Title: The Challenge of being a Veela's Mate

Author name: triola

Category: Romance

Sub Category: Humour

Rating: T

Summary: Harry wakes up looking like a girl, Draco is possessive, yet oddly cuddly, Hermione squeals like the girl she is, and Pansy is rather likeable. A tale of a Veela and his mate. Or was it a mate and his Veela? Slash HPDM. Pre OotP.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author notes: This story is silliness incarnate, except it's not incarnate at all, since it doesn't have any flesh. But you know what I mean. This story has no plot. Nope, none whatsoever. It is over twenty chapters of complete fluff. It is also filled to the rim with Veela story clichés, badly timed sarcasm, and out-of-character-ness. You have been warned.

Warning: !SLASH! Oh, and do read the author note.

Chapter 1 – Pain. Of the excruciating kind.

I remember it like it was yesterday, it was a warm and humid summer night. The moon was half full, and beneath it I could hear the ever-annoying chirping of the male crickets. In Privet Drive everything was dark with the exception of one window on the first floor of house number four. Yes, you guessed correctly, my window. A person passing by might have thought that it was just another insomniac lying awake on just another summer night, but if he did think that, he would be seriously mistaken. Because the insomniac in question wasn't just another insomniac, it was in fact me. And the night in question wasn't just any other summer night, it was the night before my birthday. And it is this very night, at five minutes to midnight, that my peculiar story begins.

"Damn, I'll never get this right!" I muttered under my breath while crossing out yet another line from the paper in front of me. I was lying on my stomach underneath the bed in my room, trying desperately to finish the seven foot long essay Professor McGonagall expected us to do over the summer vacation. Leave it to Professor McGonagall to assign us such a lengthy paper. Anyway, you might be wondering why the so called hero of the wizarding world was lying under his bed, as opposed to on it, and the answer is really quite simple.

I learnt early in my career as an underage wizard that if I wanted to get any of my homework done over the summer, I had to do so without my family noticing it. In the beginning, I had thought it would be enough to just do it at night in my room, but after the time Aunt Petunia noticed the light seeping out from underneath my door, I realized that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. I was severely punished for engaging in 'freakish activities', and if that's not enough, she efficiently stopped me from doing any more of my homework in the near future by removing my light bulb. It's just my luck really, in all the time I have known her she has never been even remotely smart, but the minute I'm actually being productive and doing my homework, she suddenly acquires a brain and decides to remove my light bulb. My light bulb! The nerve!

However, newly acquired brain or not, I could only be stopped for so long. Before the week was over I had begun to do my homework in the bathroom, using my nonexistent vanity as excuse for the long hours in there. This was a rather brilliant solution, if I can say so myself, but in the end my cousin found out and ratted me out. Bloody git. It led to Uncle Vernon locking the bathroom door before he went to bed every night, keeping me from my much needed light source.

Unfortunately for the Dursleys, a wizard as dedicated to his schoolwork as I am will not be kept away from his homework under any circumstances, especially since failing to do them would land me in detention with Snape, so within the next two days I had come up with yet another answer to my problem. I stole Dudley's old nightlight and camped up in front of it every night. I had also come up with the brilliant idea to lie underneath my bed so that if my aunt ever woke up she wouldn't notice the light. And who said Harry Potter was stupid, eh?

This was of course, as you might remember, the situation in which I found myself the night I'm starting my story. It was mere minutes to my birthday and I'd given up on the transfiguration essay in favour of counting down the last three minutes until midnight. I could tell it annoyed the living daylight out of my owl.

"Two minutes and twenty three seconds left, two minutes and twenty two seconds left, two minutes –" Well, you get the picture. Of course, it is only to be expected that a teenage boy is rather exited about his birthday, and though Hedwig most certainly would have hacked me to a slow and painful death had she been able to get out of her cage, she would in time forgive me. Against her better judgement, she always did.

Now the seconds were passing by quickly and soon I reached the point where I, to Hedwigs great relief, only had a few seconds left. I was positively beaming by this point, and I'm sure had I lived in the seventies I could easily have outshone a disco ball. People always do tell me I have such a brilliant smile. "Three, two, one –" I was saying, but as I was about to utter the last number, the one indicating that the clock was indeed twelve and my birthday had indeed started, I doubled over in pain.

And it wasn't just any kind of pain either, it was the whole Oh-My-God-I-Think-I'm-Going-To-Die-This-Has-Got-To-Be-Worse-Than-Childbirth kind of pain. Of course, only men have ever been known to experience this exact kind of pain, since women usually have the pleasure of actually going through childbirth, but all the same, I was in pain. Much pain. I know people say that the Cruciatus is supposed to be about the worst you can get, but take it from someone who's been there, the Cruciatus is a ride in the park. I felt like the very blood in my veins was on fire, although I'll be the first to admit that it probably wasn't. Nevertheless, my eyes had rolled back into my head, my mouth was wide open in a scream, but still no sound came out. My whole body was convulsing, and I was bleeding profusely from every pore in my skin. If my aunt had chosen that moment to check up on me, I do believe, to my great satisfaction, that she would have fainted. I never do. Faint I mean. You would think that after that amount of pain a person would faint, but no, not the great Harry Potter. Yes, I did lose my consciousness and I was out for hours, but I did not faint. I'm rather proud of the fact.

Now, when I woke up an indefinite amount of time later, I found myself naked on the floor in a pool of blood. My clothes lay shredded around me; I must have ripped them off in my fits of agony. At first I didn't quite remember what had happened and thoughts of Voldemort and Death Eaters flew through my head. However, I pretty soon decided that although most of them were highly incompetent and undoubtedly crazy, not even a Death Eater would have left me there if he already had me at his mercy. No, it was quite clear something entirely different had happened. But I decided to shower first and ask questions later.

After a long and very pleasant shower, I emerged content and soaked to the skin from underneath the spray of water and proceeded to dry myself in a big, white towel. Usually I wasn't allowed to use the big, white towels, but whenever Aunt Petunia was out I took the opportunity to make an appearance in fluffy cloth heaven. It was the height of my week.

As it was, I was soon finished drying myself and I walked over to the mirror to brush my hair and possibly shave. I actually needed to shave at least once every month at that time, and I was rather proud of the fact. It showed that I was getting more and more manly by the minute. However, if I was expecting to see a man when I looked into the mirror, I was sadly disappointed. There, looking back at me from inside the glass, was the least manly man I have ever seen.

My eyes, which had once been slightly tilted and possibly green, were now incredibly large and definitely, without question, a deep, glowing sort of emerald colour. My eyelashes had also grown and were curled in a perfect, black bow that would make any woman's eyes just as green as mine. My hair, once wild and untamed, was now long and, dare I day it, glossy and it was falling down beneath my shoulders in a cascade of curls. My tan was completely gone, a shame really since I'd worked so hard on it, and had been replaced by a pale, smooth colour that turned rosy in the cheeks. My mouth was small like it had always been, but instead of the thin lips I used to have, I now had pink pouted ones. Had I been narcissistic I might have tried to kiss myself, they looked very kissable. My body had luckily not changed much, but it looked even more fragile than it used to and I didn't look as angular anymore. All in all, there was only one thing to say about my change in appearance –

"Holy mother of Merlin, I look like a bloody girl!" And with that I did not faint like a bloody girl, but lost consciousness in the manliest way possible. And I think I hit my head on the way down too.

To be continued… dun dun dun.

Now, what do you think? Worth the read? Completely crap? Something in between? Do tell.