Chapter Text
The entire mess began because Ron couldn’t tell a cursed object from a shitty tourist gift.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” the redhead says, his expression sheepish. “And I think it might be spreading.”
Perched on the edge of the sofa, Harry and Hermione lean in. Ginny watches from the doorway, her eyebrows drawn together.
“Merlin, you’re all looking at me,” Ron says.
“Just take off your shoes, mate,” Harry says.
Hermione nods, curiosity burning a hole through her.
“You can’t laugh.”
“We won’t,” Hermione says.
“We’ll try not to,” Ginny adds.
“I’m not taking them off then!”
“Mate,” Harry says, exasperated. “Be reasonable.”
Groaning, Ron leans down, unlacing his shoes. He grimaces, kicks them off.
The others stare at his socks in anticipation.
“Go on,” Ginny says. “Off with them.”
Under the socks Ron’s feet have morphed. They are normal at the heel but the toes are gone, replaced by what look like the beginnings of two very shiny, very goat-like hooves.
“Holy shit,” Ginny says.
“How have you been walking?” Hermione says, appalled.
“I wondered what all the clopping was,” Harry says.
“That’s not all,” Ron says. “I have a - uhm - “ he swallows, mumbles unintelligibly.
“A what?” Hermione says.
“A tail!” He wails, burying his face in his hands.
“Show us,” Harry says. He winces as Hermione digs an elbow into his side.
Hermione opens her mouth but pauses, frowning. “Wait. Is it a fluffy tail or is it a skinny tail? And where are you hiding it?”
“I cut a hole in my boxers,” Ron says, voice muffled by his palms. “In the back of them.”
Ginny howls with laughter, stumbling until she falls onto the couch next to Hermione. She holds her stomach, doubling over.
“I hate you,” Ron says.
Harry hides a grin. “How long have you been like this? Since we got back?”
Ron nods. “It started with my feet. And then the tail. And - and my back has been itching something fierce. I’m afraid to look.”
“Take off your shirt,” Hermione says.
Ron has waited years to hear those words from her mouth. He dearly wishes they were said with different context. Perhaps when he doesn’t have a tail in his trousers.
There is a shared hiss of breath as he takes off his shirt, baring his back. The skin is covered with wiry black hair, thick and woolly.
“Merlin’s saggy tits,” Ginny says. “That is fucking sexy.”
Hermione lets out a gasp as he turns back around.
“What?” Ron says.
“You’ve something, just here,” Hermione says, touching her own temple.
He touches his head, letting out a yelp when he touches something hard and sharp. Quickly, he runs from the living room and down the hall, throwing open a bathroom door. He lets out a hoarse scream as he looks into the mirror.
“I’m a bloody goat!” He says. He groans as the horns protruding from his skull grow, breaking through his skin.
“Okay,” Hermione says, standing. “Let’s think about this. This is obviously a curse. We need professional help. Everyone get their shoes, we’re going to Mungo’s.”
“I am not going to Mungo’s like this,” Ron says, his face turning redder by the second.
“Ron,” Harry says. “We can’t help you. They’re trained. We’re not.”
“You wait much longer and you’ll be chewing the weeds in the garden,” Ginny says.
“You are really not helping,” Hermione says.
Ginny snickers.
“Bill,” Ron says. “Floo Bill.”
“It’ll take him ages to Apparate here,” Hermione says. “You’ll be full goat by then.”
Ron croaks, sliding down the wall.
“Talk about not helping,” Ginny says.
“I really did not mean to say that out loud.”
“Bill. Floo Bill, you assholes.”
They oblige. Holding back laughter, the elder Weasley agrees to come. It takes less time than expected and there is a knock on the door. Harry and Hermione sitting on either side of Ron, Ginny answers the door. When she comes back, her face is pinched and her lips sucked between her teeth. Behind her is Bill Weasley. And behind him is none other than Fleur Delacour.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Bill says. “I brought help.”
Flushing, eyes riveted to the blonde woman, Ron opens his mouth. He bleats.
Hermione bites a knuckle. Harry holds back tears. Ginny looks as if she has bitten into a particularly foul Bertie Bott's Every Falvour bean.
Crouching, Bill examines his brother, his eyes dancing.
“Who’ve you pissed off?” He asks.
Ron bleats in protest.
“We’ve been gone all month,” Hermione says. “We only just got back from holiday. He said it started then.”
Bill hums. “Where did you go?”
“Spain.”
“Bring anything back with you?”
“Alcohol,” Ginny and Harry say together.
“Rather nice parchment,” Hermione says.
Ron waves a hand in the direction of his room.
“Suitcase?” Hermione asks.
He nods.
“I’ll get it,” Bill says standing.
Ron stares up at Fleur with adoring, goaty eyes.
“Hiya, Fleur,” Harry says. “How have you been?”
“Better than your friend Mr. Weasley,” she replies. “And you?” She looks directly at Hermione as she says it and Ginny’s frown deepens.
Ginny steps next to her friend, dropping a possessive hand on her shoulder. “Fucking fantastic,” she says.
“Ginny,” Hermione says. “Rude.”
The redhead shrugs.
Hermione stands, offering her hand. “Hello, Fleur. Thank you for coming to help. I know that the last time you met some of us wasn’t under the, erm, best of circumstances.”
She doesn’t have to remind anyone that the last time she is referring to, Ginny very nearly lit the French witch on fire. And in turn, Fleur very nearly shattered Ginny’s spine. It was all very sudden. Something about Dean Thomas staring at Fleur’s tits. Ginny, being the jealous type, tried to Confringo the pair of them. Fleur, being guilty of nothing other than having stare worthy breasts, tackled the witch in a struggle for her wand. A broken wand and two bruised egos later, the witches were broken apart. Rumor was, Dean Thomas went home to find his Firebolt burning to ash on the walk and his muggle record collection melted to a useless puddle of vinyl next to it.
Taking Hermione’s hand, Fleur smiles. There’s a dimple in one cheek as she does. Her eyes are so blue it hurts and her lips...Merlin.
Blinking, Hermione frowns, taking her hand back.
“You’ve grown taller, Mademoiselle Granger,” Fleur says, still smiling that dazzling smile.
“That’s because she’s not a child anymore,” Ginny snaps.
“I can see that.” Fleur doesn’t look at her. She keeps her gaze steadily on Hermione.
Said witch slowly edges away, the room suddenly uncomfortably warm. She stands awkwardly next to Ron, Harry smirking from his place on the floor.
Mercifully, Bill chooses that exact moment to return. He drops a suitcase to the floor and it thunks heavily to the floor. He waves his wand over it, brow furrowing.
“Oh,” he says. “There it is. Fleur?”
She kneels next to him, running her own diagnostic. Her eyebrows raise. “Merde.”
“Well?” Ginny says, crossing her arms. “I’m not hearing anything valuable here.”
Bill turns to Ron. “Did you buy a skull, Ronald?”
Ron bleats plaintively.
“A skull?” Hermione says, nose wrinkling. “Morbid.”
Bill opens the suitcase with a flick of his wand, the latches snapping. Sitting on top of the tangle of shirts and socks and something that looks suspiciously like muggle weed, is the skull. A pair of lenseless plastic glasses attached to a bright red nose and a bushy black mustache sit over its face. A tiny straw sombrero perches on its dome.
“Why?” Hermione says, squinting. “What would possess you to buy something so stupid?”
“I can see it,” Harry says, head tilted.
“This happens more often than you would think,” Bill says. “It’s only a bit of fun. They put a curse on random bits and bobs in the novelty shops. Dickheads like my brother buy them and presto bango - mangoat.”
“Mangoat.” Ginny snickers.
Harry nudges his friend in the side. “Yer a goat, Ron.”
If goats could cry….Ron looks near it.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermione sighs. “Is it reversible?”
“Very,” Fleur says. “Mr. Weasley is lucky it is not a malicious curse. We can supply him with a potion and it will reverse the effects. I will give him three. He must take them every day at 4PM exactly.”
“We’ll make sure he does,” Hermione says.
“It will take some time to make them. I can have them for you by tomorrow?”
Eyes widening, Ron bleats in panic.
“There’s a potions table in the basement you could use,” Harry says, patting his friend. “Right, Hermione?”
“Of course,” she says. She gives an awkward gesture, feeling graceless in the Veela’s presence. “I can show you. I keep it well stocked.”
Arching an eyebrow, Fleur dips her chin. “You never fail to impress.”
Hermione coughs into her hand. “It’s only a hobby.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ginny growls.
“It’s nothing extreme,” Hermione says, leading Fleur down to the basement. “Just something small to meet our everyday needs. And the occasional experiment. If I don’t have what you need, there’s an ingredients shop just around the way.”
The potions table is set up against the far wall of the basement, out of the way of direct sunlight. A beaker of bubbling green liquid ferments amid the mass of ingredients and glassware, its smell sharp and tart. There is a lovely leather journal open on the table. Fleur briefly sees bold, elegant handwriting, precise drawings. Hermione nearly trips over herself, slapping the journal closed. Holding it to her chest, she gives a weak smile.
“Help yourself.”
Shrugging out of her robes, Fleur rolls up her shirtsleeves. She takes quick stock of the assorted ingredients and finds that there is everything she could possibly need. Setting about crushing and smashing bits of this and that, she allows a quick glance to the girl hovering nearby.
“You are very well equipped,” she says. “Some of these ingredients are rare.”
“I have a broad range of interests. Potions isn’t my favorite, but I like to keep myself educated.” She drifts closer. “Would you like any help?”
Fleur gives her a charming smile. “No. But I do enjoy your company.”
“Oh.” Hermione blushes, seats herself on a teetering stack of old Daily Prophets. She lays the journal across her lap, caressing the cover.
“I have embarrassed you?” Fleur says.
Hermione watches the way the muscles in her forearm firm as she grinds a bit of ginger root to a fine paste. “No. Well, yes. Maybe?”
Fleur gives a throaty laugh. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Is there anyone you don’t make nervous?”
“You are evading the question.”
“I’m choosing not to answer it.”
“A yes, then,” the Veela smirks. She sobers as she reaches for a beaker. “Tell me, how are you truly?”
Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Fine?”
“Ah, you are defensive now.”
“I am not!”
Fleur quirks an eyebrow.
Hermione deflates with a huff. She gives a sigh, scratching a fingernail against the journal. “Sorry. No one’s really asked me that. Well, except Ginny. The boys and I, we don’t really talk about it, you know? We’re just trying to focus on ourselves. Deciding what we want to do now that everything is over.”
“Talking is good. Cathartic. You English, you are so repressed. Your food, your speaking, your lovemaking. It is no way to live.”
Hermione nearly chokes on her spit at the word “lovemaking” coming out of Fleur Delacour’s mouth.
“The Weasley girl, is she your lover?”
“My what?”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Ehm , no. She just doesn’t like you.”
Fleur laughs. “So blunt.”
Hermione shrugs. “It’s nothing you can’t see for yourself.”
“There was that name….Phlegm?”
Hermione pales.
“It does not bother me. She was a child. My Veela heritage doesn’t endear me to everyone. Young, hormonal girls especially.”
“She’s just...protective.”
Fleur hums. She finishes in silence, covering the large beaker of glowing liquid with a towel.
“Let it rest,” she says. “4PM tomorrow, do not forget.”
“Of course. And thank you again, Fleur. I’m sure this has been nowhere nearly as exciting your usual fare.”
Fleur smiles, flashing that adorable dimple again. “I have no complaints. It gave me a chance to see you. I have always admired you.”
Hermione frowns. “Me?”
“Of course. Is that so surprising?”
It is. She is a part of the Golden Trio, but she receives nowhere near the adoration that Harry and Ron seem to attract. Then, she couldn’t bear it, that kind of attention. Just the thought of it makes her want to shrivel.
“Well,” Hermione says slowly, weighing her words. “It is. I mean, you’re beautiful and brilliant and well - “
“Yes?”
“You’re you,” Hermione finishes.
Fleur is silent for a moment, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face. There is something intent in her gaze, something searching.
“I am nothing compared to you, Hermione Granger.”
The way she says it, with pride in her voice, something that almost sounds wistful.
Bothered, she opens her mouth to reply, but loud footsteps clump down the stairs. A wave of red hair fans out as Ginny leans down, scowling down the stairs at them.
“Oi, done yet? I’m fucking starving and I need Hermione to get her ass up here and make an executive decision. Indian, pizza, or goat food?”
Hermione gives a snort. She glances at Fleur and is startled to see how close they are standing. The Veela beams at her and steps away, gathering her robes.
It’s not long before Bill and Fleur take their leave. Bill snickers and tugs at the horns from Ron’s head. Fleur smiles brilliantly and waves goodbye. Hermione feels her gaze lingering on her, but pointedly looks away, pretending not to see.
Later, the boys in their respective rooms, Ginny knocks on Hermione’s door. Hermione sets her book aside, watching as her friend sprawls gracelessly on the end of her bed.
Staring at the ceiling, Ginny scowls. “I don’t like the way she looked at you.”
“Who?”
“Phlegm.”
Hermione sighs. “You really should stop calling her that.”
Ginny doesn’t seem to hear her. “She looked at you like you’re a bloody sausage roll.”
“Do the French eat sausage rolls?”
“Probably not. No bloody taste.”
“I think she’s very kind,” Hermione says.
“Oh, you would. You’re the one being eye fucked.”
“Ginevra Molly Weasley!” Hermione hits her with a pillow. “You’re making assumptions. Besides, she’s Veela. I suppose she looks at everyone like that.”
“She’s a French tart is what she is. And no, Hermione Jean Granger. It’s the reverse. Everyone looks at her like that. She probably saves it for her unwitting victims.”
“Don’t be a bigot.”
Ginny scoffs. She bounces from the bed, heading for the door. “You watch. She’s going to turn back up. And when she does, you owe me firewhisky and a lapdance.”
“I’m not agreeing to that!” Hermione shouts.
The door slams.
Hermione stares after her. After a moment of stewing, she reaches for her book, the title of which, interestingly enough is “Veela: A Compendium of Myths and Facts”.
“I’m not a sausage roll,” she murmurs to herself, finding her place again.
If anything, she is a jam tart. Strawberry, preferably.