Written for Blue_Artemis at the 2013 Bill_ficathon on LJ.
Many, many thanks to my betas: Sotia and Unseen1969 - you ladies are awesome!
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
Charlie Weasley was a patient wizard.
It was practically a requirement, given his profession. One couldn't just bend a dragon's will to one's own; they had to be coaxed, and that meant treating them with the utmost respect and patience.
Humans, on the other hand, were a species that utterly baffled him. They were silly buggers, the lot of them. If a dragon fancied a mate, he would fight to the death to acquire that mate, ensuring the strongest genetic profile would be passed on to their progeny. If a human fancied someone, they tended to act like disinterested prats. Charlie often wondered how people managed to procreate.
Take, for instance, his brother, Bill. Bill, who was invigorating, dramatic and daring, along with being provocative, stressed and a bit shocking. After all, hadn't he married a French quarter-Veela while he himself was on the verge of howling at the moon on a monthly basis? Granted, the marriage hadn't lasted long, and Charlie hadn't expected it to. Though they still cared for each other and their split was amicable, their personalities and backgrounds differed greatly. They had been divorced more than a year, and still Bill pined for her. Fleur, on the other hand, had had no trouble going back to France and taking up with an obscure wizard who'd once worked with her parents. Charlie expected to hear of their impending nuptials any day now.
And Bill? He had resigned himself to working with Gringotts, completing curse-work that could have been dismantled by even the most novice apprentice—nothing worthy of the skill he'd mastered. Charlie had the uneasy suspicion, though, that Bill was just biding his time before he returned to Egypt. If that happened, Charlie imagined it might the last he saw of his brother in a very long time, and while the family already considered ihim/i a wild child, Charlie didn't think they could handle having both him and Bill so far away. Not anymore.
Keeping in mind his brother's happiness, and a favour he owed a certain witch who'd saved his arse at a crucial moment, Charlie began to formulate a plan that might just stun two dragons with one spell.
"Thanks fer comin', Bill. Poor mite, been sittin' here shaking all night, he has. Didn' know who ter call, 'cept knowin' it was yer dad's pet."
Bill tilted his head to study the rusty, beat-to-hell, shuddering form of the 1959 Ford Anglia that had apparently rolled its way into Hagrid's pumpkin patch. "Not a problem," he said affably.
A growling and clunking sound issued from the car, before the bonnet lifted, belched out a billowing cloud of white smoke, coughed and spluttered until it became silent.
Hagrid's eyes widened in fear. "It's not—"
Bill shook his head. "I'm not sure it can die. Dad had it charmed so heavily, I doubt anything or anyone, could make it stop working. I mean, it survived the Whomping Willow, didn't it?" He peered at the Muggle machine parts that comprised the engine, another puff of smoke making his eyes water. "Bit of a mess, though."
"A bit," Hagrid agreed after a cough. "Thought yeh might see ifen there were a curse, or sumptin'."
Several waves of his wand later, Bill frowned and crossed his arms. "It's not magic-related, whatever it is." He pointed to the hinged cap on the side of the car. "It doesn't run on petrol, so that's not the issue."
The light-blue car whined pathetically as the ignition tried to turn over. Bill patted the top of the small vehicle, murmuring soothing words. He ran his hands along the frame, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary… well, out of the ordinary for such an item. The tires were still inflated, though bits of muck and debris were stuck against the wheel wells. One of the headlights was broken, so he quickly fixed it. The boot opened of its own accord after Bill tickled the lock, revealing a bird's nest or two and what looked like the skeleton of a raccoon. Inside the car, there were several tears to the fabric on the seats—most likely made by talons of some creature in the Forbidden Forest—along with twigs, moss, and one very brassed-off squirrel that chattered at him.
"Why is that squirrel being cheeky with you?"
Startled by a feminine voice beside him, Bill thumped his head on the roof of the car. "Bloody…" He rubbed the back of his scalp and glared at Hermione Granger, who was barely concealing her smirk.
"I thought the boys were exaggerating when they said they were rescued by a car in second year," she said, peering around the interior of said car. "It's in rather shabby condition, though. How is it done, then?"
"Thanks, my head is fine, by the way." Bill winced and became exasperated when he noticed that Hagrid had conveniently disappeared.
She pulled her head out and glanced at the spot he was rubbing. "You'll live. You're not even mildly concussed." She returned her gaze to the Anglia, her eyes alight with curiosity. "So, tell me how the magic works."
Perturbed to be dismissed so easily, Bill crossed his arms and leaned against the car. "No."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"
She rolled her eyes. "So I can help you fix it, of course."
"How do you know it needs fixing? Not that it does, mind you."
"Oh, please." She once again studied the car. "Why else would you be at Hogwarts? You don't have any more siblings here, so you're not visiting anyone. You're not a professor, so there are no classes you would be conducting. And, if the gossip from your family is to be trusted, since your divorce, you've not been doing much, which leads me to believe you wouldn't have more important things to do than look at your father's tinkering. Seeing the smoke pouring out from the bonnet, I surmised the car must be… sick or cursed, which, of course, leads me back to my original conclusion of your being here to fix it."
Bill's lip curled into a mocking sneer. "Have it sorted out then, do you?" He didn't know why he was irritated with her analysis; it wasn't like she'd been wrong on any account. It just grated that everyone seemed to know how pathetic his life had been for the past year.
Her smile faltered until it drew into a thin line. "I just thought—"
"Well don't. Why are you even here?" He gave her a pointed, lengthy perusal.
Hermione seemed to shrink back a fraction before notching up her chin in proud defiance. "I've been the Muggle Studies professor for two years, which is more than you've managed to make of your own life thus far. Really, Bill, I'm sorry for the dissolution of your marriage, but even I could tell that Fleur Delacour was a shameless flirt, without the Veela blood to enhance her charms."
"Don't you dare speak about her like that!" he growled, his hackles raised. "You're not even in the same league with her!"
She arched a brow. "I should hope not. I would prefer that someone liked me on the merits of my brain, not how much cleavage I showed. I suppose in her case, one attribute must compensate for the lack of the other."
Unbridled fury skittered up Bill's spine, his muscles rippling with the want—no, the need—to instil fear in this puny, insignificant human. He knew the gold of the wolf tinged his irises. Fingers curled into his palms, he advanced on Hermione, stalking towards her, menace radiating from his presence. He thought only to cow her into submission, to press her against the nearest tree and make her capitulate to his will. But when she showed not the slightest trepidation from his display, and had even rolled her eyes when he snarled, his steps faltered. How was she not frightened of his more animalistic tendencies? Fleur had always been so careful not to incite his baser needs, yet here was this slip of a witch, glaring him down as if he should be afraid of her.
"Are you through?" she asked, peevishly.
Agitated and confused, he stopped just short of where Hermione stood. How was she not affected by his demeanour? She was still the same witch he'd seen years ago at his wedding: determined, focused, head full of bushy brown hair, a little on the gangly side, though the intervening years had given her more of a womanly curve. He knew she had been involved at one point with his brother, Ron, but that had fallen to the wayside, as many young romances had the tendency to do. Now, she gave the impression she'd devoted her life to academia, finding books and logic to be better friends than actual people.
Leaning forward, he inhaled deeply and her scent washed over him. It was complex, made up of recently laundered linen that smelled faintly of lavender, old parchment, and… there! Just barely there, a faint trace of false bravado. She was not as unaffected as she appeared to be. He smirked. "Are you?" he murmured, his voice low and rumbling.
This threw her off-balance, he could tell; her gaze shifted to something over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"
He moved closer and lowered his head until his nose was just under her right ear. "Are you through being defensive?" he whispered. "Are you through throwing facts and observations at me, in an attempt to deconstruct what you think you know of my life?" He pressed against her skin, his teeth barely scraping her neck. "You know nothing of me except what my family has told you. And they don't even know the half of it. They don't know what it's like to crave blood, to have those you care about be afraid you'll shred them to pieces at the next full moon. To constantly yearn for something you can never have." At this, he nipped her flesh and secretly delighted when she startled, but didn't squeal or shy away. "You think Fleur ensnared me—beguiled me. Don't you?" When she didn't acknowledge his words, he licked the slightly raised red mark on her skin, which earned him a whimper. "What would you think of me, if I told you that it was me who enchanted her? That I lured her with the promise of bettering her grasp of the English language?"
"Then I would say that was the reason she became proficient," Hermione breathed.
Bill chuckled, and watched the vibration raise gooseflesh on her neck. "Quite." He snapped his teeth just short of the tendon straining towards him. "So, before you think me some weak-willed sop who pines away after my ex-wife, remember that I know how to play the game of seduction just as adeptly as any Veela." He withdrew, took a step back and leered at her. "Without the need for any enhancements."
There was a furious blush of monumental proportions tinting Hermione's cheeks. "Apparently," she managed. She cleared her throat and tucked a stray wavy strand behind her ear. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." She took a few steps back and turned to leave.
"Hermione," Bill called before she could get very far, "I could use your help with this." He nodded to the car.
She bit her lip, a sure sign of contemplation. "Why?"
Though he'd wanted to even the pitch earlier, he knew she was defensive for a reason. He knew most people had ridiculed her intelligence, including Ron, but he had always found her mind and logic fascinating, refreshing. Most Muggle-borns took years to acclimate to the wizarding world, but not Hermione. She'd taken to it like a Hippogriff youngling takes to the skies—unafraid and soaring like an eagle. He valued that adaptability. What he didn't appreciate was the way she was testing him, lobbing insinuations to keep him at bay. He'd like to think he was not like most wizards, that he could accept anyone. She really had nothing to fear from him, in that respect. His asking for her help would hopefully let her know that he wasn't actively trying to alienate her, just that her assumptions had been wrong.
"Because as the professor for Muggle Studies, I'm sure you have a few tricks up your sleeve that might be of use in this case," he said with a wry grin.
Tentatively, as if afraid he was about to rescind his offer and laugh at her audacity, she made her way over to the car and peered at the engine. "Does it run on petrol?"
Hiding his smile, Bill shook his head. "Dad charmed it to never need it, though I'm not exactly sure what else a Muggle vehicle needs to work."
She poked and prodded several parts with her wand, huffing in consternation when her hair kept falling into her face. Without much thought as to what he was doing, or why, Bill picked up a couple of twigs and transfigured them into ebony chopsticks. He then pulled the heavy hair off her nape, twisted it into a bun, and secured it with the chopsticks.
Hermione had gone deathly still while he did this and, when he was finished, gave him a sidelong glance and a slight nod. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I hate using spells on my hair."
"I imagine they tend to make it coarse and dry."
"Yes." She looked surprised. "How did you know?"
He gave her a lop-sided grin. "Not all of the Weasleys are of the male persuasion, you know." His smile dropped when he thought of his ex-wife. "Plus, Fleur tended to be a bit high-maintenance. I tried to help her once, when her hair was wet. I had cast a spell just as she screamed at me not to." He shook his head, laughing a little. "She complained the rest of the day, bemoaning the fact she looked like a Bichon Frisé."
Clearly unable to help herself, Hermione tried to stifle her giggle, but failed miserably. "I can only imagine." Still letting the odd chuckle escape, she returned her attention to the various pipes, hoses and containers that made up the engine.
Though he wasn't sexist, Bill did wonder if Hermione knew what she was looking at. "Are you familiar with—"
"My father had a fascination with Muggle automobiles, specifically older models," she said. "And I was naturally curious." She leaned over, twisted off a black cap, then stuck a long rod down inside the hole. "I learned as much as he could teach me." She pulled the metal rod out and presented it to Bill with a frown. "It needs oil."
He was unsure why she was showing it to him, but feigned an interest and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Erm, what kind?"
She snorted. "Motor oil. It's used in internal combustion engines. Lubricating oil creates a separating film between surfaces of adjacent moving parts, to minimize direct contact between them. Heat caused by friction is decreased and wear reduced, thus protecting the engine. It also cleans, inhibits corrosion, improves sealing and cools the engine by carrying heat away from moving parts. Considering the Anglia has been meandering in the forest for several years, I'm surprised it hasn't needed the oil before now." A violent belch, which produce a thick, white plume of smoke, confirmed this theory. "Definitely in need of oil." She coughed.
The acrid fumes made Bill's sensitive nose twitch. "I'll take your word for it." He waved his wand and the smoke dissipated. "Where do we get this 'motor oil'?"
"Well"—she sighed, hands on hips— "I would normally say to conjure some, but I think it would be better if it was the original product. Sometimes transfigured or conjured items don't work well with Muggle inventions."
"I know. Dad would go through several same-generation items at a time, testing what would work and what wouldn't. I think this Anglia was the fifth one he experimented with that didn't explode."
"Mmm, makes sense." Carefully, she lowered the bonnet until it snapped shut and gave it a gentle pat. "I think it'll be safe for this evening. We can go into Muggle London tomorrow and see what they have to offer."
Bill was about to ask, 'why couldn't they go right then?', when he noticed the oncoming twilight. Had he really been out there that long? His stomach rumbled an affirmation that it was indeed near the evening meal.
"Dinner is about to be served up at the castle, if you're interested," Hermione said, adjusting her teaching robes to their proper position from where they had slid down her arms.
He had meant to decline; it was getting late, Apparating to Scotland from Cornwall had been draining, and he was sure she had plenty to do for her classes. But, the thought of going home to the empty cottage, where the constant crash of the surf amplified just how alone he was, had him reconsidering her offer. "It's Friday, isn't it?"
She smirked. "You know it is. That means fish and chips tonight."
"And raspberry trifle," he added, licking his lips. "I think I just might."
Her gaze dropped momentarily to his mouth, then back to his eyes. It was the briefest of glances, but Bill noticed her skin flush before she turned away and started the long trek up to the castle entrance. He followed her at a discreet distance, avidly watching her backside sway beneath her robes.
"Ah, the wayward son! Come home to the flock, have you?"
Bill cuffed Charlie on the side of the head. "I think that applies more to you than to me." He pulled his brother in for a tight hug, buried his nose in the crimson curls and breathed in the familiar scent. When he let go, he gave Charlie a curious look. "What brings you to Hogwarts?"
Charlie clapped his shoulder. "Research, if you can believe it."
"You're right, I can't." While it wasn't a barefaced lie, Bill could tell it wasn't the whole truth, but he decided to let it slide.
"That's what I told Snape," Charlie said evasively. "I told him no one would believe me if I said I was here for research."
"Why are you talking to Snape?"
Charlie shrugged. "Like I said: research." He grinned mischievously. "I couldn't tell anyone we were really shagging."
"Bloody hell! Are you?"
Charlie gave him a dry look. "No!" He opened his mouth to say more, but his gaze shifted and became riveted to the woman that walked past them. "Medusa's snakes, is that… Granger? Life was certainly kind to her!"
Bill slapped him upside the head again. "Could you say that any louder? I don't think the Merpeople heard you."
"What?" Charlie rubbed his scalp. "Can't I admire an amply endowed witch when I see one?"
For some reason or another—that Bill would never admit—his brother's appreciation of Hermione rankled him. Sorely. Subconsciously, he manoeuvred himself in front of Charlie's line of vision, blocking the sight of the retreating witch. "Look elsewhere," he said in a low tone.
Charlie's brows rose into his hairline, and grinned roguishly. "Like that, is it?"
"Like nothing."
"I say otherwise, brother." Charlie dared to peer over Bill's shoulder. "I bet she has this look in her eyes when she's com—"
His words were cut off, as he was violently shoved back into the rough stone. Bill placed his forehead against his brother's. "Don't." It was a mixture of a plea and a warning. "Don't do this."
Charlie put his hands on Bill's chest and shoved just as hard, dislodging him. "Do what?" He smirked. "Granger looks like she could use a good shag." He dodged Bill's swipe. "I'm in the country for a while." Feint to the left, avoiding Bill's fist. "Think I fancy a chat with her."
Bill had always been closer to Charlie than any of his other siblings. They had a bond like no other—disturbingly intimate at times. Charlie knew when to push and when to retreat when it came to Bill and his personality. That preternatural perception increased after Bill was wounded by Greyback, as if the wolf had become more appealing and intuitive to Charlie. But right now, Bill was not seeing the wizard before him as his brother; he was seeing him as competition—and why that mattered was dangerous on a whole other level.
"She isn't interested," Bill gritted through his teeth, trying and failing to grab hold of Charlie.
"You're getting slow in your dotage, old man." Charlie easily avoided a head-lock. "And how would you know if she's interested or not? I think I should ask." He manoeuvred around his brother and sprinted across the hall.
The moment Charlie broke away was the moment Bill's bit of insanity had waited for. Spurred on by the chase, Charlie had no way of stopping the violent tackle that landed him on his back with Bill straddling his hips.
Bill bent low over the prone form of his brother and actually growled. "Stay away from Hermione Granger!"
Charlie gave him a mutinous glare. "No."
Bill slammed his hand on the ground next to Charlie's face. "She means nothing to you. You will use her and then forget about her. She deserves more than that!" His words were audible only to Charlie.
"You think she deserves you, do you?" Charlie sneered. "Fleur left you lifeless. Bet you can't even get a rise out of your prick anymore."
Quicker than his brother could draw his next breath, Bill's teeth held Charlie's jugular captive. The threatening noises and the increasing pressure had Charlie swallowing several times. Just as Bill's teeth broke the skin, tasting the blood upon his tongue, Charlie relaxed fully.
"Surrender," Charlie hissed. When Bill released him, Charlie shoved him off and glared. He put his hand on his neck and it came away bloody. "You great arse!"
Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It could've been worse." He turned and spat out the remaining blood, unsettled by the taste. "Don't be such a manipulative git next time!"
"Fuck off!" Charlie paced, and finally decided to heal his wound with a quick Episkey.
Knowing the atmosphere was charged with too much aggression, Bill stepped back and straightened his shirt and jacket—by no means relinquishing his position on the subject of Hermione. "Like I said: stay away from her."
Unfortunately, because Charlie was a competitive sod with a temper to match, this only fuelled his anger. "Like hell!" A fanatical light shone in his eyes. "I bet I can shag her before you even find the balls to chat her up!"
Bill gave him a feral smile. "Too late. Already did."
The expression on Charlie's face was odd. "You shagged her already?"
"No, you arse; I've already had a nice chat with her. In fact, we're going to London tomorrow."
"Is that so?" Charlie licked his lips and rubbed his chin. "An outing to London doesn't guarantee you a chance to get in her knickers. I still say I can shag her before you do."
"She'll see right through you."
"Then you have nothing to worry about, dear brother." Charlie's voice was syrupy sweet. "Prove to me you're the better wizard, and I'll be at your beck and call for the next three months."
"I have several weeks' worth of chores with your name written all over them. And if I lose?" Bill tentatively asked, trying to bury the insecurity that clung to him like a limpet.
Charlie's lips thinned. "Doubting your charm?" He pointed at Bill's ear. "Your fang earring. That will do quite nicely."
Bill grabbed at the charm dangling from his right ear. It had brought him countless years of fortunate luck, and he hadn't been without it since he'd first put it on. Not once. He stroked it possessively. Was it worth losing? He glanced into the Great Hall, where the evening meal was well underway, and noticed Hermione looking for someone in the crowd. When her eye finally alighted on him just outside the massive doors, she nodded reluctantly.
"Done," Bill said with no more hesitation.
"Done," Charlie echoed, satisfaction lacing his voice.