Summary: Once upon a time there was a little mermaid who fell in love with a prince and wanted to live on the land. Only she was not little, much less a mermaid. And who said anything about a prince?

Chapter : 1/1

Status: Completed

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, books and movies , do not belong to me .

Alert: Alternatative Universe.

The Little Mermaid - or something like that

by 40Gyga

Ok, maybe I was not exactly the most sociable person on earth. Or on this side of the hemisphere. Or in the country. Ok, maybe I was not the most sociable person in the bookstore /cafe /cult-hipster-space where I worked. But that did not mean that I shouldn't have been invited to their outing last night.

Yes, I would have refused /got-one-excuse , but even so, it was not acceptable the absence of an invitation.

On top of that, they put me on the time of the scale that none of them would work because everyone was hungover.

Somehow, it was good because I would not have to pretend sympathy as the only thing I wanted was to throw pepper in the eyes of all of them. Because pepper in the eyes of others is refreshing and my sore throat really needed a refreshment. And because I wanted to see them cry a little.

I straitened clothes and hair (we had no standard uniform) and put on the apron. The bookstore /cafe /cult-hipster-space was unusually empty. But it was a Saturday, 8pm. I imagine it will take a few hours before the weight of people's eyes start to lift.

I grabbed the nearest sheet of paper and a pen with those thick and obviously addictive chemical smells. I opened the cover , restraining myself not to sniff deeply (after all, I was at the coffee counter and thus visible to anyone), and wrote the little text that I had planned: " I made a deal with Ursula, the witch of the seas, and now I lost my voice. "

So yeah, I was voiceless . Initially, this would be my excuse for not going to the outing on the previous day. If I had been invited. So what should have been a mild flu was grown to become a throat infection level heavens- I-can't- swallow, to be a great excuse. Unnecessary. Did I say that I was not invited to the party last night?

Anyway. I put the paper in front of the counter, to make clear that I was not available for an appropriate dialogue. I grabbed a book and sat back, waiting for the hours to pass.

For a future museologist, this was the best possible job. Good books, good bosses, good food. And ungrateful colleagues. The hours pass quickly here, the conversations are always interesting (both with colleagues and with clients) and had a natural-hippie-relaxed air that got you the feeling of being able to be yourself.

Yes, I like it here.

I was flirting with one of the many vegan tarts (because the only things I could flirt were inanimate objects - with all the implications that this phrase has). Working in a bookstore /cafe /cult-hipster-space to anarchists have their good points. One is checking out this seductive tart with cream and berries on top. Then, a pair of giant eyes appeared behind the glass . They looked at the paper intently for a few moments before the giant eyes become even greater as a result of shock. Then they looked at me.

"You cannot talk?," she asked , surprised.

I shook my head.

"The witch is with your voice? "

I agreed.

In a few moments, she came around the counter, went through the side door, grabbed my hand between her fingers and dragging me out. She must have been about eight years. And definitely had fingers too sticky for her age.

Talking was not exactly an option. And I've never been particularly good with children. That always resulted in unnecessary anxiety that made me accept anything they requested. Many photos dressed as a princess, hulk and white horse cloud prove it. So I let her drag me. Because I'm a girl who always had problems with her father and feels the need for approval of all and every person, sue me.

Finally we stopped. Right next to a couple drinking coffee and calmly discussing the merits of the revolution.

I enjoyed the perspective of the revolution.

"Mister, you want to be her true love? Ursula stole her voice and only if she wins a kiss of her true love she can sing again."

Definitely too many fairy tales. I sank into myself and blushed . I think I might have vomited a little in my own mouth if my throat was not so sore.

The boy laughed. He had a red shirt with what must've been a Marx painted in black. He probably was a marxist.

I liked both marxists and anarchists.

Then he scratched his beard (maybe my penchant for Marxists and anarchists are more related to their magnificent beards).

"I'd love to, little one, but I think I've already found true love ", and ended winking at the guy who was at his side.

The second boy looked crooked at him as if he did not believe it.

"And you , sir?", she asked him .

The men's eyebrows shot up. He was thinner than the other and with a closely shaved beard. A particularly clean white shirt seemed enough to make him more austere than the other.

"I'm sorry, honey, but I do not believe in true love. And there's no way for it to work if I do not believe it, right?".

It was instantaneous the turn she gave to the next table, with a man already laughing, presumably having heard the entire conversation.

"Mister," she began but was interrupted.

"I'd love to be her true love."

It was pretty fast, actually. First there were two brown eyes, then a colored shape (which I assumed were his clothes), so my head was being pulled by a pressure in my jaw and a weird feeling in my lips and - heavens! He was kissing me.

I let go of the little girl's hand and dislocated - which I now identified as - his fingers of my face and away from me. I shook my head for the girl. No, that was not my true love. I cast a look of disgust to the guy and wished with all my might that the germs that were infecting my throat did the same with him. He laughed, looking pleased with what was accomplished.

The child seemed desolate. But desolate children are just more insistent and the little girl pulled my hand toward a boy closer to the bookshelves.

I think I liked it better the ones going through the books than those who sat drinking coffee.

"Mister," she pulled the fabric of the shirt with her free hand, "do you want to be her true love? Ursula stole her voice and only if she wins a kiss of her true love she can sing again."

He looked at the girl, at me, at the girl, at his book, at the girl and said:

"What? ", he looked completely confused.

"The evil witch, Ursula, stole her voice and only if she wins a kiss of true love she can sing again. Could you be her true love? " .

A slow, amused smile rested on his lips.

"I tend to be a little slow lover, is this a problem? ", he asked , crouching down to get to her height and therefore excluding me . Sensing my constant need for approval, I went down to their level.

She stared at him, a mixture of petulance and confusion.

"This means that it takes some time for me to turn in somebody's true love. And it might take a few days for her to get her voice back ", his explanation seemed to make sense to her, she began to nod, "can we agree to meet here in the next Saturday, at the same time? Then you can see if I am or not her true love and we can eat a cupcake in celebration. ". At the end of the speech, the girl frantically waved and climbed slowly on her tiptoes.

She beamed (and it almost paid off most of humiliation) and embraced me, wrapping her sticky fingers in my hair.

"Then, when the princess has regained her voice, she can sing for us."

I cast a look of hatred for the stranger (who had saved me from a larger sequence of embarrassing situations) trying to make it clear that I intended to kill him for the proposal.

The girl let go of me, taking a few strands of hair in her sticky fingers, smiled again and said she would come next week. If he was not my true love, she would continue to help me to find it.

I thanked god for Disney's change of heart as she pranced toward some adult, explaining the story in a disconnected way.

I looked at my prince ... (?). He had a grin that reached his green eyes. A trace of beard had begun to grow. My feelings for him were of gratitude and hatred.

"Are you really without voice? ".

I raised an eyebrow, chin and all I could and crossed my arms. That was my best flippant look to indicate that yes, I was speechless, had a problem with that?

"Okay if I came by in a 3 days? You will have your voice back by then. "

I narrowed my eyes, tightening more my arms, crossed against my chest. No, I did not intend to be compelled to sing in public.

"I thought we could figure out if I'm your true love or not," and laughed.

Oh.

Okay, that was friendlier than I expected.

I shrugged and shook my head in a gesture that I hoped would be "ok, do what you want, I do not care one bit about you."

He laughed, looking intently at the little sign with my name.

"Hermione," he repeated slowly, trying to get it right. I tried to make a neutral expression, to be the hard girl, but a smile escaped. Damn.

"Until Tuesday, Hermione," he smiled and took his book away with him.

Hm. Maybe I should've told him that I don't work on Tuesdays.

The end

Just to pass my weekend.