Hermann/Hermione

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Draco awoke with a start the following morning, drenched in a cold sweat and shuddering in horror. He’d not slept well at all. He’d dreamt of pursuing an exceedingly beautiful woman. He’d gone about seducing her in the most ruthlessly efficient manner, delighted when the gorgeous creature had responded to his advances. Just as things had begun to get interesting, he’d felt something slender and firm press against his thigh. He’d pulled back, puzzled at what she’d concealed beneath her dress, only to recoil in shock as he realized that the object was in fact an appendage and not an accessory.

“But you’re not a man!” he’d sputtered disbelievingly.

The vision of loveliness had laughed; a deep, throaty chuckle, and he’d wondered how he could have missed the husky timbre of that voice.

“I am not attracted to men,” he’d insisted, annoyed when his evidently male companion’s laughter suddenly increased.

“Draco,” the excessively pretty man began, speaking very slowly, “you obviously fancy me, and I am very much a man.” He gestured towards the rather undeniable evidence of his masculine arousal as he spoke.”

Dream Draco had stared in fascinated horror for a few moments before meeting the amused gaze of his companion once more.

“I don’t like men,” he’d repeated dumbly. “I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he’d amended quickly, “but I’m not gay. I’m not.”

After that point, the dream had rapidly faded to the sound of his denials, repeated like a mantra as the mysteriously beautiful face smiled mockingly at him. He’d awoken, shivering and horrified as he realized that the dream had left him utterly and inexplicably aroused.

“Oh, very nice.” He sent a furious glare towards his massive erection, throwing the covers to the side of the bed. “And where, may I ask, might you have been two hours ago when Pansy bloody Parkinson insinuated that I was well on my way to impotence? She’s probably spread the word to half the witches in London by now,” he finished angrily.

He glowered petulantly at the proudly unflagging erection for a few more moments.

“Ah well. You’re here now. Shouldn’t be too much work to put things right, anyhow. Just need to demonstrate exactly how functional the equipment is and there’ll be no harm done. We’ll straighten everything out tomorrow.”
Feeling slightly mollified by the reassurance that he was not impotent, Draco proceeded to take the rather pressing matter of his arousal into his own hands, conveniently ignoring the rather disturbing implications of his dream for the moment. As he stroked, teased, and pulled at his own erection, he managed to push all thoughts of drag queens from his mind, focusing instead on the lovely illusion of femininity that he’d encountered that evening. When he finally came, his hips bucking wildly against his fist, he almost didn’t notice that the forbidden name had been on the tip of his tongue.

“Herm…” he’d rasped barely audibly before cutting himself off.

As he lay panting in the aftermath of what had been an extremely explosive orgasm, he vowed to get to the bottom of the situation. He was a fair and open-minded man and had nothing against gay men. Didn’t he put up with Blaise and his steady parade of man-candy over the years? No one could accuse Draco Malfoy of being a homophobe.

Still though, he was fairly certain that he harbored no secret preferences for his own gender. The singer had been petite and deliciously voluptuous with lovely fair skin and thick, shiny hair, though he now suspected that the latter may have been a wig. Nonetheless, she was one of the most beautiful and enticing woman he’d ever laid eyes on and he stubbornly refused to believe that such exquisite and radiant femininity could be an illusion. As he drifted off to sleep, he resolved to thoroughly investigate the performer with hauntingly beautiful voice.

Count Hermann indeed…. We’ll just see about that.

Across town, Hermione slumbered peacefully in her new and very plush bed, courtesy of her latest earnings, blissfully unaware of Draco Malfoy’s resolution to expose her as a fraud.



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Hermione stared resignedly at the wall as Harry and Ron circled her, clucking approvingly and making small adjustments with their wands.

“They still don’t quite look real,” Ron murmured, gesturing towards Hermione’s bosom.

She swatted his hands away and fixed him with a glare. “They are real. How can they possibly look fake? Besides, I thought you said that things were supposed to look fake.”

Harry and Ron exchanged an exasperated glance. “Perhaps real was a poor choice of words,” Ron sighed. “They don’t look authentic. Drag queens don’t look like average women. They look like extraordinary women. And these,” he continued, gesturing once more, “are far too ordinary.”

Hermione could feel a flush of rage spreading over her chest and neck, but chose to remain silent, opting instead for a scathing glare that promised worlds of pain for the next person to insult her bosom.

Harry patted her cheek soothingly, ignoring the open hostility she directed towards him as he did so. “Hermione, love, what Ron is trying to say,” he tossed a reproachful glance at his lover, who shrugged in response, “is that your form is far too naturally lovely and tastefully feminine to make the kind of splash that most female impersonators favor.”

“Exactly,” agreed Ron distractedly, shoving large foamy inserts into her already snug bodice. Hermione screwed her eyes shut, waiting silently for the humiliation to end.

“Voila,” Ron exclaimed, spinning her around so that she was facing the mirror.

Hermione’s jaw dropped in horror. Her brown eyes were rimmed with smoky looking makeup, her lips slicked with a thick layer of pearly pink gloss. Her wig was longer tonight, the dark, silky strands falling to her waist. As her gaze drifted downwards, her eyes widened in horror. They’d shrunk the bodice of her dress so that the material stretched tightly across her now disproportionately large bosom. The hem of her dress extended to the floor, but they’d slashed slits in the full, ruffled, skirt, exposing a nearly indecent amount of thigh.

She gazed at her reflection. She looked sultry, wanton, and more than a little like a “lady” of the night.

She sputtered, grasping for words to express her indignation.

“I know it’s a bit extreme,” Harry began, looking a bit nervous, “but it makes sense-“

She cut him off with a bark of bitter laughter. “I’m sorry?” she snapped. “Just how does it make sense that I look like some sort of depraved streetwalker?”

“You don’t look like a streetwalker,” Harry sighed. “It’s just a bit more risqué, but that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? I mean, given your song choice, don’t you think it’s appropriate?”

She was overcome by a sinking sensation in her stomach.

“Song choice?” she whispered. “I thought I was singing the same thing as last night.”

“Course not,” Ron answered glibly. “Not going to repeat the same program two nights in a row, are they? Tonight you’re doing “The Shady Dame of Seville.”


“But I haven’t rehearsed that with the backup dancers at all yet!”

“That’s why we’re here so early. Plenty of times to run through any tricky spots. They’ve been rehearsing all morning, though, and you sound amazing on it,” Harry finished, flashing her a wicked smile.

Hermione stared at her reflection in dismay before sighing and following them out of the dressing room for a last minute rehearsal.

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In light of the events of the previous night, Draco opted not to ring Pansy and ask her to accompany him that evening. He’d considered asking Blaise to accompany him, but had decided against that as well. Blaise was likely to be preoccupied with the eye candy, and he couldn’t afford to have a distracted assistant tonight. He found himself left with few options as to companions. The solution was less than ideal, but he didn’t suppose he had much choice in the matter.

He sighed resignedly as he fastened his cuff links, hoping that his minions would at least behave themselves tonight. He’d grown quite fond of them in recent years, but held no illusions as to their stealth and cunning, or lack thereof. As long as they managed to remain reasonably inconspicuous and provide a window of cover when necessary, he’d be satisfied.

Draco turned to face them as he sat to pull on his shoes.

“We’re absolutely clear on the plan?”

Crabbe and Goyle nodded in affirmation and beamed at him, obviously pleased to be a part of the intrigue.

“Good.” Draco flashed them a stern look and resumed straightening his clothing. “Once we find them after the show, you two distract the entourage. Don’t let them interrupt until I give you the signal.”

“Right,” Goyle concurred. “We’ll make sure that you get plenty of time alone with him before-”

“Her,” Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes in irritation.

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged skeptical glances.

“Her, then,” Goyle amended. “We won’t let them near you two until you give us the signal.”

“Good.” Draco swept from the room, leading the party of three to the floo.


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Elegant chandeliers and flickering candles atop the tables lit the huge room where the audience sat, chatting amiably as they awaited the next performer. There were hundreds of wizards clad in ensembles ranging from traditional robes to elegant ballgowns to scant minidresses. There were more than a few witches present, but the vast majority of the audience members were men, young and old, who had turned out to see the enticing and enigmatic Count Hermann.

Draco sat impatiently, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Crabbe and Goyle had taken to singing along with the various performers, and their vocal abilities had been less than impressive, to say the least. His efforts to silence them were met with little success, and he’d long since resigned himself to his fate.

He uncorked another slim vial of headache potion, downing it in one gulp and shuddering slightly at the taste.

“All right boss?” Goyle had paused in his warbling and was gazing at him with concern.

“Fine,” Draco snapped, checking his watch again.

Where was the silly bint? She’d been slated to appear at ten o’clock, according to the program. It was nearly half-past and there was not yet any sign of the famed “Count Hermann.

Suddenly the lights dimmed. The curtains fell shut and the emcee stepped out. “Ladies and gentleman, the club Cinaedus is proud to present Count Hermann von Engel!”

With a flourish, the man stepped aside and the curtain fell open. Tonight, the lovely young singer was dressed in a strange sort of get-up involving a corset style bodice and an unusually ruffled skirt.

Draco raised an eyebrow, watching skeptically.

Really, that costume was a bit much. And for a club as risqué as this, it was quite tame. Hardly any skin showing, though the corset certainly looked to be laced snugly enough.

Suddenly she burst into song and began sweeping across the stage. Draco nearly choked on his drink as she twirled and the odd ruffled skirt swung around her legs, revealing a startling amount of leg. It was cut nearly up to her waist, it appeared. He was more certain than ever that the singer was indeed a woman.

No man has hips like that.

He sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. He sipped his drink, his gaze focused intently on the beautiful vocalist as she belted out a song about a Spanish tart or some such nonsense. Tonight the backup dancers were all dressed as matadors. He sniffed disdainfully as he watched them prance about in some sort of ridiculous imitation of a Spanish dance.

Once the set ended, he allowed his gaze to drift across the room, noting familiar faces. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged worried looks.

“Look, boys,” he began, gesturing to a table in the back. “It’s our old school chums. Fancy meeting Potty and the Weasel in a place like this.”

He paused, looking thoughtful.

“I always suspected they’d end up together. Throw Granger into the mix and it’d be exactly as I pictured it.” He downed the rest of his drink. “We must go and get reacquainted.”

Crabbe and Goyle followed him across the room, looking very much as though they were being led to the gallows. They’d been minions of Draco Malfoy long enough to recognize that no good could come of him mixing Harry Potter, especially when alcohol was involved. The two wizards had been on better terms in recent years, but there was no one who could irritate Draco quite as quickly or as thoroughly as Harry Potter. As they approached the table, the two wizards were already standing and gathering their coats.

“Not leaving already, are you Potty?” drawled Draco.

To everyone’s surprise, Harry’s response was a cheeky grin. “Well, I never,” he began, his eyes sparking with mirth. “If it isn’t Draco Malfoy. In a gay bar, no less.”

Draco flushed with irritation. “Can it, Potter. We’re here on a mission.”

Ron snorted. “A mission? That’s one I’ve never heard before.”

Harry chuckled and held a hand up before Draco could retort. “What sort of mission?”

Draco fell silent, contemplating the least embarrassing answer to the question. “We’ve just heard so much about the Count. I’d like to get the chance to learn a little more about him.”

It happened so fast that he thought he might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw a flicker of fear in Potter’s eyes.

“Well,” Harry answered, his voice neutral, “you’re in luck. So happens that we’re friends of the Count. Just give us a few minutes to go find him. We’ll meet you back out here for drinks.”

As he watched Potter and Weasley walk away, it occurred to Draco that the whole thing had been far too convenient.


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“Harry,” hissed Ron as they made their way backstage, “Why’d you tell Malfoy that we’d get Hermione? He’s suspicious, can’t you tell? He goes all weird and twitchy when he talks about the Count. And you saw him last night. He looked like he’d smelled something rancid, didn’t he?”

Harry grinned. “O ye of little faith? Got a plan.”

“…. What sort of plan?”

“There’s this charm I’ve been wanting to try out,” Harry replied cryptically, his green eyes twinkling maniacally.

Ron was suddenly reminded of how very glad he was to be on his lover’s good side. He loved the man fiercely, but Harry had a wicked streak that could be a bit scary at times.


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Ron covered his ears as Hermione’s voice reached shrieking volume.

“What do you mean you’re going to turn me into a man?”

“It’s only temporary! Really, Hermione, it would only change the absolute necessities, and only for as long as you wanted.”

“Harry, you want to try out a new and very complex charm, on me, that could potentially have drastic and lasting effects on some very delicate parts of my anatomy. At least give me a good reason.”

“Malfoy’s on to you, Hermione, or at least he thinks he is. You must remember how suspicious he was, and now he’s back tonight, searching you out. He’s got a lot of money and power at his disposal and could easily discover your little secret if given the opportunity.” Harry paused and raked a hand through his untidy hair, causing it to stand out at an especially odd angle. Combined with the rapidly growing maniacal gleam in his eyes, he was looking madder by the second.

“So what we’ve got to do,” he continued, “is to give him irrefutable proof that you are, in fact, a man.”

“Which I’m not,” Hermione replied testily.

“But you could be. Easily.” Harry gave her a pleading look. “It’d be so easy, really, Hermione. And you can finish it in seconds, but we’d know we could use it anytime we needed.”

Hermione stared at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pursed in disapproval. He’d obviously worked very hard on this, and it was true that Harry didn’t often botch spells. He was the wizard that had defeated Voldemort, after all. She supposed that, if she’d trusted him to save the world, she could trust him to perform an alteration on her anatomy.

“Alright,” she grunted finally, throwing up her hands in defeat. “But so help me, Harry Potter, if I’m left with any extra… equipment when this is all over, you are going to rue the day you came up with this harebrained scheme.”

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Several minutes later, the trio emerged from the dressing room, Harry and Ron in the lead, and a rather uncomfortable looking Hermione in tow. She was walking rather oddly, and her voice was a shade deeper than it had been a few moments earlier, but otherwise few changes were evident.

“Hurry up, Hermione,” Ron hissed at her, ushering her along the corridor.

Hermione tossed him a scathing look and continued her combination shuffle and waddle down the hallway. “Remind me how it is, exactly, that this is supposed to prove anything at all to Malfoy. It isn’t as though I’m going to be parading about without any clothes on now, is it?”

Harry averted his gaze.

“Harry?”

“I hadn’t actually thought that part through,” he admitted. “It’s just obvious that he’s up to something, and this will ensure that, whatever that something may be, he fails.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in disgust and continued walking, trying to quell the flutters of nervousness in her belly. “I wish that I shared your confidence.”

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A/N: Thank you SO much to everyone leaving reviews! I can't tell you how much fun I'm having writing this, and I almost died laughing as I read some of the comments! It makes me so happy that (some of) you are enjoying this!

*loves*

Lilith, I don't know if you're still reading, but clearly I liked your idea. ;D I read it and laughed, but I wasn't going to use it, as I just didn't know how to write it in without being ridiculous. Then, over the week that followed, I couldn't stop thinking about it and I realized that the whole fic is over the top. I couldn't stop giggling at the idea, and, well, the rest is history. So thanks!