Many thanks to Holly, who reviewed and made my day, and orliNkeira, for all her support.
Disclaimer: Blah…blah…blah…I don't own Potter.
Puce Colored Accidents
The steam wafting up from the cauldron caused George's eyes to water. He had been working on this product prototype for months in hopes of having it ready for the Christmas rush. Unfortunately, no matter how many different ways he tried the recipe it always blew up in his face.
He poured in the last of the dragon eye pus he had gotten from the apothecary. The steam turned a sickening shade of puce and began emitting a peculiar smell. It reminded him a cross between rotten eggs and Ron's dirty laundry after a month of sitting under his bed. This was not the outcome he had been hoping for.
The goo bubbled out of the cauldron and formed a hard shell over the floor and part of his arm.
"Bloody Hell!" George yelled.
On the bright side, it did not blow up this time. It had taken him nearly a month to grow his eyebrows back after that incident.
Fred poked his head in the door.
"How's it coming along?" he asked.
The question was met with a glare.
"I rather think 'Bloody Hell!' explained it all."
"True."
George used his wand to put out the fire under the cauldron and then attempted to magic away the hard shell covering the floor and his arm. Nothing happened.
"I repeat: BLOODY HELL!"
Fred was extremely thankful the back room had a silencing charm on it. The hundreds of young customers, on vacation from school, looking at the various products did not need to hear obscenities being screamed from the back. It was bad for business.
George had now moved on to banging his arm against the wooden counter in hopes of shattering the puce shell. The bangs grew so loud that Fred feared the counter would break before the shell because there was not a single crack forming in the shell.
"Maybe you should go to St. Mungo's," Fred suggested.
"I refuse to spend 6 hours there waiting behind a man who has a baby hippogriff hanging from his arse."
"One time…"
"Once was enough."
This was answered with an eye roll. "At least see someone about it."
"Fine," George grunted.
He grabbed his coat but was dismayed to discover that he could not pull the sleeve over his goo-covered arm. Frustrated, he threw is coat to the floor and settled for only wearing his red and gold scarf his mother made for him when he was a fourth year Gryffindor at Hogwarts.
A blast of cold air hit him as he walked out the back door of the shop to avoid the customers. He shivered, wishing he had thought to use a stretching spell on the sleeve of his coat and worn it anyway. At least, then the Christmas shoppers pushing their ways down the street would not be staring at him.
He wandered aimlessly down the street, wondering where he could seek help. St. Mungo's was out of the question. Percy's wife Penelope worked there. She would surely tell Percy what George was treated for, and George was not in the mood for a lecture about him and Fred's "childish exploits." This was the same reason he could not walk into the Ministry and ask for help. For a brief moment, he considered asking his mother, but it would surely put her in a right state. There was no need to upset her over something that surely someone could fix.
The cheerful sound of Christmas carols floated down the street from a group of carolers standing in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. George turned, tempted to hex their mouths so that only wild moans could come out. If he had to be upset, he would be damned if anyone would be allowed to be the slightest bit joyful. It was possible that he actually would have hexed them had he not ran into something warm and, well, fleshy.
"Oof!" his victim cried out as they tumbled to the cobblestones.
Packages scattered everywhere. Whoever it was, George had landed right on top of them.
"Shite, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking…" he rambled apologetically.
The person pushed their hair out of their face.
"… where I was…Padma?"
"Yes," she groaned.
He turned red, realizing that he had managed to bean her in the head with the arm covered in the hard shell right where her other bruise had been a week earlier. It seemed that he was not going to catch a break.
"Are you alright? I didn't mean to wallop you again."
"Oh, I'm fine," she assured him, dusting off her skirt and collecting her multi-colored wrapped parcels, "Just knocked the wind out of me is all. The question is what happened to your arm?"
He blushed an even brighter shade of red, a shade rivaling that of the red knitted into his scarf.
"Just had a little accident with a product prototype back at the store and I can't seem to get it off."
She hesitantly touched the gunk as though it might decide to cover her, too.
"If you tell me what was in the potion, I might be able to find something at the store," she paused, "I promise I won't tell anyone what you used."
He considered this for a second. He and Fred did maintain the strictest secrecy about their products, but the prospect of having an arm covered in some sort of puce colored armor that was beginning to smell when he went to Sunday supper was not pleasing.
"Alright, but you must swear under penalty of death by my older brother Charlie's dragons that you will not tell anyone what this is."
"Penalty of death it is."
George forced himself to stare at the wall rather than the rear end visible from where Padma was on her hands and knees searching the cupboard for Magda's Miracle Solvent. It would not be considered kosher to stare at your savior's ass no matter how lovely that ass was.
Finally, she stood up, a massive glass bottle in hand.
"I knew we had it somewhere," she said triumphantly.
"And you're sure this will work?" he asked, "I mean, it's not going to dissolve my arm or anything is it?"
"Of course not."
She took out a rag and poured some of the liquid onto it. Slowly, she rubbed it over the shell. Steam began to rise from it, but the shell was dissolving.
"So what was this supposed to do?"
George sighed.
"It's supposed to be a new sort of toffee. I wanted it to become stickier as the person chewed it so that eventually they can't open their mouth," he tapped at the rapidly disappearing shell, "It wasn't supposed to become a hard shell and it most definitely was not supposed to smell."
Padma wrinkled her nose. It did smell, but a squirt of rose essence would take care of it.
The last of the shell disappeared, but the rag was now a horrid puce that reeked of old socks. She tossed it in a nearby bin.
"Try mixing in willow sap with the dragon eye pus," she suggested, "And the petals of a lily from the valley should take care of the smell."
A grin spread across George's face.
"That's brilliant!" he exclaimed, "I never would have thought of it!"
In his excitement, he hugged Padma tightly, nearly crushing her ribs. She stumbled backwards when he let go.
"Glad to help! Let me know how it goes!" she shouted as he nearly flew out of the shop.
As she went in search of rose essence to eliminate the smell before Mr. Swarthmore hobbled in to work, a goofy smile crossed her lips. At least work was always interesting.