat. "I never thought those would turn out to be real."
Harry wrinkled his forehead. "They do look a little familiar. Although I can't quite think where I've seen them before."
"The /Smurfs/, Harry! Don't you remember them? From the telly when we were small? La-LA-la-la-la-la..." She lilted abit of the theme song.
"Not really," Harry said. "I don't expect Dudley would've watched a show that had those in it. Unless they were being blown up or shredded or something."
"Sorry, Harry, I forgot."
"Don't mention it," he said. "So, what did they do in the show? I don't expect they sat in a cage in front of the camera for an hour."
"Oh, they lived in a village of little mushroom houses, and their leader was an old Smurf with a beard called Papa, and there was a wizard who was always trying to trap them. He was a bit like a stupid version of Professor Snape, except he had less hair and it wasn't as greasy. Oh, and his potions didn't work so well."
"I'd like to see the greasy git running about trying to catch those," Harry said, grinning. "Although somehow I think he'd just use 'Stupefy.' Or the Killing Curse."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "I can't believe even Snape would be so cruel. Who could hate such cute little things?"
Two of the smurfs had broken the circle and were facing each other, waving their fists. Their mouths were wide open, and she could hear high-pitched noises that might be them screaming insults at each other. Their stubby little tails, projecting through holes in their trousers, vibrated furiously.
"Did they fight on the show?"
"Sometimes. But in the end they always admitted they were both wrong and made friends again." She smiled. "It was a very positive sort of show. My parents would've liked it even if it hadn't had classical music for the soundtrack. This is making me rather nostalgic, really--God! They're at it hammer and tongs!" The other smurfs had formed a new ring about the pair, who were now circling closely, punching and kicking at each other. She saw one's head rock back from apunch, saw bright blood fly from his nose. "/That/ never happened, I'm sure." The bleeding smurf hooked the other with his foot and they went down in a tangle. The bystander smurfs cheered.
Hermione felt as if she should shake the cage and stop them, call for Hagrid, call for Papa Smurf, do /something/. But she couldn't make herself reach out, could only watch in horror as the tiny combatants assaulted each other and their compatriots urged them on.
"Good heavens." One was down, not moving, his neck at afunny angle and a pool of red on the cage floor around him. The other had a foot on the body, waving the defeated smurf's little cap over his head in triumph. The other smurfs were cheering, clapping and stomping their feet. Even as she watched, they trickled over to the berries and sat down again, paying no notice to the tiny corpse.
"Christ," Harry said, "they don't even care, do they?"
"No. Being kept in captivity must drive them insane."Hermione stifled a sob. Poor Hagrid. The gentle gamekeeper would probably be scarred for life by this.
"Good morning!" Hagrid came walking up from his cottage with Fang at his heels.
"Oh, Hagrid," Hermione said, "it's horrible. They've killed each other!"
"The trumfs?" Hagrid said. "Are they all dead, then? I hadn't thought they'd wipe each other out til the berries ran low."
"No. But two of them fought and... it was so awful! They tore each other to shreds! And the others were laughing and cheering!"
"That's what they do, Hermione. I'm sorry, but... they're trumfs. Nasty little things. Not that it's /bad/, like, that they kill each other; else they'd breed and breed and we'd be forced to trap them and hunt them with jarveys all the time, just trying to save our gardens and pantries and our cellars full of beer."
"I never thought... I grew up watching them on telly, and they were so cute, and so sweet, and so magical."
"Trumfs? Whyever for? I thought Muggles didn't even know from trumfs."
"They were called smurfs. They had a cartoon. It was so lovely. And now... now..." Hermione couldn't help it any longer. She broke down sobbing, threw herself against Harry and buried her face in his robes. He hugged her, awkwardly patted her back.
"What's got inta her, Harry?" Hagrid said in what he probably thought was a whisper.
"I don't know. She just... there was a cartoon... that's like a comic, except the pictures move, and you watch it on the telly... that's the thing that's sort of like a wireless except there's a glass on one side of it..."
"I've seen a telly, Harry," Hagrid says, "in a Muggle pub one time. They kept callin' me Robbie, an' I said I was called Hagrid, but they just laughed and said I was abrilliant actor and of course they understood I only wanted some peace and not to talk about my work, so they'd stand me apint and we'd talk about the football instead. And the football was these little tiny men runnin' about on green grass and kickin' a black and white ball, and it was all inside the telly thing!"
"Err, Hagrid..." Harry said. But there was no stopping him.
"An I said I didn't know this Eric Cantona, nor who he was, neither, and they bought me another pint and said Ireally was absolutely brilliant and that I should make a--fill-em, that's what they said--with this Hagrid character in it and they'd all go to see it.
"So, the telly's got trumfs in it as well? I never would've thought. Them little blokes must have an awful time of it when the trumfs get in a fightin' mood."
"That's not quite..." Harry began, but it was too late.
"Harry? Hagrid? Hermione? What's happening?"
"I dunno, Ron. I've got us a cage full of trumfs for today's lesson, and Hermione's bawlin' her eyes out at the sight of them."
"At trumfs? Whyever for, 'Mione? They're ugly, sure, but no worse than garden gnomes."
"Ron! They killed each other. It was horrible!"
"Nah," Hagrid said, "horrible is what happens when them little beasts get into a henhouse. And they don't even eat the eggs! Just smash 'em and throw the bits at each other."
Hermione went completely inarticulate, and returned her face to Harry's breast. Séamus Finnigan arrived, took one look at the pair, shook his head, and looked away. Neville's jaw dropped, and he stared for a long moment. Colin Creevy brought out his camera, turned it over in his hands for a long moment, and put it back in his bag. Lavender and Parvati struck mirrored poses of surprise, eyes wide, hands over mouths, then sat down and started whispering back and forth. The Slytherins formed a quiet knot, ostentatiously ignoring Harry and Hermione and occasionally sneaking brief glances when they thought no Gryffindor was looking.
"Merlin save us," Hagrid muttered. "Harry, just you take care of our Hermione, right? Ron'll give yeh his notes, won't yeh, Ron?"
"Oh, sure." Ron muttered something that might have been"Completely barking," and sat down beside Neville.
"Ron," Neville whispered, "aren't you... I mean, we all thought... I mean... aren't you jealous?"
"Of which?" Ron caught himself. "I mean, why?"
"Well... we had a bet going as to when you and Hermione would start snogging each other in the broom closets."
"What? Good heavens, I... Well, I suppose maybe alittle bit... but, really, she's crying over a dead /trumf/. A mental friend, that's one thing, but a mental /girl/friend?"