Hermann/Hermione

1/24/06 - A/N: Thanks to HappilyJaded for the language help!


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of the characters contained within, nor do I profit from anything involving said characters.

Furthermore, I do not own the plot device used within this story, which has been shamelessly lifted from the musical “Victor, Victoria.” Once the storyline takes off, it will be quite unique, but there’s no doubt as to the inspiration.

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"Mais si je t'aime, si je t'aime, Prends garde a toi!"

Hermione belted out the last line of the aria and held her dramatic pose as the accompanist enthusiastically banged out the final notes of her audition piece. Adrenaline pulsed through her system and she grinned, knowing that she had nailed her final aria. She turned towards the audition committee, her satisfied smile fading as she noted the lackluster applause and disinterested expressions.

“Thank you Miss Ranger,” droned the monotone voice of one of the judges.

She didn’t bother to correct him, but turned towards the pianist, accepting her music from him and attempting to return his sympathetic smile.

“I think you’d have made a superb Carmen,” he whispered conspiratorially as she leaned in.

She gave a resigned shrug and made a beeline for the door, letting it slam shut behind her before she gave in to the angry tears.


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“Hermione,” Harry began, rubbing soothing circles on her back, “you always knew it would be hard. You’ve a beautiful voice, and it will happen, eventually.”

“They didn’t even look up,” she whimpered through her frustrated tears. “I may as well have sung ‘Yellow Submarine’ for all they noticed.” She slammed a hand down on the table, sitting up suddenly. “I studied at the Royal Academy of Music!” she shrieked hysterically. “I didn’t sleep for four years! I learned five different languages and graduated at the top of my class after studying with the most respected teachers in Britain and for what? To be turned down month after month without a second glance? I am the brightest witch of our time AND a skilled vocalist, and I should NOT be unemployed!” she finished, jabbing a finger into the air for emphasis.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. It was a never good sign when Hermione went into diva mode.

Ron pulled her closer, wrapping strong arms around her. “Give it time, Hermione. You’ll find your niche. There are just so many singers out there right now, taking these auditions, it’s a matter of setting yourself apart somehow, but it will happen.”

The three friends were seated at the kitchen table of the house Ron and Harry shared. Cups of steaming tea sat before them, forgotten in the wake of Hermione’s distress. She’d shown up at their doorstep, frozen and soaked to the bone from her long walk in the rain. After the audition, she’d been extremely frustrated and disappointed and had hoped that the walk would settle her emotional state. It was the third audition she’d had that week and the third time in a row she’d been dismissed without as much as a callback. By the time she’d realized it was freezing and pouring down sheets of rain, she’d been too wet and too numb, both emotionally and physically, to care. Therefore, she proceeded to trudge the several miles to her friends’ house, resulting in the blue-lipped, shivering mess of a girl that appeared on their doorstep.

“Come on.” Harry pulled her from her seat. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

Once they’d coaxed her into the bedroom, Ron searched the closet for something warm and dry for her to put on, while Harry stripped the drenched material from her icy skin, casting warming charms as he did so. A few years ago, Hermione would never have allowed herself to be in any state of undress before either of the young men. In light of recent events, however, she made no protest or attempt to halt his progress. Harry and Ron had decided, or rather admitted finally, that they very much preferred each other to Ginny or Hermione.

It had been disconcerting, to be sure, to discover that her boy she’d always assumed would eventually be her boyfriend had turned out to prefer men. After the initial shock wore off however, she’d acclimated with a speed that surprised everyone. The bonds of friendship and love, though altered slightly, had remained strong as ever between the three of them once the truth was out in the open, and they now shared a closeness that was unparalleled, making modesty something of a moot point.

Ron emerged from the closet with an old button down shirt and a pair of flannel trousers.

“Here you go, Hermione.” He tossed them on to the bed. “They’re Harry’s, so they ought to fit pretty well. Same slender figure and all that.” He flashed a cheeky grin at the smaller man, who narrowed his eyes in response but let the remark slide for the moment.

The two men left her peel off the remaining undergarments and dress herself in privacy. She could hear Harry’s voice chiding Ron in mock irritation as she slid into the soft, worn clothing that still bore faint traces of Harry’s comforting scent, clean and warm. She pinned her wet hair up in a sloppy bun and finished buttoning her shirt before emerging from the bedroom.

“I don’t know what to do next,” she was bemoaning as she walked out. “It’s obvious that this is getting me nowhere and I haven’t had a single gig in weeks, and the last one I got didn’t even pay enough to make rent…” She trailed off, noticing the strange expression on Ron’s face as he watched her walk across the room.

“What?”

“Harry,” Ron breathed. “Look.”

Harry turned his gaze to Hermione, his brilliant green eyes raking over her form. “My clothes do look good on her, don’t they?” He sounded pleased, but not overly surprised. “What about it?”

“Do you remember,” Ron continued, a pensive look on his face, “that club we went to last week?”

Harry went scarlet. “Um, Ron, I really don’t think that this is the time-“

“NOT that one,” Ron snapped, never taking his eyes off Hermione, who was looking distinctly confused. “The one with the band. And the SINGER,” he continued pointedly.

Harry blinked, his face suddenly registering understanding. “Oh…” He looked back to Hermione and a slow grin spread across his features. “Ron, you’re a genius.”

“What are you two on about?” she asked suspiciously.

“Doesn’t sound like one though,” Ron mused. “Wonder how to get around that.”

“SHE is standing right here, and would very much like to know what on earth you two are saying about her,” she snapped, her irritation growing exponentially.

“Hey,” began Harry excitedly, “when she’s annoyed, her voice drops naturally! That’s loads better!”

She glared at them and reached for her wand, preparing to resort to hexes if necessary to get their attention.

Ron spotted the action and grabbed her arm, stilling it. “Just wait, Herm.” He turned back to Harry, still holding her arm. “Herm?”

Harry looked at her, a frown of concentration on his features. “Hermann,” he responded conclusively, turning back to Ron and grinning as the two men chuckled softly.

“Stop.” Hermione’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Explain. NOW.”

Ron, realizing that her patience had been thoroughly tested, finally addressed her.

“Alright. You know how we’re always telling you that all you need is a little extra something, just something to distinguish you from the hundreds of other sopranos out there, all auditioning for the same jobs?”

Hermione nodded slowly, not even beginning to comprehend how this could relate to whatever they were talking about.

“Well,” he went on slowly and carefully, “Harry and I might know a place that would hire you for sure, and for much more than you’re making at any of those gigs you’ve been taking.”

She nodded again, a bit more intrigued.

“The thing is, you’d have to do a bit of, erm, acting as well.”

She immediately grew suspicious. You didn’t spend twelve years as Ron Weasley’s best friend without learning to recognize that tone of voice. He was definitely choosing his words carefully, waiting as long as possible to drop the deal-breaker.

“What sort of acting? If you’re talking about a strip club, so help me-“

“It’s not a matter of taking your clothes off,” Ron interrupted. “It’s more a matter of those that you would put on,” he said, glancing at Harry for backup.

“Yeah,” the smaller man chimed in, “clothes, and also accessories.”

Hermione closed her eyes, counting to ten slowly and praying for patience. She thought back over the events of the last few minutes, racking her memory for clues as to what the two could possibly be up to. Suddenly, her eyes flew open as several puzzle pieces clicked together. ‘Men’s clothing, deep voices, a club with live music…”

“You want me to be a drag queen?” Her face was contorted in disbelief.

Harry snorted. Ron laughed out loud.

“Don’t be silly, Hermione.” Harry rolled his eyes at her and she frowned in confusion. “We want you to PRETEND to be a drag queen.”

“And you know, technically the term is ‘female impersonator.’ You’ve got tons of experience as a female already,” Ron pointed out. “What could be easier? And they’ll eat it up, Hermione. Most of the queens there-“

Harry coughed discreetly. Ron rolled his eyes.

“Most of the female impersonators there are terrible. They put on a good show, lots of glamour and glitz, mostly through charms I suspect, but no talent at all. They’re horrible, but in a really fascinating and entertaining way. You could rule them…” he finished in an awed voice.

“Charms?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow. “This is a wizarding club? I’d be recognized straight away.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

“Not after we’re done with you,” Harry replied with a wicked smile. “It’s all about the art of distraction, Hermione.”

“All we need is the right identity,” Ron continued excitedly. “Something that’s unique enough to throw people off the scent: ‘Hermann von Engel: the German count and angel of song.’ They’ll eat it up.”

Even Harry rolled his eyes at this. “They’ll know he’s a fraud in an instant with a title like that.”

“Exactly,” replied Ron, looking unbearably smug. “They’ll know HE’S a fraud. They’ll be so caught up in the title that they won’t even think to question further. They’ll just assume she’s some desperate queen who invented himself a ridiculous title to get attention.”

Hermione gaped at them, speechless. She honestly had no inkling of how to react. It was ludicrous. She’d never heard of a more harebrained idea. It was so crazy that a small part of her wondered whether it might possibly work.

“No.” Her voice was soft but firm. “I’ve worked too hard for this. Even if it didn’t require a massive deception, I don’t want my big break to be singing in a bawdy club like that. I love it too much to give up like that.”

She looked up, meeting their gazes and trying not to flinch at the disappointment she saw reflected back at her.

“Right,” Harry agreed quickly, anxious to ease his friend’s sorrow. He wrapped an arm around the petite witch, a move mirrored by Ron as he hugged her from the other side.

“It’ll happen, Hermione. We know you can do it.” Ron whispered softly as they held her.

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Several weeks later, Hermione stumbled down the steps of the Paris Opera House, willing back tears. It was the last available spot of the season and she’d once again been dismissed, this time before she’d even finished her first aria. That meant another year passed without a job even in one of the choruses. Another year of teaching voice lessons to disinterested private students. Another year of singing at weddings for mere pittances. Another year of living month-to-month and contemplating throwing in the towel and taking a desk job somewhere. She sighed in defeat and stumbled slightly on the last few stairs, pitching forward towards the pavement of the sidewalk.

She found herself suspended halfway down, staring at the concrete surface in wonder before strong arms hauled her up, steadying her. Her heart was racing from her near fall, and her breathing was shallow as she struggled to get her bearings.

“Granger, is that you?” The drawl was unmistakable, as was the hint of wry amusement in the posh, upper class accent.

She looked up in horror, quickly pulling away from him and nearly stumbling again.

“Hello, Malfoy.” Her voice was cold and formal. “Thank you for your assistance.” She turned to walk away and found him falling into stride next to her.

“What brings you to Paris?”

“An audition, actually, if you must know,” she responded through gritted teeth.

“Must not have gone well, then.”

She halted, freezing in her tracks, and glared at him, taking in his impeccable appearance. His pale hair was shorter than she’d remembered, worn slightly spiky now. His suit was tailored, obviously expensive, and his sharp features were schooled into an expression of amusement. She was suddenly painfully aware of her own appearance. Unruly curls were spilling forth from the loose knot she’d pulled them into that morning. Her dress, which had seemed so classy that morning, now looked old and worn compared to his designer garments, as did her coat from several years ago. She knew that her makeup must be smeared and her eyes red-rimmed. She sighed in defeat, staring into the distance behind him.

“No, it didn’t,” she replied flatly. “They heard me sing about two phrases before dismissing me. It was my last chance for a job this year and I’ve just blown it, like I’ve blown every other audition since I left school. The older I get, the less of a chance there is that I’ll ever land a position, and since I’ve not made it past the first round yet, it is unlikely that I ever will.”

Her brown eyes were suspiciously bright and glassy now, her voice defeated, and Draco was beginning to feel more than a bit uncomfortable.

“But thank you,” she continued, “for your concern.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “See you in another five years, Malfoy.”

She grabbed her wand and apparated away without even bothering to look for the nearest apparition point.

He stared at the spot from which she had just disappeared. After a few moments, he shrugged, ignoring the nagging feeling of regret at her obviously unhinged emotional state and heading off to his meeting, pushing her from his mind.

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Hermione apparated directly to the Harry and Ron’s doorstep, entering without bothering to knock. Harry was seated at the table, reading, and looked up as she came in.

“How did it go?”

“I’ll do it,” she answered flatly, ignoring his question. “The club thing. Find Ron; let’s get started.”

She tossed her coat over a chair, marching into the living room and bellowing for Ron, who came stumbling out of the bedroom a moment later. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, yawning.

“It’s noon, Ron. It isn’t THAT unreasonable to expect you to be conscious, so you can cut the theatrics,” she snapped nastily.

He gaped at her, and then turned to Harry, who shrugged helplessly.

“Well?” she demanded. “What are you waiting for? Count Hermann von Engel is ready for his close-up.”

A slow grin spread across Ron’s freckled face and he and Harry sprung into action, making the necessary preparations for the transformation.

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“What are you doing to my hair?” she asked nervously as Harry waved his wand around her head.

“Cutting it off,” he answered matter-of-factly as her chestnut curls fell to the ground in heaps.

“Harry,” she shrieked. “I need to have long hair if I’m impersonating a woman! Or… impersonating a man impersonating a woman!”

“That’s why you’ll be wearing a wig. Your hair is far too distinctive, and not at all right for the look anyhow,” he responded, vanishing the shorn hair with a flick of his wand.”

“Besides,” he continued. “Part of the show is the element of surprise. You don’t advertise yourself as a female impersonator. The club features all sorts of acts. The audience will love you as a woman, but they’ll go crazy when you take the wig off and they realize you’re actually a man.”

He paused, looking slightly confused at his own logic. “Well, anyways, they’ll go crazy when you take the wig off and appear to actually be a man.”

Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and gasped. Her thick, unruly curls were gone, leaving behind a style that closely resembled Harry’s. She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes, taking deep, calming breaths.

“Why couldn’t I just use glamours?”

Harry snorted. “Have you seen your hair?” he answered with a snicker. “Have glamours ever tamed it well enough that you didn’t require an entire bottle of Sleekeasy’s just to straighten it? Besides, it would look for too real. Wigs produce a very distinctive look. It’ll add credibility to your identity.”

“Besides,” Ron chimed in, “it suits you. You look adorable, like a tiny little pixie.”

Hermione kept her eyes shut tightly and hoped that she’d made a good decision.


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“NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! Absolutely not!” Hermione grabbed her wand, waving it threateningly.

“’Hermione,” Ron began in a soothing tone, “you know we need to. How do you explain a female impersonator with a bosom?”

“I’d be stuffing anyways,” she pleaded. “There’s no reason to strap it down and then stuff over it. That’s just silly.”

“She does have a point, mate,” Harry conceded, scratching his head.

“She won’t be in costume for rehearsals though, will she? Even at the audition, the owner will want to do an interview out of costume, I suspect.” He turned sincere blue eyes on his friend. “And it will look awfully suspicious for a female impersonator to retain her, erm, assets, once he’s back in men’s clothing, won’t it?”

Hermione fumbled for a logical argument as he advanced on her with the ACE bandage.

“Ronald Weasley, you stay back. Don’t come any closer!”

Her objections were eventually overruled. She watched, aghast, as her lovely bosom was strapped down with the long, stretchy length of material.

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“Broader, Hermione, you look too much like an actual woman, and far too tasteful at that. It isn’t about subtlety. Think overdone, think scandalous, think lewd gestures…”

“Think Pansy Parkinson trying to seduce Malfoy,” Harry chimed in, his green eyes brilliant with mirth as he chimed in.

“Exactly,” concurred Ron.

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Several hours later, Hermione had been remade, in both appearance and mannerisms, into a German Count who was currently seeking employment as a female impersonator. She had an audition appointment and a repertoire of songs to perform, complete with several elaborate sparkly and feathered costumes of Ron and Harry’s design, courtesy of some fancy spellwork. She eyed the creations skeptically, wondering how it was possible that she had not picked up on their sexual orientation for all those years.

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A/N: I forgot to add that I will be doing an update list for this story, as long as there's interest. If you'd like to be added you can either leave a review with the request and your email, or email me at the address listed on my profile. Thanks!

Feedback always much appreciated.