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Chapter Text

When Professor Minerva McGonagall showed up at the Grangers’ door one sunny day in the middle of July to tell Mr. and Mrs. Granger that their child was a witch, Hermione nearly cried. Not because Professor McGonagall looked down at her like she was already forming expectations of Hermione that Hermione had better start living up to at once--though she did. Not because Hermione had just learned that there was something strange and unusual about her--Hermione had known that for almost all of her short life. Not even because she was afraid of leaving home to go to this strange, magical school--Hermione loved her parents, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be a bit, well...overbearing, sometimes. No, Hermione, stubborn and determined and brilliant and brave as she was, wanted to cry because Professor McGonagall, sat primly on the modest green sofa in the Grangers’ sitting room in her neat green robes and witch’s hat like something out of a story book, said, “This is for you, Miss Granger,” and handed Hermione a letter that had her name on it. The name that Hermione had picked out of a book of Shakespeare that her parents had let her read even though they thought that she was probably a little too young to fully understand it just yet, and that Hermione had struggled through anyway. Her name , the name of the beautiful queen who nobody listens to, the queen who dies, whose body is transformed, who comes back again from the dead and is listened to, understood, vindicated. Her real name , the name that her parents said that she could change to be her legal one once she got a little older, if she still wanted to. 

Hermione took the envelope, trembling, and then sat there staring at the address, listening very hard while her parents asked Professor McGonagall every question they could think of about the magical world.

“Will--she--be safe, in this world of yours?” Mr. Granger asked, stumbling over Hermione’s pronouns a little, like he was still wont to do every now and again. 

Professor McGonagall took a long, shrewd look over Hermione through her rectangular-framed spectacles, taking in her brown skin, her small, boyish frame, her thick cloud of bushy hair, the dark, trembling eyes that she raised to meet McGonagall’s own. McGonagall sighed. “Nothing is ever entirely safe for children like your daughter, as I am sure you are already well aware. Magical Britain is much like its non-magical counterpart, in that respect. But I can promise you that while she is at school, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she is kept safe, and that she will be treated with the dignity and respect that any promising young witch of her age deserves.” 

As she was leaving, Professor McGonagall stopped on the doorstep for just a moment, looking down at Hermione with something firm about her mouth and something suspiciously bright in her eyes. “It is very brave ,” she said softly, “to be true to who you are, even when other people tell you you’re wrong.” And then she was gone. 

After McGonagall left, Hermione stared out the sitting room window, watching a tabby cat sit very still on the garden wall outside while her parents argued about whether or not to send her to magic school. She was holding the thick, cream-colored envelope very carefully in her hands. It was bursting with the names of marvelous-sounding books and fantastical instruments and a letter, written in green ink in Professor McGonagall’s precise, neat handwriting, and it had her name on it.

“John, we know that things will be hard for her no matter what we do,” her mother was saying, behind Hermione and somewhat to the left. “Shouldn’t we give her all the opportunities that we can? That’s always what we’ve said we wanted for--for her.”

“I know, Margaret, I know. But can’t we keep her safer here, in the world we know, close to us where she belongs? She might be, might be magical, but she’s still our daughter.”

The cat outside the window blinked crispy at Hermione. It had rectangular markings around its eyes very much like Professor McGonagall’s rectangular-shaped glasses. Hermione had a letter in her lap, bursting full of magic and new things to learn, and it had her name on it.

Hermione turned around. “Mum, Dad,” she said. “I want to go.”

*

Harry had always known that he was different than his aunt and his uncle and his cousin. Different from all the people who lived along the quiet, conservative, hedged-in Privet Drive. There was his dark, unruly hair, his brown skin, his knobbly knees and his hand-me-down clothes, his bright green eyes behind his taped-together glasses and his lightning-shaped scar. Strange things always happened around him, and yet, no one seemed to notice anything. He wanted to explain it, really he did, but he just couldn’t. And there was something else, too, something he didn’t quite know how to think about, how to say. When Hagrid knocked down the door of the little hut on the rock and told him that he was a wizard, he thought, could that be it? Could that be the reason that he had felt so strange and wrong all this time? He was a wizard? 

He couldn’t quite get up the courage to ask Hagrid about it, and in that whirlwind day of magic and shopping and talking and trying his best not to ask too many questions, he hardly thought about it, anyway. Hagrid, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley--it was so bright and wild and colorful, and Harry was so happy that the day almost didn’t feel real, and his life at Number Four Privet Drive felt, to Harry, very far away. He had a whole month, though, after Hagrid put him on the train back to Little Winging, to think about it as much as he liked. While Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were furiously ignoring him, and Dudley was hiding or casting terrified looks at him out of the corners of his eyes, Harry thought, was that it? Was it just that he had been a wizard, without knowing it, all this time?

*

Molly Weasley had always wanted a daughter, and since she’d only had the one, Ron thought, she must have decided to make do with what she’d got. Nevermind that Ron refused, point-blank, to wear her hair long, was always grimy, always grass-stained, always whining that she wanted to play quidditch with her brothers in the apple orchard. Nevermind that Ron insisted that her name was Ron --not Ronnie, not Veronica, but Ron. Nevermind that Ron wasn’t, in fact, very girlish at all. She was still Molly’s only daughter, and Ron thought that at some point, her mum had just given up and resigned herself to making do with Ron, as feminine as she was or not. Ron had overheard her talking to Dad one time, after Ron had put up a fuss, again, about being forced to wear a frilly pink dress to one of the many Weasley cousin’s wedding showers. “It’s what comes of growing up with so many brothers,” Mum had fretted, and Dad had said, “ Molly ,” gently and with just a little hint of reproval in his tone. 

“Well, you know I support Bill and his partners,” she had said reluctantly, “and if Charlie is serious about not wanting anyone but his dragons, you know, I’ll do my best to make certain he’s happy, but I just hoped...she’s our only daughter, you know…”

“She’s our daughter and it’s our job to support her, no matter what she wants,” Dad had said quietly, and Ron had backed away from the kitchen door and crept back up to her room, had laid back across the orange bedspread and stared and the players zipping around on her quidditch posters, not knowing how to feel. 

*

The Dursleys dropped Harry off at King’s Cross Station with a cart full of luggage and an owl in a cage and a ticket to a place that didn’t exist, and they drove away laughing. Harry approached the family with the bright red hair and asked, shyly, how to get onto the platform, and Molly said, “First time at Hogwarts? Ron is new, too,” and showed him how to get on the train. Then the Weasleys gathered by the side of the gleaming red engine. 

“Ron, you have something on your nose,” Molly said, with a certain air of resigned despair. Over Ron’s protests, she tried to scrub it off, then smoothed down Ron’s hair and shirt, then smoothed down her hair one last time.

“Mum--stop it,” Ron said, squirming away. 

The Weasleys who would be going to Hogwarts this year said their goodbyes and got on the train, and their youngest sibling began to cry. Ron joined Harry in his compartment, and Fred and George looked in for just long enough to introduce themselves and say, “This is Ron, our sister.” Then they left for Lee Jordan’s tarantula, and Harry did a double take. 

“Sorry,” Harry said to Ron, “but I thought…” he trailed off. It felt stupid to say it out loud. 

“What?” said Ron.

“Until they said that I thought...that you were a boy,” Harry admitted sheepishly. “I don’t mind, though! You being a girl,” he added quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Oh,” Ron said. There was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, and the tips of her ears turned red. 

*

Ron was sorted into Gryffindor like her older brothers. Harry joined her, and, though he didn’t know it, joined the house of his parents as well. Hermione stood before Professor McGonagall and the dusty, patched, and faded hat, like a witch’s hat out of a story book. She heard her name called (her real name!). She sat on the stool and had the hat lowered over her head, heavy and strange, and it offered her the chance to be intelligent or the chance to be brave. She remembered what Professor McGonagall had said, about being true to yourself when other people told you you were wrong, and she chose to be brave. “GRYFFINDOR,” the hat said. 

After dinner, Percy Weasley walked the group of first years up to the Gryffindor common room and pointed out the dormitory doors. “Girls on the right, boys on the left,” and the group split. Hermione went right. McGonagall had promised her that she would be treated with the same respect that any other witch her age was owed, and had assured her that this extended to a spot in the girls’ dorm. Harry turned to his very first new friend and said a reluctant good night, heading left. Ron went right, and, with an unaccountable feeling of dread, and trying not to think about how she’d never shared a room with a group of girls before, started climbing the girls’ dormitory stairs. 

Almost at once, the stairs collapsed into a smooth slide, and Ron landed in a heap again at the bottom of it. For a moment, everybody froze. Hermione looked back from where she had just made it to the top of the staircase and was beginning to go into the dorm. Harry paused where he was, half-way up the boys’ stair. A knot of people were gathered near the entryway to the dormitories, and after a moment of silence, a burst of chattering and laughter erupted in the room. 

Fred and George were there. “Hey there, Ickle Ronnie-kins, are you okay?” one of them said, reaching down to pick her up off the floor. She kept her head down, her face a burning red. The other twin said, “The staircase usually only does that for boys. Are you not enough of a girl to get in, little Ronnie?” That got a laugh out of the crowd, but Harry saw Percy blanch suddenly white, and saw tears starting to form in Ron’s eyes. He started slowly to walk back down the stair. 

“I’m going to fetch Professor McGonagall. Wait right here,” Percy said, and hurriedly left. Ron roughly pulled herself out of her brother’s grip and scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Harry joined her at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you alright?” he asked in an undertone, as the knot of people around them began to disperse. 

“Fine,” Ron said angrily, still rubbing tears off of her face, though more kept falling as quickly as she removed them. 

Much to Harry’s surprise, Hermione Granger slid carefully down the slide and joined them. “I’ve read about this stair,” she told them quietly, looking at Ron very curiously. “It’s enchanted so that only girls can walk on it, so if any boys tried to sneak into the girls’ dorm, they would slip right back down again.” 

“Nobody asked you,” Ron said savagely, still crying, and Hermione looked hurt and turned away, but Harry noticed that she didn’t try to leave. He supposed she didn’t have anywhere to go other than up the unclimbable slide into the dorms, anyway. 

Percy got back very quickly, and the sight of the stern, tidy Professor McGonagall climbing through the awkwardly-placed portrait hole was somewhat distracting to Harry. Once through, McGonagall straightened herself up and surveyed the little scene at the bottom of the dormitory stair. 

“Everybody, step back from the dormitory doors, please,” she said. “The staircase will put itself right as soon as everyone is clear.”

All the students shuffled obediently away from the doors, and the stairs folded themselves back out into existence almost immediately. Most of the girls who had been waiting to go up left, chatting with each other and seeming unconcerned with the minor delay that their nights had taken. Professor McGonagall turned to Ron, then, and her face seemed to soften slightly. She beckoned Ron closer, into a quiet corner of the common room, and Harry and Hermione followed, Percy hovering just behind. 

“What happened?” she asked quietly. Percy began to speak, but she held up a hand to shush him, looking closely at Ron. 

Ron’s eyes skirted the floor, and her freckled face was still beet red. “I tried to climb up the stair, and then it did that,” she muttered to her feet. 

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall evenly. She looked at Ron another long moment, before saying, “Come with me, please.” Ron looked terrified, casting a desperate, pleading glance at Harry before following her out, but there wasn’t anything Harry could do but watch. He sat down in an overstuffed armchair to wait for Ron to get back, because she was currently his only friend, and anyway, it was the least he could do. 

Hermione Granger surprised him again by doing the same. She didn’t say anything, just looked away into the fire while Harry watched the portrait hole, waiting for Ron to get back. 

*

Ron followed Professor McGonagall through the halls, quietly panicking. What had she managed to do wrong? It was only the first night, and somehow she had already gotten herself into trouble. She looked up at McGonagall’s back--McGonagall was striding purposefully through the halls, and Ron had to hurry a little to keep up. Was she very angry? Ron had seen her mother explode plenty of times, and she didn’t think so--but then why wasn’t McGonagall saying anything? And where was she taking her?

At last, McGonagall stopped before a door, unlocked it with a wave of her wand, and ushered Ron inside. It looked to be a small office, with a large desk taking up most of the space, along with three walls of bookshelves and a couple of chairs set in front of it, clearly for students. 

“Take a seat,” Professor McGonagall said, gesturing to these chairs. She closed the door behind Ron and walked around her to sit on the other side of the desk.

Ron sat down, looking around apprehensively. Professor McGonagall folded her hands in front of her on the desk and gave Ron a long, even stare, and Ron fidgeted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Sorry, Professor,” she said after a minute of this. “But...am I in trouble?”

Professor McGonagall didn’t speak for another long moment, then said, “No.” 

“Oh,” said Ron, and then couldn’t think of a single other thing to say. 

“Have a biscuit,” McGonagall said abruptly, pushing a tin towards Ron. 

“No thank you, Professor,” Ron said. “I just ate at the feast…”

“Have. A. Biscuit,” McGonagall said again, in a manner that reminded Ron strongly of her mother. She obediently opened the tin and found that it was full of ginger newts. 

She took one and bit into it reluctantly. 

“Miss Weasley--” McGonagall started to say, then stopped herself and said, “Ron.”

Ron looked at her, mouth full of ginger newt. 

“Do you feel that you might not be a girl?”

Ron choked on the ginger newt.

*

Harry and Hermione were still waiting up in the common room when Ron slouched back in, ears still red, shepherded by Professor McGonagall. 

“Mr. Potter! Miss Granger! Excellent,” she said crisply. “Miss Granger, would you be so good as to fetch Mr. Weasley’s things down so that he can move them into the boys’ dorm?” 

Hermione looked wide-eyed for a moment, then nodded quickly and hurried away to the girls’ dormitory. Harry looked between her and Professor McGonagall and Ron, confused. 

“Mr. Potter, please meet her at the bottom of the stairs and help her carry Mr. Weasley’s things up into the boy’s dorm, thank you,” she said, and swept Ron off up the stairs. 

Harry met Hermione at the bottom of the staircase, taking Scabbers’ cage from her and steadying one end of the trunk. “Hermione,” he said quietly to her, “I don’t understand. Is Ron a boy or a girl, or not…?” 

She set down the other end of the trunk and bit her lip, looking at him seriously. “Well, I don’t know for sure,” she said. “You would have to ask Ron for yourself. But I’m guessing that...he? Is transgender, like, like, like…” she took a deep breath. “Like me.”

Harry stared at her, nonplussed. “What?”

She sighed at him. “It means that you’re assigned one gender at birth…” Seeing that she was losing him, she said, “It means, you have the body of a girl, but you feel like you’re a boy.” 

Harry said, “Oh,” trying to imagine what that would feel like. How would he feel if he had the body of a girl? He didn’t know. The idea made him feel strange. “Is that...that’s what you are?”

“Yes, but the other way around,” said Hermione. Harry thought she looked rather pink under her dark skin. “I have a boy’s body, but I’m a girl. And I’m guessing ,” she said, “that Ron is a boy, since she, or he, couldn’t get into the girl’s dormitory.”

“Oh,” said Harry again, still caught on the idea of what it would be like to have a girl’s body, and now trying to imagine what it would be like if he, as he was right now, felt like he was a girl. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t know if he did. 

“Anyway,” Hermione said briskly, pushing her hair back away from her cheeks and picking up the trunk again. “We should bring these things up for Ron.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and helped her carry up the trunk.

When they got into the first year boy’s dorm, Ron was standing, head ducked and ears red, to the side, while Seamus, Dean, and Neville watched curiously, and McGonagall stood with her wand in the air, having apparently just summoned an extra bed for the room. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger,” she said, as Harry and Hermione came in, puffing and pulling Ron’s heavy trunk. “Please give Mr. Weasley his things.” She waited while they did so, then addressed the whole room and said, “Now, I want you all to know that here at Hogwarts, we strictly support students’ rights to their gender self-identity, and if I hear that anyone --” she looked sharply around the room-- “is giving a student difficulties for how they identify, I will personally ensure that they are expelled. Do I make myself clear?” 

Everyone in the room dutifully agreed, and McGonagall nodded crisply. “Very well, then. I wish you all a restful night of sleep before the start of classes tomorrow,” she said, and left them to it.

As soon as she was out the door, Hermione at once turned to Ron and said, “So, how do you...what would you like us to…”

Ron scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Well, I...I guess I’m a boy?” he said with a little bit of a laugh. He seemed to be trying to keep his voice and expression light, but Harry thought he looked very uncomfortable under all the staring. 

“Great,” Harry said at once, having no idea what one was supposed to say in a situation like this, but wanting, for Ron’s sake, to do his best.

“Okay,” Hermione said eagerly. “We’ll call you a boy, then, and use he/him/his pronouns for you, and everything. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you, or if any books I can recommend, let me know. Because, I’m--I’m actually transgender too.”

“Great,” said Ron, looking down at the floor. “Thanks, I’ll...I’ll do that.” There was an awkward stretch of silence. 

Harry quickly said, “Well, good night, then, Hermione,” hoping to break the tension. 

Hermione wished them both a cheery good night and departed, and much to Harry’s (and he suspected Ron’s) relief, their other dormmates stopped staring and began chattering amongst themselves. 

Ron slowly moved to start unpacking his trunk, and Harry moved up beside him, under the pretext of helping. “So, you’re a boy then?” he asked in an undertone.

“Yeah.” Ron glanced at him sidelong, his eyes half-shielded by his bangs. “Do you...do you mind?”

“No,” said Harry immediately. “Not at all. I just...how does that work?” Hermione’s explanation had left him with more questions than answers, it felt. 

“Well, it’s like my oldest brother,” said Ron, seeming to relax, and to perk up a bit now that the eyes of the whole dorm weren’t fixed on him. “Bill, he’s the one off being a curse-breaker in Egypt, like I told you on the train. He says that he doesn’t really consider himself a woman or a man, except for convenience’s sake, because gender is what you feel like, and not about what, ah,” he blushed, “what parts you have, right?” 

“Right,” Harry said slowly. Maybe he’d just had some more time to think about it since Hermione’s explanation, but Ron’s explanation seemed to make a lot more sense to him. 

After Ron was done unpacking, the first year Gryffindors all fell into bed, exhausted. It had been a very long day. As he was drifting off, though, Harry kept thinking about what Ron had said about his brother, who didn’t consider himself a woman or a man. Harry wondered, as he fell asleep, what that would be like. 

Chapter Text

Ron and McGonagall had talked for a long time, in her office, the night of the Welcoming Feast. After the initial stretch of silence, and McGonagall’s sudden question, and after Ron had choked and spluttered his airway free of ginger newt, he had asked her, “Do I what?”

“Do you feel,” she repeated calmly, “that you might not be a girl?”

“How could I not be a girl?” Ron asked her blankly.

McGonagall cracked a small, wry smile. “Not everyone is,” she said, and Ron, after a moment of surprise, realized that that had been something approaching a joke. McGonagall continued, “Not everyone is a boy, either. I happen to know, from when he was one of my students, that your oldest sibling identifies himself as neither one of the binary genders.” She looked at Ron steadily. “And some people who are born one binary gender identify themselves with the other. I, for example, was born Malcom McGonagall, a name that was quickly passed onto my younger brother, as I knew from a very young age that I was not a boy, even though I was assigned that gender at birth. But it can take others much longer to understand themselves. And genders can change, of course.”

A strange feeling was growing in the pit of Ron’s stomach. He felt wide open, exposed. “I’m not--” he said loudly. “I can’t be--” He wanted his voice to be firm and steady, but instead it wavered like the wailing of the ghoul that lived above his bedroom.

McGonagall said nothing, just raised one eyebrow.

“I’m a girl!” Ron almost shouted, standing up. He was, wasn’t he? He was--he was his mother’s only daughter, he was Ron, he was Veronica…

Only, he wasn’t Veronica, was he? He never really had been--the name had never fit him. He thought about all the times his mother had tried to get him to wear dresses, had chided him for following around after his brothers, fretted that he needed to sit properly, look neat and ladylike… And he thought about Harry, how strange he had felt when Harry said he thought Ron was a boy. Strange and almost light? Excited, even?

Ron realized he was shaking. He felt like he was going to be sick. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the times that his mother had called Bill a man, or a boy, and Bill had said, “I’m not a man, Mum, I’m just me.” It had been an ongoing point of contention between the two of them for years, but that was just Bill, wasn’t it? It had never been Ron, Ron had never thought he could be…

McGonagall had gotten up from her chair as well, looking alarmed. “Miss Weasley,” she was saying. “Ron.”

Ron wanted her to stop looking at him. He wanted to hide, to creep back up to his bedroom at the top of the Burrow and lay there on his back until all the thoughts in his head and all the jangling nerves in his muscles were still. He looked at McGonagall, feeling stricken.

“Ron,” McGonnagall said quietly. “Please inhale fully and then exhale.”

Ron realized he was hyperventilating and forced himself to take a slow, shaky breath.

“Very good,” McGonagall said. “May I take your arm?”

Ron had no idea what she was asking, but he nodded, just trying to breathe, and McGonagall gently took hold of his arm and pushed him back down into the chair he had recently vacated. She sat in the chair beside him as he slowly regained control of himself. It could have been awkward, but Ron was too focused on pushing air in and out of his lungs to care.

After a while, McGonagall spoke softly. “I apologize.”

Ron was still feeling like if he opened his mouth he might be sick, so he settled for giving her an incredulous look.

“I assumed that since the staircase had rejected you, you must be ready to talk about your gender, but clearly that was a mistaken assumption. I apologize.”

Ron didn’t know how to feel. He felt wrung out. “What’s wrong with the staircase?” he asked. “Why couldn’t I go up?”

“The staircase to the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory is enchanted so that only women and girls may use it. If anyone else attempts to step foot on it, the staircase is transfigured into a steep slide, as you witnessed for yourself tonight.”

Ron felt a deep feeling of dread welling up inside him. “So you’re saying that I’m not a girl.”

McGonagall regarded him seriously. “Gender is something that we each define for ourselves,” she said. “The only metric the enchantment on the staircase has to determine whether or not a person is a girl is the way that they perceive themselves. It is designed to reject those who do not identify with womanhood.” She peered closely at Ron. “And perhaps those who are experiencing sufficient levels of uncertainty about their gender, as well.”

Ron didn’t say anything for a while, mulling over what she had said. It made sense, and it tallied with what Bill had told him about gender. And he certainly didn’t identify himself as a girl. He’d always sort of assumed he must be one, of course, but he’d never really liked the idea very much.

McGonagall seemed to take pity on him after a while, and said, “The only one who can determine whether or not you are a girl is you, Miss Weasley. If you would like, I can consult with the headmaster and have the enchantment removed, so that you can enter the girls’ dormitory as you please. In fact,” she said, suddenly frowning, “I think I will be doing that anyway. It’s an antiquated spell, and we certainly wouldn’t want to put another student in the position of being exposed in a way that they don’t wish to be.” She paused. “I am sorry that it happened to you.”

“But it was right, though,” Ron said with a rising feeling of despair. “I’m not a girl--I don’t think I am a girl.”

McGonagall regarded him calmly. “Is there another gender that you think you might be?” she asked. “There are various other options.”

Ron thought about Bill, then thought about when Harry had thought he was a boy, how it had made him feel. Happy, he decided. Strangely joyful even, maybe...elated? “I think...I might be a boy,” he said slowly, trying it out. It felt good to say it. Like lying on his back in his bedroom at home. Solid and stable and good.

“Alright,” McGonagall said simply. “We shall assume that you are a boy, then, for the time present. You can, of course, always change your mind later if you come to feel that ‘boy’ is not the right term for you. Now, what would you like to do about it? My previous offer still stands. I can talk to Professor Dumbledore, and we can remove the enchantment from the girls’ dormitory stairs. You may stay there for as long as you wish. Or, if you like, I can find you another place to sleep, instead. You didn’t ask for this, and you don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready to. You don’t have to tell anyone at all. It’s entirely your decision.”

Ron thought about it. He thought about how it had felt to have Harry assume he was a boy. Thought about how it would feel if everyone assumed he was a boy. “No,” he said. “That’s alright. I think I want people to know.”

“Very well then, Mr. Weasley.” McGonagall smiled at him. “Let’s move you into the boys’ dormitory.”

On the walk back to Gryffindor tower, McGonagall said to Ron, in the same even manner that she’d kept up all along, “Have you thought about how your parents will react to this? I know your eldest sibling has had some trouble getting your mother to adjust to his identity, and I am enough acquainted with her to know that she is rather set on the idea of having a daughter.”

Ron, who was just beginning to feel a little bit better, immediately began to feel sick again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, Dad will be fine with it, I guess…”

McGonagall strode on for a minute in silence before saying, “If you would like me to send your mother an owl explaining the situation to her, I would be happy to do so. I might remind her that as she would never dream of calling me a man, she ought to lend the same respect to you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Ron, feeling somewhat awed that McGonagall, who he had mostly heard about from the twins as a strict disciplinarian, would offer to take on his mother for him, “but that’s alright. I’m sure Percy is already writing to her, and whatever happens…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “It’ll be alright.”

“Very well,” McGonagall said. “You may let me know at any time if you change your mind.”

Then they were at the portrait hole, and Ron was spared from having to answer her and instead began to contemplate the indignity of facing the rest of Gryffindor house again after his embarrassing mishap with the stairs.

*

At breakfast the next morning, the school was full of whispers. Many concerning the Boy Who Lived--Did you see his face? Did you see his scar?--but plenty, too, about the boy who sat next to him. The tall kid with the red hair. --Did you hear about what happened? The staircase-- More than a few people stood up at their respective house tables to crane their necks over and try to get a glimpse of the two.

Ron sunk low down in his seat next to Harry, his ears red and a dark blush creeping up his pale, freckled face. “Don’t they have something better to talk about besides us?” he muttered to Harry.

Harry shrugged. He was trying his best to ignore the stares and whispers, and to concentrate on his bacon, and the novelty of eating something that Aunt Petunia hadn’t made him help cook for a change. It was better to be stared at for his supposed fame, he thought, than yelled at by his uncle over breakfast, though he didn’t think that saying as much to Ron would cheer him up.

“It’s just that you’re new and unusual,” Hermione Granger said confidently from where she had sat herself across the table from Harry and Ron. “They’ll get bored of you eventually.”

Ron looked like he was about to snap at her, but he was interrupted by Percy, who came up from behind him and said, rather stiffly, “Ah, Ron, I was looking for you.”

Ron turned slowly in his seat to face his brother. Percy, Harry thought, looked slightly nervous; he was fidgeting slightly with the hems of his sleeves and there were two pink blotches high on his pale cheeks. Regardless, as soon as Ron was looking, warily, up at him, he launched into speaking. “I just wanted to let you know, Ron, that I am very happy for you and your decision to, erm, be yourself, and I am proud to begin to call you my brother.”

“Er, thanks Perce,” Ron said, looking surprised.

This seemed to be the response Percy was looking for, because he dropped down onto the bench next to Ron, looking relieved. “I’ve already written to Mum, of course, letting her know what’s going on. So you can expect an owl from her by breakfast tomorrow, I’d expect. And if there’s anything I can do--”

He was interrupted by Fred and George, who suddenly sprang up on either side of them, nearly shouting, “Where is he? Where is our new brother?”

“Congratulations, Ron, we’re ever so proud--”

“Always said you made a pathetic excuse for a girl, didn’t we, George?”

“That’s right; it’s about time I’d say--”

“Can’t wait to hear what Mum says, after all that she’s gone on about you being the only girl--”

Ron, who was sinking lower and lower in his seat to try to avoid the extra attention that Fred and George were drawing, looked positively sick at this mention of his mother.

Fred and George carried on, seeming not to notice. “Yes, I wouldn’t want to be you right now--”

There came the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Professor McGonagall, too, had joined the fray. “Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley,” she said. “You are causing quite the commotion. Perhaps you ought to sit down.” She did not say it like a suggestion.

“Right you are, Professor,” Fred said jovially, “big day, we ought to eat, get our strength up--”

“Did you hear about our brother? We should do something to celebrate, Fred,” George added quickly.

“I’m thinking Doctor Filibusters’ fireworks in the colors of the trans pride flag,” Fred cheerfully agreed.

“Perhaps a banner with his name and pronouns, just to remind people, you know?”

“That is quite enough of that,” McGonagall said, shooing them down the table. “If I see either of you setting off fireworks on school property I shall confiscate them immediately and you will both receive detention, do I make myself clear?”

“Well, congratulations again, Ron,” Percy said, getting up as well as the twins’ ensuing protests faded into the surrounding babble.

“Thanks,” Ron growled.

As soon as he was gone, Hermione turned to Ron and said in a mercifully hushed tone, “Is your mum going to be upset about it? About you coming out, I mean?”

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” Ron said, stabbing his sausages moodily, and Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and then talked forcedly about the weather for the remainder of the meal.

*

Neville’s grandmother had always stressed to him the importance of being a polite, proper young lady, and he tried. He never really succeeded, but still, he had never thought of himself as unhappy. It was true that he was always too clumsy, too slow, too mundane to be what people hoped for from the granddaughter of the great Augusta Longbottom, the only child of the aurors Frank and Alice. He was too much like a squib--a dangerous word that he only heard spoken when one of his aged relations had had a bit too much to drink at the end of the evening after a late dinner party, or whispered by his grandmother to one of her confidants in the library when he was supposed to be off reading a book or sitting primly and learning to sew, or sneaking off to hex all of the leaves off the old maple trees, like his grandmother had done when she was his age. He was a disappointment, he knew, deep in his bones, but he had long since, and with a sort of resigned quietness, given up on meeting his grandmother’s expectations. He could not help it--he was quiet and soft and cried easily, and his cardigan was always hooked under his ear and his hair ribbons were always coming loose, and he could never remember where he had last left his hairbrush or his quills or his earrings or any of his fairly horrible embroidery projects. But he kept his head down and tried his best to do what his grandmother wanted of him, and he mostly failed, and that was the way of things.

It wasn't until he was eleven or so, with Hogwarts just a year away, that he started to look at himself in the mirror, to see the slowly growing softness of his body and begin to feel uncomfortable in the role he was supposed to be living. He looked at the gentle, round shape of his chest and felt a deep and existential sense of disgust and distress. He felt apart from himself. He felt Wrong.

Though he had never really liked his Great Uncle Algie, Neville had, over the years, internalized a lot of what Algie had said about being a self-described “flaming queer,” so he walked into his grandmother’s library and said, “Gran, I don’t think I’m a girl.”

Once she had gotten over the shock of it, Augusta was actually rather pleased. It showed that some of the old Longbottom spirit, she thought, had gotten into her grandchild after all, even if it had taken a little while to manifest itself. So the next time they went to visit his mother and father at St. Mungo's, she took him to a healer, who said that sex-change potions were a serious decision that Neville couldn’t make until he was older, but that he could in the meanwhile take a potion to neutralize the effects of puberty, and who performed a carefully-controlled transfiguration on Neville’s chest.

After, as they were sitting with his parents, Neville asked Augusta quietly, “What were they going to name me, do you know? If I had been born a boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know dear, they never really had a name picked out until after you were born.”

Her grandchild said nothing, just sat and held his mother’s hand.

Augusta felt a pang in her great, old heart, and said, “Neville, I think. They talked about the name Neville.”

“Alright then. My name is Neville.” He looked earnestly into his mother’s eyes like she would understand him, and Augusta had often doubted the amount of faith that Neville placed in his parents’ quiet smiles, but this time, she hoped that he was right.

*

As the news of Ron’s outing swept around the school, that first day of class, Neville thought about keeping his head down, avoiding the subject. Though anyone who knew his grandmother had also known him as a little girl, there was no reason for most of his classmates to know that he’d ever been anything other than ordinary, boring Neville Longbottom. But Ron hadn’t had a choice about who knew that he was trans, and Hermione had more or less announced it to the whole Gryffindor boy’s dormitory. And the Sorting Hat had told him he was brave. So later that afternoon, he quietly sought out both Ron and Hermione, separately and alone, and told them, “I’m transgender too.”

Chapter Text

Even as Ron and Harry were struggling to find their first class of the day (History of Magic), dodging whispers and stares--“Even the portraits are whispering, the nosey gits,” Ron complained to Harry, “I mean, come on--” a commotion was beginning at the Burrow.

In her small, bright bedroom in the house that felt very big with all the empty spaces left in it, Ginny heard her mother call, “Arthur!” in the voice she used when she was exceedingly shocked.

Dad’s answering mumble from somewhere else in the house sounded distracted--he was getting ready for work--but the sound was moving down toward the kitchen, where Mum was making breakfast. Ginny bolted down the stairs in her dressing gown to get there first.

Mum was standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at a roll of parchment, her wand stuck in her pocket, her mouth open, a pan of sausages frying and spitting, lively, on the stove behind her forgotten. She did not seem to see or notice Ginny as Ginny sat down at the end of the table and turned her face up expectantly to hear what was so surprising.

Dad ambled in with his collar held between his teeth, doing up the buttons of his robes with both hands, and said around the cloth, “Is ‘at a letter from Ron, already? Does she say which house she got?”

“No, it’s a letter from Percy,” Mum said absent-mindedly. “Oh, it says she got into Gryffindor.”

“Good for her,” Dad said amicably, finishing with his collar and moving up to kiss Mum on the cheek from behind, one arm encircling her waist. “And?” he added, and when no further response was forthcoming, he peered over her shoulder to try to read the letter himself.

“Stop that,” Mum said, swatting at him, upset and distracted and fond and exasperated all at once.

“What does the letter say?” he prompted gently.

“It says the staircase wouldn’t let her into the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory,” Mum said, and Ginny felt suddenly caught-out, even though neither of her parents were looking at her.

“And why would it do that?” Dad asked, with his customary unshakable calm still firmly in place.

“It says that she’s moved into the boy’s dorm and is demanding to be called a boy!”

Ginny’s heart was beating wildly in her chest, and her mind was rapidly being overtaken with the building hope that she had another older sibling like her, but she had enough brainspace left meanwhile to think that it didn’t sound very much like Ron to be demanding to be called anything.

Dad seemed to be having the same thought, because he said, “You mean he’s saying he identifies as a boy?”

“He identifies?!” Mum cried, turning on Dad furiously. “Oh, Arthur, you’re not telling me you intend to take this seriously, are you?”

“We’ve known for a while that Ron didn’t like to be treated as a girl,” Dad said, unmoved. “We knew that something like this might be a possibility,”

“Nonsense,” Mum said brusquely. “She’ll grow out of it.”

“Or he might not,” said Dad.

“She’s our only daughter!” Mum exclaimed somewhat hysterically.

“Um,” Ginny said. “Well, actually…”

Neither of her parents seemed to hear her.

“Ron is our child and it’s our job to support him,” Dad was saying, and Mum was shouting, “Support what? Support her ruining her life with this--” and Dad was saying, “She’s eleven, I hardly think--”

“MUM! DAD!” Ginny shouted, and they were both so surprised they shut up and looked at her.

Ginny could feel her heart beating in her chest, could feel a lightness and a tingling anticipation in her stomach like taking off from the ground on a broomstick. “I’m a girl,” she said.

“Don’t be silly, Max dear,” Mum said, the words reflexive and well-used. “You’re too young.”

“No, I mean it,” Ginny said, holding herself high on the painted wooden chair. “I’m a girl.”

“Don’t be silly, Max,” Mum repeated, seeming quite shocked. Dad was looking at Ginny like he was seeing her properly for the first time in years.

“Alright,” he said. “What would you like us to call you, then? Do you still like Max?”

“Arthur--!”

“Ginny,” Ginny said.

*

The resulting argument dragged on for much of the morning, making Dad horribly late for work. Once he had finally left, though, and Mum was busy in the kitchen muttering to herself and directing her wand angrily at anything that needed cleaning up, Ginny slipped out of the house and ran away across the hill to visit the Lovegoods’.

She found Luna sitting pensively on a tree branch in the sunlight, faer face sad and faer long, tangled blonde hair blowing in the wind. Fae smiled when fae saw Ginny though, then frowned when Ginny settled onto the ground beneath the tree without speaking.

Luna laid out on faer stomach along the sturdy branch, hair hanging down around faer face and said, “You seem different.”

Ginny growled in response.

“You have a lot of nargles about you,” Luna said, faer voice muffled by the tree bark. “Did something happen?”

“I told my parents I’m a girl,” Ginny said. “And I found out Ron’s a boy, apparently.”

Luna made a soft noise of surprise. “That’s lovely for him. And you.”

“Mum didn’t think so,” Ginny said.

Luna peered down at her. “That would explain the nargles,” fae agreed seriously.

Ginny found she didn’t want to talk about it. “What were you doing before I got here, anyway?”

“Watching for auguries,” Luna said immediately, and launched into an enthusiastic lecture about the birds, which, according to Luna, were not only able to predict death and rainy weather, but also love, solar eclipses, traffic lights, and the end of the world.

“No one has ever heard an augurey’s End Song, of course,” Luna said. Fae had sat back up on the branch and faer feet were swinging enthusiastically as fae talked. “But it’s theorized that it will sound like the hooting of a barn owl in reverse, mixed with a dragon’s roar. Of course, there are others who theorize that it sounds just like their normal call, and the end of the world could be coming at any moment.”

Ginny leaned back against the tree trunk and let Luna’s voice wash over her. She had spent many afternoons here laying on her back in the grass while Luna sat perched in the crook of a branch above her, faer feet swinging over Ginny’s head in their flower-patterned shoes or bare feet as fae talked about this topic or another. Magical creatures were one of Luna’s special interests, as was gender. Luna had spent long hours telling Ginny all about the different gender identities that fae knew about, the variety of different pronouns that the muggle and magical communities had created, and all about how fae identified as trans and as an agender nonbinary girl. Ginny thought she might never have figured out that she was a girl if it weren’t for Luna.

Ginny thought that she could sit and listen to Luna all day.

*

When the sun was starting to sink low in the sky over the hill and Luna’s father had ambled out to smile benignly at Ginny and to ask Luna whether fae wanted pudding or custard for supper, Ginny decided she had better get back the Burrow and face whatever her parents had in store for her.

Luna hugged Ginny tightly and said, “You can stay here if you like.”

“Thanks,” said Ginny, “but I should go home.”

Luna let her go and looked at her very seriously with faer large blue eyes. “Come back whenever you like, Ginny.”

Ginny smiled at faer with all the strength that she had. “Thanks, Luna.”

She walked back to the Burrow feeling like a bludger was rocketing around in her stomach. Her shadow stretched out in front of her as she walked as slowly as she dared along the dirt road, watching the grass dip and nod beside her. All too soon, she was back on her own front drive, though, staring up at the big, happily lopsided house. She walked up the drive like she was walking through quicksand. The kitchen was spilling yellow light out onto the front garden as the sun set over the hill. She stopped on the front step, looking down at the scatter of loose cauldrons and Wellington boots and old brooms. Her parents must know that she was home by now, they must have seen her walking up the drive.

Behind her, the chicken that she had named Henrietta when it had hatched when she was five was pecking at the drive, scattering loose stones with little jerky motions.

“Shoo!” Ginny said crossly, and the bird ruffled its feathers and hopped a few steps away before resuming its job of pecking at the dirt.

Ginny took a deep breath, put her hand on the door handle, and opened it, and stepped inside, and it was the bravest thing that she had ever done.

Mum and Dad were waiting for her in the kitchen. Mum was wringing her hands, and her eyes were pink around the edges like she’d been crying, and Dad was smiling down at Ginny with that terribly patient smile of his. Ginny stopped, warily, in the doorway, waiting for them to speak.

“Ginny,” Dad said, still smiling. “Your mother and I want to apologize for how we reacted this morning. It was all a little bit of a surprise, but you know we love you very much and want whatever will be the best for you and Ron.”

Ginny said nothing and looked at her mother, waiting.

“Ginny,” Mum said, carefully, tremulously. She opened her mouth like she was going to say more, but Ginny found that she had already burst into tears, and she flung herself wordlessly into her mother’s arms before Mum could speak.

Mum hugged her back, a warm and familiar and well-practiced motion, patting her clumsily on the back and saying, “There, there, now, come now dear,” in a quavery sort of voice.

Ginny was still angry with her--rather furiously so, in fact--but she held on tightly and cried and hoped with all of her strength that things were going to be alright.

*

An owl arrived at the Gryffindor table the next morning, dropped a short scroll of parchment on the table in front of Ron, and then flopped over sideways into a tray of bacon.

“Errol!” Ron exclaimed, turning white, standing up, grabbing the letter, and trying to shoo the owl off the table.

Hermione stood up too, and at once began officiously trying to shoo Errol out of the bacon dish. Harry looked at the letter, clutched in Ron’s shaking hand.

Neville, who had taken to joining them at breakfast, and was sitting across the table with Hermione, said, “Is that from your parents, Ron?”

Ron looked down at the letter like it was going to bite him and said, “Yep.”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Hermione asked, emerging from a ruffle of feathers as Errol took off for the owlery.

“I’m getting to it!” Ron snarled at her, hastily slitting the seal on the scroll and unrolling a short letter. He scowled down at the letter, but as he read, a strange look came over his face.

“What do they say?” asked Hermione impatiently.

“Is it good?” Neville asked, somewhat more gently.

Harry watched his friend apprehensively. He didn’t know what the Dursleys would say if he mailed a letter to Privet Drive telling them that he was actually a girl, but he could only imagine they’d laugh themselves silly at the idea, or worse.

Ron sat down on the Gryffindor bench with a thump.

“Is it bad?” Hermione asked anxiously. “Are they very angry?”

“No,” Ron said slowly. “No, they’re alright.”

“Well, that’s good!” Hermione exclaimed.

“What do they say?” Harry asked quietly.

“They say that they’re surprised but they’ll do their best to support me,” Ron said, sounding stunned. “They say that I’m their...their child and that’s what matters, and whatever.” He glanced up from the parchment, his face red, like he was daring them to laugh at him, but none of them did. “Also, Max is a girl, apparently,” he added, glancing down at the letter again. “That’s my youngest brother--or my sister, I s'pose. Huh. I never would have thought it.”

“That’s really great, Ron!” Hermione said. Ron sat back, looking happy and relieved, as Neville congratulated him as well. Harry grinned at Ron, feeling very relieved, himself. He could see that it meant a lot to Ron to have his parents’ approval, and Harry was happy for him, even if there was also a small part of him that felt a spark of longing for the kind of family that Ron must have.

“I’m happy for you,” he said honestly, instead of expressing that, and tried to focus on remembering what lessons they had to try and find that day.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor first years’ first class, that Tuesday morning, was Transfiguration. McGonagall swept into the classroom in her emerald green robes, with her black hair up in a tight bun and took a long look over the class, including the happily babbling group of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville, and she smiled with a knowing kind of look in her eye. Then she effortlessly called the class to order.

So far, they had had Charms, History of Magic, and Herbology. Harry thought he liked Professor Sprout--she had gone straight through roll call without pausing at his or Ron's names and had gone on to spend the first class period giving them all a tour of the greenhouses, pointing out some of the magical plants that they would be working with this year. He was less sure about Professor Flitwick and Professor Binns--Flitwick had gendered Ron correctly but had shrieked when he got to Harry's name and toppled off the stack of books he stood on (did Hogwarts have no stools, Harry had wondered?), and Binns had simply floated straight through the chalkboard, startling the first years severely, and then had launched directly into a lecture on goblin history without so much as a "good morning."

McGonagall, like Sprout, went briskly through roll call without comment, and then started the lesson. Their first task for the year was learning how to turn matchsticks into needles. The only one who was able to do it was Hermione, who earned a small smile from McGonagall for her success. Harry felt rather discouraged by this until Neville leaned over and asked Hermione how she had done it, and she happily set about correcting his and Harry and Ron's wand movements, which was a little annoying, but extremely helpful.

"I think your matchstick looks a bit sharper," Ron said bracingly to him at the end of the lesson, though Harry wasn't sure he was being entirely honest.

As they were packing up their bags and getting ready to leave after class, she stopped next to Harry and Ron’s desk, and said quietly, “I am very happy for you, Mr. Weasley. I trust your mother and father are quite well?”

“Yes,” Ron said. “Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall smiled a slight, small smile, which Harry was beginning to realize was simply the way she looked, even when she was really pleased, and walked back to her desk to gather up her things, leaving the first years to cram their quills and wands and books into their bags and start arguing with each other about their schedules and which corridors to take to get to their next lesson.

The rest of the week was very busy. They had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class on Tuesday and Astronomy on Wednesday. Thursday was their third Herbology lesson, and the first time that Neville earned the praise of a teacher; the first years were at work planting nettle seeds in small pots which would be grown in front of the windows of Greenhouse Two, which were magically sun-lit all year round. Professor Sprout, who was walking around and supervising, patted Neville on the shoulder and said, “Nicely done. I can see you’re working hard.” Neville’s round face flushed with the praise, and the pinkness in his cheeks--as well as the dirty hand-print that Professor Sprout had left on the shoulder of his robe--lasted for the rest of the lesson. Harry thought that Hermione, working beside him, looked a little put-out that Sprout had not also complimented her on her neatly-packed row of ceramic pots.

Hermione seemed to have decided that she was Harry, Ron, and Neville's friend. Despite Ron grumbling, quietly, to Harry that she was an insufferable know-it-all, there didn't seem to be any way of preventing this, and anyway, Harry didn't try particularly hard. It was nice, for the first time in his life, to have friends. Mostly, he and Ron tried to get Hermione to pair with Neville in lessons, when they could, because correcting Neville's work gave her a distraction from nagging at them, and anyway, Neville didn’t seem to mind the extra help.

In the evenings, the four of them clustered together in the Common Room, talking and going over homework. Hermione tried her best to badger the other three into doing each night’s homework the day it was assigned, so that she could review it with them, but Ron in particular was quick to lose interest and start talking about Quidditch. Neither Harry nor Hermione knew anything about the wizarding sport, and Neville, who grew up in a wizarding family but had never played, had about the same passing familiarity with it that Harry had with cricket. Ron was more than happy to explain about the various rules and players, though, and Harry was finding it interesting to begin to understand a little bit about the magical world.

Friday marked their first Potions lesson with Professor Snape. Snape, like McGonagall, began class by taking roll. He paused briefly before Ron's name, looking up from his parchment to make level eye contact with Ron. Ron slouched down in his seat, muttering, “Present,” while Harry watched quietly. Hermione sat, physically vibrating, on the edge of her seat ready to jump in and correct Professor Snape if he said anything wrong, but then he called Ron's name without comment and went on to grill Harry instead.

Harry didn’t know what he had done to incur Professor Snape’s wrath. He was no stranger to being hated--ten years of living with the Dursleys and being bullied by Dudley at school had erased any expectation that Harry might once have had that he would be treated fairly on principle--but it felt different, coming from Snape. Perhaps it was just that Harry had been hoping that this year he might be able to start fresh, without the Dursleys putting any preconceived ideas about him into his new teachers’ and classmates’ heads. But Snape’s hatred felt pointed and focused in a way that even the Dursleys’ disgust and neglect rarely had, and all the attention Harry was getting for being the Boy Who Lived was getting overwhelming. It seemed that everyone in the magical world already had an opinion on him, good or bad.

The potions lesson was interrupted after a short while by Neville, who had been partnered with Seamus Finnegan instead of Hermione for this lesson, when his cauldron violently exploded. Snape swooped over to investigate and looked over Neville, who had boils sprouting red all over his face and tears in his eyes, and ah, there was the kind of detached disgust that Harry was used to seeing from the Dursleys.

“Idiot boy,” Snape said, lazily making all the spilled potion vanish with a wave of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

Neville whimpered.

Snape sent Neville to the hospital wing care of Seamus, then rounded on Harry.

"You--Potter--why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong?”

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron elbowed him in the side and shook his head warningly. Hermione sat with her lips pressed together, looking tense and unhappy, but she didn't speak either. Frustrated, Harry sat back and said nothing, letting Snape swoop past him to praise Draco Malfoy’s potion instead.

At the end of the lesson, which seemed to drag on and on, Harry, Ron, and Hermione clustered in the hallway outside the Potions classroom.

“Why did you stop me arguing with Snape?” Harry asked Ron angrily. The sight of Snape sneering down at the whimpering Neville was still playing over in his mind, and it made his blood boil, made him feel protective of Neville in a way he’d never felt before.

“I’ve heard he can get nasty,” Ron said. “No need to make him hate you anymore than he already does.”

Harry pressed his lips together, still puzzling over why Snape seemed to hold such a particular loathing for him.

“Look,” said Hermione, “if it means that much to you, why don’t we go and check on Neville in the hospital wing? It’s been long enough, he’s bound to have been treated by now.”

“Hey, didn’t you say Hagrid invited you to see him this afternoon?” Ron helpfully added. “D’you think he would mind if you brought us and Neville along?”

Harry looked between his new friends, feeling wrong-footed. He had never visited anybody in hospital before; had never had anybody to visit. The anger cooled in his stomach and he hesitantly nodded. “Alright. It can’t hurt to try, I guess?”

The hospital wing was full of white, clean-sheeted beds neatly made-up. There were only a few students there, on a Friday afternoon, and they found Neville sitting on a bed, seeming mostly recovered.

His face lit up when he saw them. “Hi!”

Harry realized that he had no idea what to say, but to his relief, Ron and Hermione seemed more than happy to pick up his slack in the conversation.

“Are you feeling alright?” Hermione asked, and then with barely concealed eagerness, “Did they use a healing spell on you? I’ve read about a few…”

Ron interrupted. “Listen mate, it was not right, what Snape said to you. But don’t worry about it; Snape hates everybody and especially the Gryffindors, from what I’ve heard.”

Neville smiled worriedly at them. “Thank you. It was my fault, though.” He twisted his hands into the bed’s white sheets. “I added the needles in too soon. It’s fine, I’m just…” he shrugged. “I’m glad I have your help with homework, at least. Maybe I won’t fail the whole class that way.”

“Bollocks,” Ron said, making Hermione gasp and glance around, Harry assumed to scan for any adults within hearing distance. “Snape was way out of line.”

Harry did his best to look reassuring. “It’s just the first week,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to get it right.”

Neville did not look reassured, so Harry cast around for another topic of conversation. “Anyway, we were just going to visit Hagrid. Would you like to join us?”

Neville frankly beamed at him, and Harry was glad they had come up to visit Neville, after all.

Hagrid gave them tea and horrible rock cakes, which Harry, Ron, and Hermione all gave up on after a few polite nibbles, but which Neville, much to their amazement, consumed in their entirety and with perfect politeness, giving no hint of the fact that the cakes were as likely to break a tooth as their name suggested.

Hagrid was very kind to Ron and Hermione and Neville, as Harry had expected from how Hagrid had treated him since they'd met. After asking about Ron's brothers and Neville's grandmother, and listening to Hermione tell him about her muggle family, Hagrid's face softened and he said, "I heard about the staircase, Ron. I reckon you're right brave, comin' out like that. Your sibling Bill will be proud."

Ron's face had turned red and muttered, "Thanks."

"You lot remind me of meself, a bit, to be honest," Hagrid went on mistily. “Missfit, but Hogwarts gave me a home.”

They told Hagrid how Snape had treated Neville and Harry, and he began to reassure them that Snape hated most of the students equally. Harry stopped listening, though; his attention was caught on a newspaper clipping that had gotten pushed into the middle of the table, among the tea things. It read, “Gringotts Break-In, 31 July,” and detailed how a vault had been robbed, after having been emptied that very day.

“Hagrid,” said Harry, putting his finger on the clipping, “that’s my birthday. That’s the day we were in Diagon Alley!”

Hagrid grunted and tried to give him another rock cake, not quite meeting his eye.

“Do you think it could have been happening while we were there?” Harry tried to ask, but Hagrid determinedly changed the subject, and started to talk about dragons, and Harry gave up.

*

Draco Malfoy was having a difficult week. He was conflicted. The school was full of gossip about Ron Weasley and the disappearing staircase. How it had collapsed under him, dumping him to the floor. It was just the sort of opportunity that Draco usually would have jumped at, after the way that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter had humiliated him by rejecting his friendship. They deserved to suffer for their rudeness, and Draco had every intention of making them.

There were plenty of rumors about Potter too, and to be honest, Draco felt that people ought to be doing a lot less talking about Potter and a lot more talking about him.

The story about the staircase was the perfect opportunity to humiliate Weasley like Weasley and Potter had humiliated him. But...

But he couldn’t stop thinking about Potter in the Entrance Hall that first night, how his skin had glowed like bronze in the candle light, his tousled black hair, his bright, furious green eyes, the white scar slashed jagged like lightning across his forehead. As he let his rejected hand fall limply to his side, Draco’s only thought had been, I cannot tell Father about this.

Draco needed a different plan.

Chapter Text

They had their first flying lesson on a Thursday. It was a bright, crisp day, the kind that seemed to mix late summer sun and early autumn chill together perfectly. Harry breathed in the cool air, feeling faintly excited as the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins left the castle. After all that Ron had said about it, Harry had started looking forward to flying.

Draco Malfoy had been talking nonstop about Quidditch for the past fortnight, ever since the date of their first flying lesson had been announced. It seemed like every time Harry saw him, he was in the middle of telling some outrageous story about how he liked to fly around his father’s estate doing daring stunts and trick dives. As the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins trooped down to the Quidditch pitch together in a loose group, Harry could see Malfoy ahead of him elaborately pantomiming how he had once narrowly avoided being struck by a muggle helicopter, his white-blond hair shining brightly in the sunlight. Harry did his best to ignore the spectacle.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron asked kindly from beside him. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“What? Oh. No,” Harry said, setting his distraction aside.

“Good,” said Ron. “There’s no reason to be. It’s like I’ve been telling you: Quidditch is great.”

“I’m nervous,” Neville said forlornly from around Ron’s other side.

“We know, Neville. It’s alright,” Ron said bracingly. “You’ll be fine.”

Neville looked doubtful, and Ron glanced at Harry, who dutifully said, “I’m sure Ron’s right,” though privately he had his doubts. Neville had plenty of accidents with both feet on the ground--Harry wasn’t confident that putting him on a broomstick was a good idea.

“My gran said to remember to keep a firm grip on the handle, and then pull up,” Neville said, looking down at the Rememberall, which still swirled with red smoke in his hand--he hadn’t been able to remember what it was he’d forgotten. “What about you, Hermione?” Neville called across to her. “Are you nervous at all?”

Hermione bristled, looking up from the copy of Quidditch Through the Ages which she was feverishly reading, even as she walked. “I’m not nervous,” she snapped.

*

Hermione was nervous.

Flying on a broomstick sounded like something mystical and strange, like something that might happen to a witch out of a storybook. Hermione had not yet quite wrapped her head around the fact that she was a witch now. The magical world was opening up around her, and she, she was supposed to have a place in it? It seemed like Hogwarts had everything she had ever wanted in it: magic and new things to learn and friends who actually seemed to like her and acceptance of her as a trans girl. Hermione wanted to grab hold of it and hold on with both hands, and yet here just as in the muggle world it seemed that she was once again something lesser. Different. Other. Strange, even among some of the strangest people she had ever met. The other magic-raised students, Ron included, talked about Quidditch nonstop, and yet she didn’t know the first thing about it. It was just one of the mountain of things about the magical world that she was expected to just already know, except she didn’t. She had tried to make up for it by reading everything she could find in the library about flying, Quidditch, brooms, and broomtravel.

She just hoped it would be enough.

“Good. Like I said, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Ron said breezily, and of course he wouldn’t think there was any reason to be frightened. He, who had apparently been flying since shortly after birth, if what he said was at all accurate (a point on which she was not at all convinced).

“I’m not nervous,” she repeated, trying to will it true.

*

The first years gathered around Madam Hooch, who was just finishing lining up some of the school brooms in two lines in the grass. “Ah, first years!” she yelled brightly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

They all hurried to stand beside the broomsticks. Malfoy took the broom right across from Harry and made direct eye contact with him, smirking. What was his problem? Harry scowled back at him.

“Alright now, stick out your wand hand over your broom and say, ‘Up!’”

The cool, crisp air filled with a cacophony of first years shouting, “Up!” at their brooms.

Harry stuck out his hand. “Up!”

The twisted, knotted broom with its uneven twigs shot off the ground and leaped gracefully, effortlessly into his hand. Harry caught it on instinct, feeling his hand curl around the handle as if he had done this a thousand times already before. Surprised, he looked around. Malfoy, across from him, had just caught his broomstick in his hand and was now smirking loftily around at their classmates, about a quarter of whom had their broomsticks in their hands. Beside Harry, Ron’s broomstick was rising, slowly and shakily but steadily off the ground, as he shouted, “Up! Up!” Hermione’s broom was rolling resistantly back and forth on the ground at her feet like an unwilling puppy, while Neville’s broom had hardly moved at all. As Harry watched, Neville squeezed his eyes closed and said, “Up!” and his broom in the grass gave a shuddering twitch.

“You’ll never get the broom to come to you if you act like you're scared of it, Longbottom,” came Malfoy’s drawling voice.

Neville’s cheeks went pink. “Up!” he called again, looking fixedly at his broom.

“On the other hand, maybe it’s better if you keep your feet on the ground. My father says you’re hardly magic anyway.”

Neville looked up at that, his round face twisting, but before he could speak, his broom suddenly rocketed up off the ground and smacked him right in the face.

He stumbled back a step, clutching his nose, and Malfoy let out a delighted peal of laughter.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said, torn between anger at Malfoy and worry for Neville.

“Some people just don’t have the gift,” Malfoy said carelessly, turning to Harry with a malicious glee in his eye. “I’ve been flying since I could walk, of course. My father--”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Hooch interrupted. “Let me see your grip.” She raised his broom handle for inspection. “No, no, this is all wrong.” She started rearranging his hands.

Malfoy’s pale cheeks flamed red. “It’s fine. I’ve been doing it this way for years,” he said loudly.

“Then you’ve been doing it wrong for years,” Hooch informed him.

Harry and Ron made eye contact and started snickering. Malfoy glared daggers at them.

“Mr. Potter. You’re next,” Hooch said, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. He stuck out his broom for her to see.

She made a brief inspection, her yellow eyes, short spiky hair, and sharp nose putting Harry in mind of a hawk examining its prey. “Excellent!” she said. “You’re a natural. Mr. Malfoy, you could learn a thing or two from looking at Mr. Potter’s form.”

Harry grinned at Malfoy, who looked ready to strangle Madam Hooch, teacher or no.

When Madam Hooch was satisfied that all their grips were correct, she let them mount their brooms. “Now, on my whistle, kick off from the ground.” She counted off. “Three,” she said, “two--”

Before she could finish her countdown, Harry saw Neville, gripping his broom with white knuckles and a white face, jerk up hard on his broom handle.

Hermione shouted, “Neville, no!” but it was too late. He shot straight up into the air, the broom tipping up and up as it climbed until it was nearly vertical and still rising, Neville clinging helplessly to the handle.

“Now see here, boy! Come right back down this instant,” Hooch was calling, but Harry could already see that it was no good. Neville was slipping, and all at once, he lost his seat on the broom. It arced out away from him while his feet kicked wildly in the air, and then it slipped out of his grasp and he fell hard.

He landed with a sickening crack. Harry started forward, his heart in his mouth, but Hooch got there first, and knelt down on the ground next to the gently moaning pile of Neville.

“Broken wrist,” she muttered. She turned to the rest of the class. “Nobody else move while I take this boy to the hospital wing. If you even touch those brooms while I’m gone, you’ll be out of here before you can say ‘Quidditch.’”

She helped a white and crying Neville to his feet and shepherded him away back towards the castle.

Malfoy waited until she was just barely out of earshot before breaking into peals of delighted laughter. “Did you see his face?” he choked.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snapped.

Malfoy sauntered forward. “What’s this?” He swooped down and plucked a red marble out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

“Give that here,” Harry said dangerously. The rest of the class went very quiet, watching them.

Malfoy seemed to be basking in the attention. “Why should I?” he asked.

“That belongs to Neville. Give it here.”

Malfoy pretended to consider. “No, I don’t think I will. I think I’ll leave it somewhere for him to find. How about...up a tree?” He picked up a broomstick in his other hand. “Are you going to try and stop me?”

His heart racing and blood rushing in his ears, Harry stalked forward and picked up his broomstick too.

“Harry, no!” Hermione said, “Madam Hooch told us not to move--you’ll get us all in trouble!” But Malfoy had already kicked off from the ground and was flying lazy figure-eights a few meters over their heads. “Come and get it, Potter!” he called, then gave a delighted laugh and sped away.

Harry swung a leg over his broom and kicked off from the ground, hard. He felt his stomach lift as his broom rose, and a feeling of wild joy rushed over him. This was easy. Nothing, nothing in the wizarding world so far had been easy for him. But this was so easy, it felt as if he’d done it a thousand times before. He could feel the warm sun on his face, the cool wind in his hair, smell the sharp smell of trampled grass on the clean air, feel the soaring feeling in his stomach, and hear the gasps of the people below and a whoop from Ron as he brought his broom around to face Malfoy.

“Give me that Rememberall, or I’ll knock you off your broom!” He felt angry, clean, and brave.

Malfoy was staring at him, eyes wide. “Oh, yeah?” he managed, but he sounded weak and breathless.

Harry leaned over the handle of his broom and shot towards Malfoy, who barely got out of the way in time. He brought his broom around again, close enough to see Malfoy swallow, clearly getting nervous.

“Catch it if you can, then!” Malfoy shouted, throwing the Rememberall over Harry’s head and diving away. Harry turned sharply, watching the ball arc slowly through the air and begin to slowly fall, then he took off, and all the world around him was rushing and soaring joy and the glinting glass Rememberall.

He caught it a foot off the ground and tumbled off his broomstick and onto the soft grass.

“HARRY POTTER!”

He got up, his arms and legs trembling, the Rememberall clutched loosely in his hand. Professor McGonagall was flying down the lawn toward him.

*

Hermione was shocked.

“I never--in all my time at Hogwarts--that was so foolish--” McGonagall had led a nervous looking Harry away, leaving the rest of the class in stunned silence.

“I can’t believe Potter’s getting expelled!” Malfoy crowed into the silence.

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Parvati Patil said.

Hermione was shocked. More than that, she was afraid. Was the rest of the class going to get in trouble, too? Would Harry be expelled? Would she be expelled? Was she going to lose the only friends she’d ever had?

“You heard Madam Hooch,” Malfoy cackled. “It’s only a shame that Longbottom isn’t going with him. That fat lump doesn’t have enough magic in him to fill that stupid marble, let alone a place at this school.”

“Shut up,” Ron said roughly.

Hermione waited breathless, with her heart beating wildly, while the rest of the class chattered quietly. Madam Hooch took a long time coming back. When she did, she didn’t say anything about punishment or Harry or Malfoy or even Neville. It was almost the end of the lesson, and nobody really felt like flying, anyway, so she let them go early.

Ron pulled her aside as the class was dispersing. “Listen, I’m going to go find Harry.”

“I want to go check on Neville.” Her voice came out high and thin.

“Alright. Meet you back at the Great Hall for dinner?”

She nodded numbly. Alone, she made her way through the castle and up to the hospital wing, but there, she was met with nothing but white sheet curtains, and Madam Pomfrey, who quite sternly told her that she couldn’t see Neville until after his wrist was healed.

“Wrists are tricky,” the matronly woman said firmly. “So many little bones. I have Mr. Longbottom under close observation. You may see him when he is released back to your dormitory this evening.”

Dutifully, Hermione turned around and went back to the Great Hall, where a few early students were filtering in for dinner. She pulled out her Charms homework, but couldn’t focus on it, and instead sat, chewing her bottom lip and staring at the doorway, waiting for Harry or Ron to appear.

Was she about to lose the one of the only friends she’d ever had?

She had to be perfect, needed to be perfect, needed to learn the rules and prove that she was worth her spot in this fantastic, magical world. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake, and she didn’t want her friends to, either. (A small, ugly part of her said that if she had to prove herself, then they had better do the same.)

It was a long hour of waiting before Harry and Ron came into the Great Hall.

They made a beeline for her, their faces flushed and beaming.

“You’ll never believe this, Hermione--”

“That git Malfoy is going to be so jealous, I can’t wait to see his face--”

The two of them stumbled over each other telling her how Harry had gotten a spot on the house team.

“I thought McGonagall was going to expel me for sure--” said Harry, practically dripping with relief.

“How could she, though?” Ron said. “After that dive?! I didn’t know you could fly like that.”

“Neither did I.”

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan had just come into the hall, and they made their way over, followed by Parvati and Lavender.

“Blimey, Harry, I didn’t know you could fly,” said Seamus.

“That was amazing!” giggled Lavender.

“You put Malfoy in his place, alright,” said Parvati approvingly.

Hermione snapped, “You were lucky. By all rights, you should have been expelled.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t,” said Ron, “so it’s alright, isn’t it?”

“It was an idiotic thing to do. It’s like you just said, you didn’t know you could fly like that. You could have fallen and gotten hurt, just like Neville.”

“What about Neville?” Harry shot back. “Didn’t you hear what Malfoy was saying about him?

Hermione’s temper flared. “Neville is still in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let me see him. But please, do keep talking about your rule-breaking.”

She picked up her bag and slid over to an empty spot down the table, where she sat, stewing. The congratulatory crowd around Harry and Ron didn’t seem to notice, though she thought she saw Harry looking at her guiltily out of the corner of her eye.

Well. It’s what he deserved, for breaking the rules.

*

The excitement and relief of flying, of having bested Malfoy and evaded punishment, was starting to wear off, and Harry was just thinking about asking Ron if they should try to talk to Hermione again (Harry did feel a slight, gnawing edge of guilt for celebrating while Neville was probably still in a lot of pain) when Malfoy himself sauntered up to the Gryffindor table, flanked by his two towering minions.

“Potter,” he drawled. “I can’t believe that you’re still here. Having one last meal before they pack your bags and send you away?”

Harry didn’t know how any person could be so annoying. “I don’t know what you mean, Malfoy,” he said, feigning confusion. “Pack my bags for what?”

Malfoy shifted from foot to foot. “Well, aren’t they going to expel you?”

Harry lifted his eyebrows. “Not since the last time I checked.”

“Well, then somebody ought to teach you a lesson,” Malfoy said coolly. “Wizard’s duel. With me. Tonight.”

Harry hesitated. He had already broken one school rule today, and like Hermione said, he’d been lucky. It didn’t seem wise to push his luck again. But he didn’t want to back down in front of Malfoy, either.

“You’re on,” Ron said before Harry could make a decision. “I’m his second. Who’s yours?”

Malfoy scowled at him, then gave a measuring glace between Crabbe and Goyle. “Crabbe.”

Crabbe cracked his knuckles.

“We will meet in the trophy room at midnight. I trust you know how to get there?” Malfoy asked imperiously.

“Of course,” Harry lied.

“Very well, then. I’ll see you there, Potter.” Malfoy swept off.

Harry’s heart sank. He already knew this was going to be a bad idea.

A few seats down, Hermione exploded. “How can you be so stupid! You’re really going to break another rule, now? If you’re caught, you’re going to be expelled, for sure.”

“Mind your own business, why don’t you?” Ron said nastily, and she huffed, pulled out a book, and proceeded to ignore them for the rest of the meal.

Chapter Text

Midnight came slowly, the sun sinking down behind the Forbidden Forest like it was taking a leisurely stroll down the street. Harry spent the time waiting nervously with Ron in the Gryffindor common room, listening to Ron try to give him dueling advice.

“...and if that doesn’t work, just drop your wand and punch him,” Ron was saying as the common room slowly emptied, students either heading off to bed or bent feverishly over their textbooks and parchment.

“Right,” said Harry, unenthused.

Harry distinctly heard a derisive snort from the armchair where Hermione was sunk, little visible of her other than the top of her head over a large, heavy-looking book.

Slowly, slowly, the fire in the common room hearth burned down and the seconds until midnight ticked away.

*

In a different part of the castle, an argument was breaking out.

“No,” Crabbe said flatly.

“What do you mean, ‘no?’” Draco asked, scandalized.

“No, I’m not doing it.”

“You’ll do as I say,” Draco threatened, “or I’ll tell my father, and he will tell your father, and you’ll have to find somebody else to make you popular. You don’t know how lucky you are to have me!”

“I’m not doing it,” Crabbe repeated implacably.

“Weren’t you just going to tell Filch on Potter, anyway?” Goyle asked.

“Yes, well--that was before!”

“Before what?”

“Never mind!” said Draco angrily. “I’ll just go by myself, then.”

“I don’t care,” said Crabbe. “I’m not doing it.”

“Merlin, you two are useless,” Draco snarled.

*

And elsewhere in the castle, Neville was being released from the hospital wing, and Filch was stroking his cat’s fur as she lapped up her evening meal, and Peeves was zooming happily about the halls, and the trophy room sat silent, and empty, and glittering--for now.

*

The castle hallways were dark. Neville had expected this, of course. It wasn’t as if they needed to keep them lit for children who were trying to make their way back to their common rooms from the hospital wing, since that probably didn’t happen every day. Madam Pomphrey hadn’t even written him a pass, she’d just said that if anybody, teacher or prefect, stopped him in the halls, to just tell them to send her a floo.

Still.

It was very dark.

And the Fat Lady wasn’t in her portrait.

Neville sunk to the ground under the empty frame and looked at all the creeping shadows. There was a large, looming dark shape at the end of the corridor that he knew was just a suit of armor, because he had just walked past it, but he could see it slowly moving and there were pale shapes flitting through the portrait frames and what if the Bloody Baron came by and found him here?

He shut his eyes.

He could still hear the gentle grinding sound of stone staircases moving far below and the echo of what sounded like distant footsteps and the whine of the wind at the windows and feel the cold draft like a ghostly breath across his face, but at least he couldn’t see any of it.

“BOO!”

Neville screamed and his eyes snapped open--Peeves the poltergeist was hoovering in the air about three inches from his face.

Peeves fell backwards laughing uproariously, the little bells on his hat jingling as he somersaulted in midair. “Watch out, little firstie, there are ghooOOoOOooosts in here!” he cackled.

“L-leave me alone,” Neville said.

To his surprise, Peeves zoomed away. He almost started to relax, but then he felt a ghostly chill behind his ear.

“Boo,” Peeves said.

This time Neville leaped to his feet and spun around. “Go away, Peeves,” he said, trying to sound brave, although his voice wavered. “Leave me alone.”

“Is the little first year afraid of ghosts?” Peeves poked a long, cold, surprisingly sharp finger into Neville’s side. “What are you doing out so late? Causing trouble, are we?”

“No, I’m just trying to get into the Common Room. Leave me alone!”

“Poor little baby, stuck outside alone,” Peeves sang in an annoying singsong. Neville wanted to cry. He backed away down the corridor. Peeves, scenting weakness, zeroed in on him, smiling like a shark.

Just then, the common room door swung open, a cacophony of voices flooding out into the hall. Neville jumped, and Peeves blew one last raspberry at him and then sped away.

Harry and Ron climbed out of the portrait hole, followed by an irate Hermione in her dressing gown. “I cannot believe you!” she was saying as the portrait frame swung shut behind her. “You are so selfish! Haven’t you gotten into enough trouble today? You are going to lose Gryffindor so many house points--”

“Nobody asked for your opinion,” Ron snarled. “So why don’t you just go back inside and go to bed?”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed, turning on her heel, only to find herself face-to-face with an empty portrait. Her face fell. “The Fat Lady’s gone!” she cried. She rounded on Harry and Ron. “Now look what you’ve done!” she said shrilly.

“How is this our fault?” Ron said.

“Hi guys,” said Neville, and all three of them jumped.

“Neville?” Ron asked.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing out here?” Harry asked.

“I was released from the Hospital Wing to go to bed, but the Fat Lady is gone,” Neville explained.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Harry said. “Good luck. Ron and I need to leave, or else we’re going to be late.”

“No!” Neville said. To his embarrassment, his voice squeaked. “Don’t leave me here! Peeves has already been past twice!”

“I’m not standing here waiting for the Fat Lady to get back, either,” Hermione said imperiously.

“Well, that’s your problem,” Ron said. “You are not coming with us.”

*

The four of them trouped down the hall with Harry in the lead, Neville tearfully hanging off his sleeve and Hermione keeping up a whispered argument with Ron about how much trouble they were going to get in. Harry tried to listen for the sounds of anyone approaching, but they were making so much noise, it was a wonder that Filch--or worse, a teacher like Snape--hadn’t discovered them yet.

“Everybody, shut up!” Harry said irritably. “We’re not in trouble yet, but we will be if we get caught! Now, which way to the Trophy Room?”

Hermione pressed her lips together and glowered at him but didn’t argue. Neville sniffled and pointed.

“Okay,” said Harry. “Everybody keep together and keep quiet.”

Incredibly, they made it to the Trophy Room without being caught. Harry paused in the doorway as the others filed in, looking around. He had never been to this part of the castle before, but it was large, dark, and full of glass and glimmering gold.

It was empty.

“See?” Hermione said triumphantly. “Malfoy isn’t even here. He set you up, Harry.”

“We don’t know that,” said Ron. “Maybe he’s late, like we are.”

“Hey, Harry,” came Neville’s voice, piping up from the corner of the room, “is this someone you know?” He was pointing at a trophy in the display case.

Harry walked over to investigate, feeling uneasy, but was distracted when he saw the name on the trophy. James Potter, Gryffindor Seeker 1977. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s my dad.” He pressed a hand to the glass.

Just then, a quiet mew came from behind them. Everyone whirled around to find Mrs. Norris sat in the middle of the room, swishing her long, furry tail and blinking her large, lamp-like eyes up at them.

“Shoo!” Ron said loudly, taking a step towards her.

“Shut up!” said Hermione shrilly.

“What is it, my sweet?” came Filch’s voice from just outside. “Students out of bed?”

“Hide,” Harry hissed, grabbing Neville’s arm and pulling him, closely followed by Ron and Hermione, out of the trophy room and behind a suit of armor out in the hall.

They made it just in time; just as Ron ducked out of sight and into the shadows, Filch came nosing his way into the room, a lit lantern held aloft. The room came alive with light, bouncing off the trophies and refracting like rainbows across the floor, sending the dark shadows skittering. “Where are they? Where are they hiding, my love?” Filch asked the cat, who mewed up at him again.

Filch started sweeping his lantern around the room, throwing wild shadows out into the hall as he searched, muttering to himself, but he hadn’t seen them. They were safe, for now.

There was just one problem. Their hiding place was already taken. Taken by none other than Draco Malofy.

“Merlin, you lot are useless,” he was muttering, squashed up against the wall between Harry and Neville.

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Harry whispered, craning his neck to try to see what was happening in the trophy room. Unfortunately, this involved pressing himself even closer to Malofy, who huffed.

“I should have known. You’re all a disgrace to the name of wizard, every one of you.”

“Some of us are witches, actually,” Hermione hissed. “The applicable term in this scenario would be magic users, wixen, or--”

“Bloody hell, shut up,” Ron snapped.

“Excuse me!” Hermione whirled around in the tight space to face him, knocking into Neville, who teetered unsteadily for a second, and then fell, sprawling into the suit of armor and sending it clanging and clattering to the floor with a loud, reverberating crash.

The lantern’s beam swung around like a searchlight. They didn’t have much time.

“Run!” Harry said, grabbing Malfoy’s arm while Ron picked Neville up off the floor.

“Get your hands off me, Potter,” Malfoy snarled.

“Quick! Hurry!” Hermione whispered frantically, already at the end of the corridor.

They ran, thundering and pell-mell through the castle. Harry took the turns at random, desperately hoping to put some distance between themselves and Filch, who it seemed was always on their heels--they would lose him for a moment, but then he’d suddenly be once again right behind them. They could hear his raspy breath wheezing down the corridors behind them.

Finally, they skidded to a stop in front of a solid oak door at the end of a corridor, and Harry put his hand out to pull at the handle, and it didn’t budge.

“The door’s locked,” Harry panted. “We need to go back.”

There was a shrill mew from behind them. Mrs. Norris was standing there, gazing up at them with her large, lantern-like eyes.

“This is all your fault!” spat Malfoy. “You stupid--”

“Oh, move over!” snapped Hermione, shouldering them out of the way. She pointed her wand very precisely at the door handle and traced a careful circle. “Alohomora.”

The lock clicked open.

“Perfect!” said Ron, “Filch thinks this door is locked!”

“Get in!” Harry said, and they all piled into the dark.

Harry pulled the door closed and pressed his ear against the keyhole just in time to hear Filch’s footsteps coming down the corridor.

“Where are they, my sweet?” his voice came, muffled through the wood.

Harry heard a faint meow.

“They won’t get away for long.” Filch muttered, and then there was silence.

Malfoy’s pale, pointed face was directly beside Harry’s, his ear pressed against the door, too, and for a moment, they stared at each other, breathing heavily, united for the time being against a shared threat. Harry thought that Malfoy looked scared.

Then, Neville started tugging on Harry’s sleeve, whimpering softly, and Harry turned. “What, Neville?”

He need not have asked, because as soon as he looked up, it became very apparent, what.

It was a giant, three-headed dog.

“Merlin’s pants,” Malfoy swore.

The dog, surprised up until now, began a low growl. Harry scrabbled for the doorknob; being caught by Filch was better than being the midnight snack of this thing. And it looked like they would hardly be a mouthful, each--the dog stood so high that its middle head touched the high, vaulted ceiling.

Ron seemed to be having the same idea. “Out, out, out,” he was saying, and the handle twisted, and they all spilled out into the corridor. One of the dog’s heads took a snap at them, and Harry and Ron threw their weight into the door, slamming it closed just in time.

They all stood there, chests heaving, waiting for Filch to come back and catch them, but it seemed he had gone.

“What the hell--” Ron started.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves,” Hermione said shrilly.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy asked, his voice shaking. He still looked very, very pale.

“I told you! I told you this was a bad idea!”

Harry’s heart was still racing. “Let’s just get back to the common room,” he said. “Where are we?”

Neville whimpered, “It’s the third floor.”

“The out of bounds corridor!”

Neville nodded tearfully.

“Alright.” Harry’s mind was whirling with thoughts, but there was no time to think about them now. “Let’s go.”

They crept quietly through the halls until Malfoy, who had been following behind them in shell-shocked silence suddenly stopped and said, oddly formal, “Good night.”

Harry stopped. He had kind of forgotten that Malfoy was still with them. He felt silly, of course Malfoy had to go back to his own common room.

“You’d better watch out, it’d be a pity if Filch caught you before you made it back to Gryffindor,” Malfoy said nastily. “He’d expel you for sure.”

“Watch out yourself, Malfoy,” Harry said angrily.

Malfoy sneered and made his way quietly down the staircase and out of sight. The four Gryffindors made their way back up to Gryffindor tower in silence.

Hermione was seething, and when they got back to the common room, she let them know it.

“I don’t know what that dog was guarding, but you’re lucky we didn’t get killed! Or worse, expelled!”

“Guarding?” asked Harry.

“Yes! Didn’t you see what it was standing on? Or were you too busy thinking about Malfoy?”

This, Harry felt, was very unfair.

“I was busy looking at its heads,” Ron said. “Didn’t you notice? There were three of them!”

Neville said, faint and out of breath, “It was a cerberus. I’ve never seen one for real before.”

Still bristling with anger, but momentarily distracted, Hermione asked, “Have you read about them, Neville?”

“Well, no, but my gran used to tell me a bedtime story about one. They’re used as magical guardians, sometimes. I mean, this was a story about a rabbit and a magical flower, but…”

They all looked at each other. What was so important that it was being hidden in the castle, guarded by the three-headed dog?

“I bet it’s whatever Hagrid took from Gringotts,” Harry said slowly. “On my birthday. There was a break-in, just after, and I wondered–-what if the thieves were after it? What if Dumbledore decided it wasn’t safe at Gringotts anymore?”

“What d’you reckon it was?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know.”

Hermione sniffed, seeming to remember she was angry with them all. “Well,” she said. “It’s none of our business. I’m going to bed.” She flounced away up the stairs.

“Come on, Hermione. Aren’t you curious?” Harry tried. He put a foot on the step of the girl’s dormitory stair without thinking, meaning to follow her.

It held.

Chapter Text

The next morning found Harry and Ron sitting alone at the breakfast table. Harry felt tired, but Ron, sitting beside him, was quite cheerful about their midnight adventure. Hermione had marched straight past them with her nose in the air, sitting down next to the rest of their yearmates, and Neville had trailed after her, giving Harry and Ron a guilty and reluctant look as he passed by.

“Honestly,” Ron was saying, as he dug into his bacon and eggs, “You’d think we forced her to go with us. ‘S hardly our fault that she stuck her nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“Right,” Harry said tersely, distracted. He hadn’t told anyone about the staircase last night, and he didn’t think any of his friends had noticed. He had reflexively stepped backward, once he’d realized what was happening, but Hermione had been too busy storming away, and Ron and Neville too preoccupied with the mystery of the giant, three-headed dog.

Seeming to notice that Harry was rather tense, Ron said, “She’ll get over it. Once she realizes that we’re right.”

“Yeah.”

Ron frowned at him. “What, you’re not still worried about Malfoy, are you? Didn’t you see him last night? He was scared, just the same as us. Anyway, there’s no way he could tell on us for being out of bed without having to explain what he was doing there. Trust me, he won’t be running his mouth.”

“No, I know, it’s not that. It’s–-”

Just then, a sleek, brown owl swooped down from the ceiling and landed with its leg out in front of Ron. A weathered parchment scroll was tied to it.

“Blimey,” said Ron, taking the letter and unrolling it as the bird flew away. “It’s from Bill.”

“That’s your older brother–-er, your sibling?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. He’s the oldest. He says he’s agender, which means genderless, but he doesn’t mind if we call him a guy, sometimes.”

Harry’s stomach did an odd sort of flip-flop. “What does the letter say?”

Ron scanned the letter. “He heard that I’m a guy. He’s writing to congratulate me on, er, coming out.” He read the rest of the letter in silence, his ears turning pink.

Harry looked around the Great Hall, trying to give him some privacy, and his stomach sank when he saw Malfoy striding towards the Gryffindor table.

“Oh no, what does he want?” Harry muttered.

Ron looked up.

“Potter,” Malfoy said imperiously, staring Harry down with a haughty lift to his chin.

Harry waited, but if Malfoy had something to say to him, it didn’t seem that he was about to be forthcoming. “Did you need something?” Harry asked tiredly.

“Good morning,” Malfoy said, and gave a formal little nod of his head.

“...Hi?” said Harry, nonplussed.

Harry was expecting Malfoy to get to the point, but instead, he turned on his heel, his black and silver robes swishing around his thin body, and strode away.

“What the bloody hell was that about?” Ron asked, staring after Malfoy with his mouth agape.

“I have no idea.”

Benches started scraping as students started heading to their first classes, and Harry and Ron stood up.

“Oh, what was it you were saying, earlier? Something about Malfoy?” Ron asked, as he swung his bag over he shoulder and shouldered his way into the chattering babble.

“Nothing.” Harry very much wished that Hermione were still talking to them.

*

Harry found it difficult to concentrate on his lessons that morning. The thought of the girl’s staircase, and what it might mean, plagued him. Had someone gone and changed it, with none of the Gryffindor students apparently any the wiser? Had he taken his foot off the staircase too quickly for the enchantment to take effect? He desperately wanted to go back and try it again, but he couldn’t work out a way to do it without being spotted, and happy though he was that Ron seemed to be settling in with little adjustment now that the initial wave of gossip had died down, this wasn’t something that Harry wanted to share with the entire school just yet.

“Mister Potter,” Snape’s voice slid silkily into Harry’s ear, making him jump. “I do hope that your newfound prowess won’t be interfering with your lessons.”

Harry didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about. “What?” he said blankly.

Like a large, hungry panther scenting prey, Snape paced closer. He peered into Harry’s cauldron. “Well, well, well. What a shame. It seems that you have been spending far too much time fantasizing about Quidditch and not enough time paying attention.”

Harry gritted his teeth and decided to try and play nice. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Snape said with relish, “had you been paying attention to the lesson, you would have added your juniper berries ten minutes ago, as all of your classmates have done. Instead, you have elected to daydream. Your potion is missing a key ingredient, and now it’s over-brewed.”

Harry looked down at his potion, which he had been mindlessly stirring while he thought. While the potions of his surrounding classmates were all varying shades of blue and dark purple, his own potion was a quickly darkening shade of yellowish-brown.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly. “I’ll fix it.” He fumbled for his crystal scales and his sachet of dried berries.

“Don’t bother. The potion is ruined. You will receive a zero for this week’s activity, and I’ll be taking five points from Gryffindor for your arrogant disrespect.”

Harry gaped at him. “But it’s just a simple mistake. If you’d let me fix it-–”

“Ten points.”

Harry shut up, fuming. As Snape strode away, black cloak billowing out behind him, Ron leaned over across the table and said, “Sorry, mate. Dunno what his problem is. How’d he find out you’re playing Quidditch, anyway?”

“No idea,” Harry said tiredly.

With nothing to turn in for a grade, Harry had little do for the rest of the lesson, other than sit and wonder whether it was simply Snape’s general demeanor and apparent and irrational hatred of Harry that set his skin crawling, or the fact that Snape insisted on calling him Mister Potter.

Would something else be better? Harry didn’t know. The words “Miss Potter” felt strangely shaped in his mind, but he had never had a problem with being Harry, just Harry. He tried to imagine himself in one of Aunt Petunia’s cocktail dresses and his wild hair in long, soft curls like Hermione’s. A jolt of emotion passed over him, equal parts fear and revulsion and sharp, aching want.

Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Class was over. Harry stood up and looked around just in time to see Hermione’s bushy hair disappearing out the classroom door.

*

In all the excitement, Harry had almost forgotten that his first Quidditch practice was that afternoon. Oliver Wood met him in the Great Hall after dinner, as all the students were streaming out and the late sun was slanting through the long windows.

“Come on, then,” he said cheerfully, and Harry was suddenly, intensely glad to put his worries aside and follow Wood out into the cool, evening air.

As they walked, Wood explained the rules of Quidditch. On each team were three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and one Seeker--Harry was to be a Seeker. It seemed that unlike the public school sports that Harry was used to in the Muggle world, which were divided into boy’s and girl’s, Hogwarts had four co-ed teams, just one for each House. The game was played by trying to gain points by throwing the Quaffle through three tall hoops at either end of the pitch, though points could also be scored by the Seeker, who spent the game flying above the rest of the team, hunting for the Golden Snitch, which was worth more than ten times what a goal earned in points, and ended the game when caught. This seemed rather silly to Harry, but apparently, there was a lot of strategy involved in how and when the points were scored and when the Snitch was caught. Wood explained that as Captain, it was his job to not only lead practice and plan new plays, but also survey the whole field and plan when to score points and when to focus on interference and defense.

"So, it's a bit like a cross between football and chess?" Harry asked.

"What's football?" Wood answered.

"Never mind."

"Here we are," Wood said, opening a wooden gate and leading Harry out onto the grassy pitch, where a wooden chest and two brooms lay waiting. "Now, the Slytherin team is notorious for their defense-heavy strategy, but personally, I think it's a better use of the whole team's strengths to balance between offensive and defensive strategies."

"Do the Slytherins win often?" Harry asked.

"They've flattened us the last two years running," Wood said morosely. "We haven't had a decent Seeker since Charlie Weasley graduated. But that is where you come in." He opened the chest and took out a small, fluttering golden ball and grinned widely. "Grab a broomstick."

The wind was plucking at his sleeves, and the shadows of the surrounding stands were stretching across the field. Harry was excited to fly again. He kicked off from the ground and saw the earth fall away. Leaning forward, he was off like a shot, the cool wind rushing past his ears. He picked up speed as he hugged the curve of the stadium, and he laughed out loud, feeling weightless, his heart pounding, bursting with adrenaline and bright-hot joy. He pushed his broom faster, rocketing a couple of times around the pitch before landing, windswept, in front of Wood.

“Not bad, Potter,” Wood said approvingly. “I can see what McGonagall was saying. You’re a natural. Now let’s see what you make of this.” He released the Golden Snitch and made Harry wait the space of a few heartbeats, then let him fly off after the small, glittering, darting thing. He was quite pleased when Harry swooped down and almost lazily scooped it out of the air not five minutes after. Harry tumbled back onto the pitch, grinning and holding out the wriggling ball in his clenched fist, and Wood said, “Brilliant!”

Soon, it grew too dark to see the Snitch. For a while, they continued on, with Wood throwing golf balls for Harry to dive after, but eventually, they had to call it a night. “Excellent,” Wood said, as he waved his wand, and all the stay balls flew back into their wooden chest. “You did really well. I think you can start joining the regular team practice on Friday.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. Though his fingers were numb and his whole body was already starting to feel sore, he couldn’t wait to be up in the air again.

*

It was quite late by the time they made it back up to the Common Room. Harry filled an envious Ron in on how his first practice had gone, while trying not to look at the far corner, where Hermione and Neville sat working on their homework. When that topic of conversation had run its course, they tried together to think what sort of item the three-headed dog could be guarding below the trap door. The only problem was, neither of them knew anything about the kind of magic that might need to be guarded like that; nor did they have very much to go on.

“It was a small package,” Harry said. “I didn’t see it for long, but Hagrid was able to pick it up and put it in his pocket, just like that.”

“Hagrid does have pretty big pockets, though,” Ron said. “Maybe it’s an artifact. Bill deals with those all the time at his work. It could be a spell or a weapon or something. Maybe it’s cursed!”

“Why would anybody go through the trouble of keeping it if it’s cursed?” Harry asked.

“I dunno. It must be really valuable,” Ron said dreamily. “I’ll bet it’s made out of pure gold.”

“Maybe,” said Harry doubtfully, remembering the small, grubby package.

Eventually, they had to retire, but lying in the dark, staring up at the canopy of his four poster bed and listening to the sound of the others lightly snoring, Harry found that despite the tiredness in his body, he couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was the girl’s staircase.

The common room should be empty. It was the middle of the night. Quietly, Harry drew aside the curtains of his bed and, after checking that all the other first years were asleep, he crept across the room and out, letting the door swing quietly shut behind him.

The girl’s staircase was full of shadows, hidden by a tall stone wall from the ruddy light of the dying fire and lit only by the blue moonlight. At the end of the banister was the shape of a carved wooden lion. Harry stood in front of it, his bare feet on the cold stone floor, his breath coming rapidly and his heart beating fast.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. He didn’t know what he wanted to happen, just knew he wanted confirmation that what had happened was real, that he hadn’t been dreaming it. He wondered what it would be like if the staircase didn’t fold itself up into a slide, if it let him stand on it and try out…well, being a girl. He wanted to know what it would feel like.

Harry swallowed and gathered himself together. Stepping forward, he put one foot on the bottommost stair. He felt a shot of adrenaline and the cold stone under his foot. He held it there for a long minute, still and waiting. Nothing happened.

Carefully, Harry climbed a few more steps. They stayed firm and stable under his feet. Lightly, he leapt up a few more, feeling a small, bursting feeling of happiness like a flower opening in his chest. He--she-–she tried for a moment thinking of herself as she–-stood on the staircase in the moonlight, breathing in the quiet, still air.

Then she heard the quiet voice of Neville call, “Harry?” from behind her, and the whole moment suddenly evaporated. A wave of panic came crashing down over her. Harry spun around. Neville was standing at the bottom of the stair, his pale, round face looking up at her.

“Don’t tell the others,” Harry blurted out, stumbling down a few steps. He stopped and clutched the rail, his heart beating wildly. “Please, don’t tell anyone. I’m not–” He felt the stair dip under him and he almost fell, sweaty hands barely hanging on to the banister. “I don’t know what I am.”

Neville looked up at him, blinking slowly. “Alright,” he said.

Harry sank down onto the stair, his legs suddenly feeling like jelly. He felt like he needed to explain himself. “I just wanted to see what it would be like.”

Neville sat down, cross-legged, on the floor in front of the staircase. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said, and Harry believed him.

“Right. Good. Thanks.” Harry felt somehow like he couldn’t catch his breath. “What are you doing out here?”

“I heard you leave the dormitory,” Neville said.

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You should talk to Hermione,” Neville said eventually.

As if trying to talk to her about the mysterious dog wasn’t what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. “I’ve tried; she made it clear she doesn’t want to talk to Ron or I,” Harry said.

“No, I mean about this,” Neville said, and Harry realized he meant the staircase. “She might want to help.”

“Maybe.”

“She’s alright, you know,” Neville said. “I mean, she wants to help.”

“Yeah, well maybe that’s the problem,” Harry snapped.

Neville looked up at him, his face worried and unhappy.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered grudgingly. “'S probably our fault too. But that doesn’t mean she’ll talk to us.”

After a long pause, Neville said in a small voice, “You could try.”

“Yeah.”

They sat there in silence for a long time. Harry stared at the stone beneath his feet. “I’ll try,” he said at last.

“Good.” Neville stood, and Harry reluctantly followed suit. He took one last look at the staircase, blue-shadowed and magical and inviting, and gave the carved lion a little squeeze before he followed Neville back up to bed, promising himself that he’d be back.

Chapter Text

Despite what he’d said to Neville, Harry found it difficult to work up the nerve–or find the time–to talk to Hermione. In fact, the more that he thought about it, and the longer he put it off, the more he didn’t want to do it. His experience on the staircase felt like a dream in the daylight, and besides that, he had homework to worry about, as well as Quidditch practice, which was now a part of his schedule several times a week. Suddenly, a week had passed, and then two and then three, and though Neville was as good as his word and kept his secret, Harry hadn’t spoken to him again, nor had he spoken to Hermione at all. It was almost a whole month later, on Halloween morning, that Harry remembered with a squirming sort of guilty feeling in his stomach, that while he hadn’t exactly promised Neville that he’d talk to Hermione again, he had yet to even try.

The squirming feeling in his stomach persisted as he and Ron walked together down to breakfast. Ron was maintaining the position that Hermione was being an insufferably self-righteous know-it-all, and that if she didn’t want to talk to them, they were better off for it. Harry could understand his position, but, well, he missed his friends. He missed spending his evenings in the Common Room with Hermione and Neville, talking about Quidditch or watching Hermione play chess (and lose) against Ron. He’d never had any real friends before. While he was adept at avoiding the Dursleys when they were angry with him, at blending in at school, at hiding in his cupboard, at running when Dudley and his gang decided to try and use him as their punching bag…he was out of his depth when it came to trying to repair a lost friendship.

Harry was somewhat distracted when they reached the Great Hall. The room had been transformed, with black and orange streamers, huge, floating jack-o’-lanterns, and a cloud of live bats fluttering over the tables. He stopped short, and even Ron said, “Woah.”

Harry realized that another group of students had likewise stopped short just inside the doorway. Nearest to him was Hermione, who was gaping up at the ceiling with a look of wonder on her face. He saw his chance, and sidled closer.

“Good decorations, don’t you think?” he said.

Hermione looked surprised, but rewarded him with a genuine smile. “They’re traditional. I read about them in Hogwarts, A History, but the description really didn’t do them justice.”

This was going well, Harry thought, elated. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Listen–”

“Move along, please. That’s enough gawking.” Snape’s sour voice came from behind them.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” Hermione said quickly, and ducked away.

“Yeah…”

“Mister Potter. Are you still incapable of following simple instructions?”

Before he could stop himself, Harry said, “I dunno, sir. Can you give them without deciding I’m trying to antagonize you for no reason?”

“Excuse me?” said Snape sharply.

Harry bit his tongue.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for your arrogant disrespect.” Snape’s face was tight and livid. “And it’ll be detention if I hear you speak that way to me again, Potter.”

Harry muttered, “Yes, sir.”

When he got down to the Gryffindor table, Harry was surprised by not a trick, nor a treat, but a thin, meter-long, paper-wrapped package with his name on it. Ron was already poking at it, an eager expression on his face.

“Look what you’ve got, Harry! What d’you reckon it is?”

“I dunno.” Who would send Harry a package? He never got mail; it wasn’t like the Dursleys had anything to say to him.

There was a scroll of parchment tied to the package, and so Harry opened that first, and it was a good thing he did, because the first sentence of the letter read, “DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.”

As you have no broomstick of your own, I have taken the liberty of ordering one for you—the school brooms are hardly competition-worthy. However, not all the staff were in agreement that you should be allowed to have one, as first years are not generally allowed to compete on the House Quidditch teams, so please, keep this quiet. If everyone knows you’ve got a broomstick, they’ll all want one.

I expect to hear that you are training hard and keeping up with your studies.

Professor M. McGonagall

Harry read the letter silently, and then handed it to Ron, searching out Professor McGonagall with his eyes at the high table. She was gazing in his direction, and smiled when he made eye-contact. He grinned back. He thought that this was the best present anybody had ever given him, besides perhaps Hedwig–certainly, it was better than the old, worn-out clothes and the hand-me-down broken toys the Dursleys had provided.

“A broomstick!” Rom exclaimed in a carrying tone. “You lucky–”

“Shh,” Harry whispered frantically, as several of their year-mates looked over.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Ron said. He continued in an undertone, “Hurry up and eat, and we can nip back up to the dormitory before class and open it!”

Harry wolfed down his breakfast in record time, but their plans were thwarted, because when Harry and Ron made it out into the empty Entrance Hall, they found their path blocked by Hermione, who was standing on the staircase waiting for them with her arms crossed.

“Is that really a broomstick?” she asked.

Harry hesitated. Beside him, Ron rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he answered honestly.

Hermione sniffed. “I suppose you think this is a reward for breaking the rules?”

Harry wanted to snap back, but he had promised Neville he would try. “What does it matter if we broke the rules?” he asked. “Nobody got in trouble, and nobody even got hurt. It’s fine.”

“The rules exist for a reason!” Hermione exclaimed. “Just because you got lucky one time, it doesn’t mean you can go about pretending they don’t exist, sneaking out at night whenever you feel like it!”

This seemed to Harry an exceedingly stupid point of view. He’d never have survived living with the Dursleys if he hadn’t been willing to sneak out of his cupboard at night and steal food from the fridge when he was grounded. “Why not?”

Hermione stamped her foot on the ground. “Oh, you’re impossible!” she exclaimed.

“God, why do you even care?” said Ron impatiently. “Nobody asked you to get involved, anyway. Why don’t you just go back to ignoring us, and we’ll pretend you’re not even there.” He moved to brush past her.

“I took an interest because I cared about you two, and because I didn’t want to see you get yourselves expelled!” Hermione shouted. “I stood up for you when you were outed, and I helped you with your homework–”

“Well, nobody asked you to,” Ron snarled. “Just because we’re both...trans, or whatever, that doesn’t make us friends.”

Hermione’s open mouth snapped shut. She blinked back visible tears.

“Hermione–” started Harry, who felt that that was a bit harsh.

But she turned on her heel without a word and fled away up the stairs.

Harry watched her go, feeling hollow.

Ron shrugged uncomfortably. “What?” he snapped at Harry. “It’s true.” But it didn’t look like even Ron believed what he was saying.

*

Hermione didn't show up for any of their classes that day. She didn’t show up for Charms, where they were practicing the Levitation charm, which Harry, who was paired with Neville, struggled to grasp and Ron, who was paired with Seamus Finnegan, utterly failed at.

“Wingardrium Leviosa,” he said moodily, jabbing at his feather with his wand. The feather caught on fire, earning them all extra homework.

Hermione didn’t show up to Herbology either, though Harry overheard Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil talking–apparently, Hermione had locked herself in the girl’s bathroom and wouldn’t come out.

“I went in to try and talk to her, but she was crying something awful,” said Lavender, “and she just screamed at me to get out.”

Ron, to Harry’s left, stabbed his clipping shears into his potted Warbler Fern so aggressively that the plant gave out a mournful quaver of birdsong and dropped all of its fronds in a cloud of yellow-green spores.

Hermione didn’t even show up for History of Magic, which was a pity, because usually she was the only one who could fight through Professor Binns’ soporose droning lectures and actually take notes, and for once, the topic of the class was an interesting one. Harry missed the beginning part of the lecture, daydreaming about flying on his brand-new broomstick, but he tuned back in when he heard Binns mention Ban the Bewildering, a powerful medieval magical practitioner who had, after having been struck by lighting during adolescence, apparently refused to use either “he” or “she” pronouns, and instead insisted on being known only by the name “Ban,” leaving magical historians uncertain as to what Ban’s birth sex had originally been.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry tried, whispering under Binns’ monotonous drone. “Have you ever heard of anyone doing that before?”

Ron, who had his head down on his desk and buried beneath his arms merely grunted in reply, and Harry decided to leave him alone.

*

Hermione spent the morning locked in the second floor girl’s bathroom, crying. It was just so unbearably unfair. Why should Harry and Ron be rewarded for breaking the rules when she was trying so hard to keep them? Ron, who had been born into a wizarding family and didn’t have to wonder whether he belonged here or not, and Harry, the savior of the modern magical world. They didn’t have to worry that they weren’t good enough, that they were other, different, that they would lose the magical world before they had even become a part of it.

Well. Maybe they did. She supposed that Harry, if he got expelled, could be cast back into the muggle world, to go back and live with his muggle aunt and uncle. And she admitted to herself, reluctantly (after a while), that perhaps Ron had something to worry about, too, being so openly transgender–even though, from what she’d seen, the magical world was a little bit ahead of the muggle one when it came to transgender rights and acceptance.

Really, privately, deep down, she admitted to herself (after quite a while) that she was hurt that Harry and Ron didn’t seem to consider her their friend, because she had thought that they were hers. She had done the brave thing, and stood up for them, and helped them, and they hadn’t done the same for her. She couldn’t believe what Ron had said, that just the fact that they two of them were transgender didn’t make them friends. Because it should, shouldn’t it? In the books she read, that was always how it would go–two people, even if they didn’t get along very well, would be bound together by a common cause, and then, even though they fought for a bit and they argued and they snarked, they would find in the end that they liked being together. That was the way it was supposed to go. She hadn’t done anything wrong. So why hadn’t it worked?

What they needed, she thought, was an organization that paired transgender students together, so that they could form friendships and support and fight side-by-side together. Something like… Something like…

Something like a Hogwarts GSA.

As the thought occurred to her, Hermione abruptly stopped crying.

Hermione spent the afternoon locked in the second floor girl’s bathroom, plotting.

*

Hermione was still missing by dinner time. Neville wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but he had seen Hermione march away from the breakfast table, announcing that she was going to have a word with Harry and Ron, and he had heard Parvati and Lavender talking during Herbology.

Neville noticed Ron a few seats away, sitting slouched in his seat, his ears red, stabbing at his food while the bats and pumpkins floated and fluttered merrily over his head. Harry was sitting and looking miserable beside him.

Neville picked at his pumpkin pie. He had thought, if he could just get Harry and Ron and Hermione talking together again, that it would help. That everything would go back to how it had been. But it seemed that he had gotten it wrong, again. He should be used to that, by now. He couldn’t help it, though, he still felt sick and sorry.

His thoughts–and the whole of the feast–were interrupted when the doors to the Great Hall swung open with a bang.

“Troll!” shrieked Professor Quirrell, rushing in with his neat, purple turban askew. “Troll in the dungeon!” He skidded to a stop in front of the High Table panting. “Thought you out to know,” he mumbled, and then he sank to the floor in a dead faint.

Fear gripped Neville ice-cold from the inside, freezing his lungs and rooting him in place.

“Gryffindors! Gryffindors this way!” Percy Weasley was calling out in a commanding tone.

Among the babbling rush, Neville could pick out Harry and Ron. They seemed to be having some sort of fast, quiet debate. Neville swallowed. He wanted to follow Percy. He wanted to be safe and sound in Gryffindor Tower, and not have to worry about trolls or friends or getting it wrong, didn’t want to worry about dogs or duels or how to get Ron and Harry and Hermione speaking again. He wanted to give up and stop trying so hard to be brave.

But the Sorting Hat had told him he could be brave, if he wanted to be, if he tried to be, if he worked hard for it and didn’t give in to the voice in his head saying it was no use because he’d never be good enough. He steeled himself.

And then he forced his feet, step by step, to take him across the hall, to where Harry and Ron stood arguing beside the door.

“Hermione’s hiding in the bathroom,” he told them, breathless, when he arrived. “We have to help her.”

“We know,” Harry said. “She won’t have heard about the troll.”

Ron groaned. “If we get killed trying to save her, I’m coming back as a ghost, and I’m murdering both of you.”

“Come on,” Harry said. “Before Percy notices we’re missing.”

Heartbeat fluttering like an anxious hummingbird, Neville followed Harry’s determined stride and Ron’s long suffering sigh.

*

Harry slipped out of the Great Hall and dodged around a crowd of Hufflepuffs, Ron and Neville on his heels. All the students were trying to get to their Common Rooms, and the teachers down to the dungeons to head off the troll, but nobody was looking where they were going, and it was easy to pass unnoticed in all the confusion.

Harry saw Snape slipping away up the stairs, and paused for a moment, wondering what the potions master could be doing, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because he heard Percy’s voice approaching from behind, calling “Stick together now! Excuse me, I’m a Prefect!” and he had to duck out of the way behind a stone griffin. Ron and Neville barely made it after him, and they all waited, breathless, for the group of Gryffindors to pass. Once the corridor was empty, they quietly crept out, and took off for the girl’s bathroom.

They almost made it. They were almost to the right corridor when from ahead of them, they heard a high, piercing scream.

Ron swore and broke into a run, his long legs quickly outpacing Harry and Neville. They followed, almost bowling him over when they got to the bathroom door.

Hermione was there alright, and so was the troll. It was a huge, lumbering thing with a lichen-covered, stone-gray skin and rock-shaped teeth, plus two tusks, which it was currently showing off in a loud roar. It was brandishing a rough-hewn wooden club, which it had clearly been using to knock all the sinks off the wall, as the porcelain remains lay broken on the tile floor amid a fountain of spraying water.

Hermione was pressed against the far wall, looking petrified. All of the troll’s attention was focused on her.

“Distract it!” shouted Ron, picking up a piece of the broken sink and lobbing it at the troll’s head. “Oi, pea-brain!”

Harry and Neville spread out. “O-o-o-over here,” Neville called tremorously, as the troll turned its attention instead towards Ron.

Harry dodged around it and made for Hermione. “Come on, come on, run!” he panted, taking her arm and trying to pull her towards the door. She was frozen in place, and by the time she started to move, the troll had swung around again and was brandishing its club at Harry.

“Do something!” Hermione shouted at Ron bossily, seeming to forget her fear for a moment.

“What am I supposed to do?” he shouted back, and then he had to dodge as the troll, which had been looking back and forth between them all, finally made up its mind and lunged at Ron.

“Ron!” Neville squeaked, and then he screamed when the troll turned around and came bearing down on him.

Harry, then, did something that was either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave. He let go of Hermione’s arm and took a flying leap onto the troll’s back. His wand was clutched in his hand; it went straight up the troll’s nose. The troll howled in pain.

“Aren’t you a wizard? Use your wand!” Hermione screamed.

Harry held on for dear life as the troll bucked back and forth, trying to shake him off. It raised its club over its head, prepared to bring it down on Harry.

Ron pointed his wand at the club. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Nothing happened. “It’s Levi-oh-sah, not Levio-sar,” Hermione shrieked.

“You do it, then!” Ron bellowed.

“Together!” Neville said.

Harry held on tightly while the three of them pointed their wands at the troll together, and in unison, they all said the incantation.

The troll’s club slipped from its hand and hovered in the air above its head. Confused, the troll turned its head and looked up at it, and just as it did, the spell gave out, and the club came crashing down between its eyes.

The troll swayed. Harry dropped and rolled away, and not a moment too soon; just where he had been standing, the troll collapsed like a felled tree, breaking off one final sink with a resounding crash.

The four of them stood there in the setting dust and the slowly soaking spray from the broken sinks.

“What are you all doing here?” Hermione asked, sounding bewildered.

Ron cleared his throat. “Well. Harry and I felt sorry,” he said, “about some of the things we’ve said to you.”

“You did?”

“And Neville was very worried about you.”

“I was,” Neville said, worriedly.

“And so you followed a troll across the school to what, come and rescue me?” Hermione asked.

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Ron said gruffly. “‘S what friends do.”

Before Hermione could reply, the sound of rushing footsteps suddenly sounded from the corridor outside, and Professor McGonagall and Snape burst into the room, quickly followed by Quirrell.

“Good Lord,” Quirrell said, turning white and putting a hand over his heart. He sank down onto the wet, dirty floor.

“What is the meaning of this?” McGonagall asked furiously. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen her look so angry before. Her full lips were pressed together into a thin line, her Scottish accent seemed more pronounced, and her wand hand was shaking slightly as she pointed her wand at the inert body of the troll. “Why aren’t you in your dormitories? You could have been killed!”

Harry ducked his head, feeling horrible. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Hermione spoke up, her voice a small quaver. “Please, Professor, it was my fault.”

“Miss Granger! Explain yourself!”

“I went looking for the troll because I’ve read about them and thought I could handle it. Ron and Harry and Neville are only here because they tried to save me. They knocked it out together. There was no time to get help. If it wasn’t for them, I’d probably be dead.”

Harry stared at her in shock. Hermione Granger, the one who hated breaking the rules, was lying to a teacher-–lying to get them out of trouble.

Snape sent a piercing glance around the room, and Harry tried to look like this story was nothing new to him. It was true that they’d saved her, anyway.

“It seems that Miss Granger may be telling the truth,” Snape said slowly.

“Of all the foolish–-I expected more sense out of you, Miss Granger,” McGonagall spluttered.

Hermione hung her head.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” McGonagall said. “As for you three,” she turned to Harry, Ron, and Neville, “Well, I just hope you know how lucky you are. Not many first year students could take on a fully-grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale!” She collected herself. “You will be awarded five points each.”

Harry felt an overwhelming surge of relief. He grinned. He’d been expecting to get in trouble for this, for sure.

“For sheer, dumb luck!” McGonagall added, when she caught sight of their smiles. “Now go back to your Common Room, please! We will deal with this.”

The four of them filed guiltily out of the bathroom and walked quietly down the corridor until they were out of sight.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry said to Hermione, when they were out of earshot of the professors.

“Well,” she looked flushed. “It’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Harry grinned all the way back up to the Gryffindor common room.

*

Some things can’t be fixed in a single day. Friendships are one of them. Ron and Hermione were still prone to bicker with one another, and even Harry and Neville argued sometimes, too. But there are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and, well. You know the rest.

Chapter Text

Snape was limping, the next day. Harry watched through narrowed eyes as Snape made his way to his seat at the High Table, gripping the backs of chairs as he went.

"Look at Snape," he muttered to Ron–and Hermione and Neville, who were once joining them at breakfast. "I saw him heading up to the third floor yesterday, while everyone else was busy in the dungeons. I'll bet he went to try to get past the three-headed dog."

None of his friends seemed to take his concerns very seriously, lazy in the peace of the morning sunlight and too busy enjoying their food and their recent reunion.

"Ron, you said trolls are really stupid, right? Maybe it didn't get in on its own. Maybe Snape let it in as a distraction."

"D'you reckon so?" Ron asked, a little skeptical.

"Harry," Hermione said, "I know you don't like Snape–and with good reason!" she added, when Harry scowled at her–"but he's a Hogwarts teacher! I really don't think he's trying to steal whatever it is that dog is guarding."

Harry appealed to Neville, who shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't want any more trouble from Snape," he said.

Harry was left to stew over his scrambled eggs, watching Snape closely, but Snape frustratingly neglected to do anything remotely suspicious for the rest of breakfast.

"Come on," Ron said bracingly, "It's Transfiguration first today. Coming, Hermione?"

Hermione was cramming books in her bag as fast as she could, a slice of buttered toast held between her teeth. She freed it carefully before speaking. "I'll be there soon," she said. "I've just got to run to the library first!" And with that, she was off, her dark, curly hair bobbing as she rushed off between the tables.

"It’s always something with her, isn't it?" Ron said, laughing, but not unkindly, shaking his head.

Harry lagged behind a little, still watching Snape as he followed Ron and Neville out of the Great Hall. He was so preoccupied that he didn't notice the slim, pale arm reaching out to grab him, until it was too late.

He found himself yanked into a storage closet and slammed into the wall, sending mops and brooms scattering. Harry reached for his wand, but before he could raise it against his attacker, Draco Malfoy's thin, pointed face filled his field of vision.

"What have you discovered?" Malfoy demanded, getting very close to Harry's face.

"What?" said Harry, momentarily too confused to even try to push Malfoy off. "What do you mean, discovered?"

"About the dog," Malfoy said, pressing an arm painfully into Harry's collarbone. "Don't try and lie to me."

"I haven't discovered anything about the dog," Harry said, annoyed. "Ow, get off. You're hurting me."

To his surprise, Malfoy let Harry go. It was strange to see him without his two lackies. Harry thought he looked rather small and uncertain without them.

"But surely you've been investigating," Malfoy said. "I mean, they must be mad, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school. What is it doing here?"

"Why do you think I'd know?" said Harry, nonplussed.

Malfoy seemed to pout. "I don't know, you always seem to know everything. The teachers all love you, Boy Who Lived and all that."

"Don't call me that," Harry snapped. "And I haven't any more idea what that dog is doing here than you do."

"Oh." Harry had never seen Malfoy look at such a loss before. "Well, then," he said haughtily. "Never mind."

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, "Couldn't get Crabbe and Goyle to go bully the answers out of that dog? I'm sure that must have been really irritating for you."

Malfoy's fair cheeks turned a dark red. "Crabbe and Goyle don't believe me about the dog," he muttered. "They think I'm being stupid about it." His chin jutted out stubbornly. "Which I'm not. As you should know."

"Hermione reckons she saw the dog standing on a trap door." Harry didn't know why he was telling this to Malfoy of all people. He didn't even know why he was still talking to him. Malfoy was just as much a bully as Dudley had ever been–only he didn't think he'd ever heard Dudley admit to having trouble keeping his lackies in line, or ask Harry for help with anything. "She thinks it's guarding something."

"Oh, great, we're taking the word of a Muggleborn," said Malfoy sarcastically.

"Hermione knows better than to insult the people she's asking for help. Pity you don't," Harry said, and shoved Malfoy out of the way.

His hand was on the closet door handle when he heard a small voice say, "No, wait."

Against his better judgment, Harry turned back.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said, though it looked like the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked very alone, standing there in the near-dark. "You've got to tell me what you know. Everyone in Slytherin thinks I'm mad because of this."

"And you expect that to change?" Harry said, but he was considering it. Maybe Malfoy might know something about Snape, being in his house. At least Malfoy might take his fears about Snape seriously. "I think whatever that dog is guarding, Snape tried to steal it last night. I saw him running upstairs while everyone was busy with the troll. I think he tried to get past the dog. Don't think it worked, though. He was limping this morning at breakfast."

"Snape?" said Malfoy blankly. "You think Snape is trying to steal something from underneath that great big dog?"

"You don't have to tell me I'm mental," Harry said. "I've already heard enough, okay?"

Malfoy was chewing on his bottom lip. "It seems…unlikely," he said hesitantly. "But not impossible, I suppose." He glanced sharply at Harry. "You're not as useless as you look, Potter."

"Wish I could say the same, Malfoy."

Looking more pensive than angry, Malfoy elbowed Harry. "The door, please?" he said imperiously. "We're going to be late for class."

Harry stared at him, but Malfoy didn’t budge. “Fine, whatever,” Harry said, getting the door. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Malfoy ignored him, sweeping off like they’d never had this conversation.

"Where were you?" Ron hissed as Harry slid into his seat moments before Professor McGonagall stepped into the Transfiguration classroom. "What took you so long?"

"I was talking to Malfoy," Harry muttered, taking out his quill and parchment.

"What did that git want?" Ron asked.

"You know, I'm not sure."

Ron opened his mouth to ask more, but he didn't have the chance, as McGonagall called, "Quiet, please. Open your books to page thirty-four. Today, we are learning about the basic properties of Transfiguration."

*

Harry had never understood before what people meant when they talked about a place feeling like home. Privet Drive had certainly never been it. Yes, he lived there, and yes, maybe there was a certain kind of peace and safety in being left alone in his cupboard, where Aunt Petunia couldn’t scold him and Uncle Vernon couldn’t shout at him and where Dudley couldn't reach him to use him as a punching bag--but at Hogwarts he felt different. Safe. From time to time, he even caught himself feeling happy.

He loved the castle and the grounds. He loved the Gryffindor common room, the feeling of being packed in there on cozy nights, working on homework or talking lazily about Quidditch and Fred and George's latest pranks. He loved climbing up the drafty steps on Saturday mornings to visit Hedwig in the Owlery. He loved Hagrid's house, and drinking tea with Fang drooling all over his knees. And lately, he had found his way into a different part of the castle that he had never been to before, and found himself on an arching bridge over the grounds, where he could stand and look up at the castle's high towers or across to the still, black surface of the lake. It made something inside him ache, to stand there alone in the weak sunlight with Hogwarts all around him.

He loved his school robes. Some of the other students wore other clothes outside of class--muggle clothing for the muggle-borns, jumpers and trousers with capes or colorful robes for those with wizard families. But Harry wore his Hogwarts robes all the time. Not only because they fit him better than Dudley's old cast-offs--he liked how they looked. He liked the flowing black shape of them, the pleated sleeves. He liked how they shrouded the shape of his body and swished and swirled around him when he moved. He had never worn anything remotely like them in the muggle world before. The closest thing he could think of was the robes that the angels and shepherds had worn for his primary school's nativity play.

They were…nice. He didn’t know what that meant, but he found himself fingering the silky material sometimes, all the same. It was like a reminder of something that he always wanted to be. It made him happy.

“Hermione?” he asked, late one evening, when they were two of the only people left in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione was finishing her Transfiguration essay–which was already several pages over the recommended limit; she was worrying over what to cut–and Harry had been anxiously trying to bring himself to ask her this question for the past few hours.

“Hmm?” she said absent-mindedly, crossing out a lengthy sentence.

“How did you know you were a girl? If that’s alright to ask,” he added hurriedly.

Hermione looked surprised. “I don’t mind.” She tapped her quill thoughtfully against her chin. “How do you know the sky is blue?” she asked. “It just is, it always has been since you learned what blue was. I know.”

“Right,” said Harry, his stomach sinking. He didn’t know why he’d expected the answer to make sense. Maybe he was just fooling himself.

“Gender is a social construct, created by our performance, and our social norms and agreed-upon definitions,” Hermione said, getting more animated as she went on. “I mean, what does ‘blue’ mean, really? But I’m a girl because I am one, given these social roles and what it means to be a girl.” Her eyes lit up. “If you’re interested, there are some books I could recommend on the subject!”

“Maybe later,” Harry hedged. “I just wondered…did you ever…” his cheeks flamed hot. He cleared his throat. “I mean, did you ever wish you were something else?”

“No,” she said with clear conviction. “Never.”

*

But the question of gender, this…possibility–Harry refused to think of it as anything more than that–it haunted him, still.

Harry and Ron had taken to going down early to the Quidditch pitch together early after dinner, the nights that Harry had Quidditch practice. It gave Ron a chance to fly on the Nimbus Two-Thousand, and Harry the chance to share something with his best friend. It wasn’t something that he’d had a lot of practice doing, but he couldn’t help the rush of joy he got seeing Ron whoop and holler with excitement as he did a sloppy loop-the-loop on the broomstick.

Harry had never had a friend like Ron before–to be honest, he had never really had a friend. He worried that if Ron caught wind of this…possibility, he would drop Harry in disgust, feel that Harry was stealing his spotlight, or worse. But hadn’t Ron stuck by Harry through the whole fight with Hermione? Wouldn’t he, out of everyone, be the most likely person to understand? And Harry felt wrong, somehow, not telling him.

He waited until they were sitting in the stands together, waiting for the rest of the team to show up.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Harry blurted. His palms were sweating. He didn’t know why he was so nervous.

Ron raised a wary eyebrow. “Yeah?” he said. “What is it?”

“I think I might be like you. Or, like Hermione. Like Hermione and your brother. T-” he swallowed. “Trans. Maybe.”

“Blimey,” said Ron, and then he didn’t say anything.

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Or maybe not. It’s probably stupid.”

“Like my brother?” Ron asked. “You mean Ginny?”

“Y-no. Maybe. But no, I meant the older one.”

“Bill?” Ron asked.

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.” He glanced sideways at Ron. “Go on, tell me I’m being stupid and I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Mate, I don’t know what I’m talking about either,” said Ron, frowning. “And I don’t think you’re being stupid.”

Harry immediately felt a million times better. He should have guessed. As much as he liked Hermione, Ron was just easier to talk to.

“What do you want to do about it?” Ron asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m not–I’m not ready for it to get out, yet.”

Ron nodded seriously. “Let me know if you change your mind, yeah?”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Hey, mate, no matter what, you’ll always be the same person to me,” Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank–”

“Just some twit in glasses.”

Harry snorted.

It was nice to have a best friend.

*

The first Quidditch game of the season was coming up, and Harry was getting nervous. He’d checked out a book, Quidditch Through the Ages, from the library at Hermione's suggestion, and Hermione had agreed to help him review the information in it, which was very nice of her, since as far as he could tell, Hermione didn’t really care about Quidditch. She also conjured up some bright blue flames, which were definitely against school rules, and could be carried around in a jam jar. The four of them huddled together with the jar during break in the chilly courtyard.

“Okay, what’s it called when you foul due to excessive use of elbows?” Hermione asked, reading from the book.

“Cobbing,” Harry said.

“What’s the origin of the Golden Snitch?”

“Uh, I don’t know, it used to be played with a bird or something.”

“The Golden Snidget,” Hermione corrected. “Yes. How is the American version of the game played?”

“What’s he got to know that for?” Ron asked. “He’s not going to play in America.”

“You never know when it might be useful to know something,” Hermione said primly.

“Watch out,” Neville said suddenly. “Snape’s coming.”

Hermione shoved the book into Harry’s hands and tucked the bluebottle flames out of sight under her cloak.

Snape was still limping, and evidently in a bad mood. “What’s that you’ve got there?” he snapped at Harry.

Harry held out the book, Quidditch Through the Ages. He eyed them suspiciously as they all tried to act naturally. Apparently unable to find anything else they were doing wrong, he snatched the book out of Harry’s hand. “Library books are not to be taken outside the school. Five points from Gryffindor.”

Harry glared after him as he limped away toward the castle.

“That’s not true,” Neville said quietly. He had hidden behind Harry when Snape appeared. “You’re allowed to take library books onto the grounds. I asked Madam Pince about it.”

“You try telling Snape that,” Ron said bitterly.

“Maybe I will,” Harry said. He was full of nerves about the upcoming match, and he wanted a distraction, and the worst thing Snape could do was say no, wasn’t it?

“Better you than me,” Hermione said darkly, but she and Neville and Ron wished Harry luck as he set off alone to follow Snape up to the castle.

He’d lost Snape in the bustle of students in the hall, though, and ended up at a loss. He figured he’d try the potions classroom, maybe Snape had a class next period to teach? The dungeons were quiet and lifeless like a tomb, and almost as cold as outside. Harry found himself wishing he’d brought along Hermione’s bluebottle flame spell.

Nobody answered when Harry knocked on the door. He opened the door and peered in. It looked empty. He crept inside, wondering if Snape might have left the book on his desk.

There was nothing there. Harry was about to give up when he heard voices coming from behind the door of the back storage room.

“--blasted thing. How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?”

Panicking, Harry ducked into the student supply cupboard and shut the door.

Unfortunately, there was already someone there.

“You again!” Harry muttered. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to find out if Snape knows anything about that three-headed dog,” Draco Malfoy hissed. “Obviously! Now shut up or he’ll hear us!” He pressed his face to the cupboard door.

Harry sighed and crouched down, pushing the door open a crack. He could see Snape, seated at one of the tables with his robes pulled up above the knee to reveal a nasty semicircle of puncture wounds in his leg. Filch was there too, holding an armful of potions ingredients and bandages.

“I'd imagine that’s the point of Dumbledore puttin’ him there,” Filch said. “Hold out your leg.”

Snape stretched his injured leg stiffly out and Filch, of all people, began applying the bandages.

“But what good does it do,” Snape growled, “if the beast attacks friend and foe alike? I didn’t even get a glimpse of him. Agh! Be careful with that!”

Filch rolled his eyes, finishing up with the bandages. “So you still think he let the troll in?”

“I’m sure of it,” Snape said. “Keep your eyes open, as much as you can.” Grunting, he stood and let his robe fall to cover the fresh bandages. “Now go, I have a class starting in twenty minutes.”

Filch left and Snape disappeared back into the storage room.

Harry saw his chance and opened the cupboard door, spilling himself and Malfoy out onto the cold stone floor. They slipped out the classroom door into the throng of students heading to their classes. “So Snape and Filch are in on it together!” he breathed, forgetting in his excitement that his companion was Draco Malfoy.

“Don’t be stupid,” Malfoy said impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what he said? He was following someone else, someone who let the troll in.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry said stubbornly.

“Honestly!” Draco said. “Who do you think he’s accusing, then, Dumbledore? No, we need to find out who this mysterious man is. He’ll lead us to the answer.”

“We?” questioned Harry.

Malfoy flushed. “Yes, we who want to know the answers. That is, if you’re not too busy spending your time with losers.”

“Only you, Malfoy,” Harry said snidely.

“Fine,” Malfoy said haughtily. “I’ll do it myself, then.”

*

Hermione liked her bluebottle flames.

It was something of a relief, a tiny little act of defiance, to carry them around. It was a reminder. She had broken the rules–in a fairly major way, or at least she’d pretended to: skipping class and sneaking off to fight a troll! On purpose! And it hadn’t got her kicked out. It even got her two new friends.

Maybe, maybe it was alright to break the rules. Just a little bit.

She cupped her little jam jar in her cold hands. She had elected to spend the rest of break in the library, as she had done all her spare time since Halloween. She had read through several reams of school rules on student affinity groups, clubs, sports teams, and study groups, and she had confirmed that there wasn't a GSA at Hogwarts yet, but there was no reason she couldn’t start one. She just needed signatures indicating student interest, approval from a faculty advisor, a meeting space, and a written proposal outlining the club’s goals and usual activities.

That didn’t sound that hard.

McGonagall was in her office when Hermione knocked on the door.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall looked at her over the top of her square-rimmed spectacles. “What brings you here? You’re not having trouble in class, are you? Your marks so far have been exemplary.”

“No,” said Hermione, feeling her cheeks warm under the praise. “Not at all, my classes have been fascinating.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” McGonagall set down her quill. “And you haven’t had a hard time fitting in with your classmates?”

“No,” Hermione said, less confidently. “Not really. But that is what I wanted to talk to you about, sort of.” She took a deep breath, wrapping her hand around the warm jam jar in her pocket, her little spark of defiance. There was no rule saying that a first year couldn’t start a new club, after all. “I think Hogwarts should have a Gay-Straight Alliance. I want to start one.”

McGonagall’s face was impenetrable. “Other students have organized similar affinity groups in the past, though there are none that are currently active. Are you aware of how much work starting and running a club would take, Miss Granger?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, pulling out her notes and setting them down on McGonagall’s desk. “I’ve done my research. I think I can get the signatures, and write the proposal, and find us a meeting space. I just need a faculty advisor. Would you consider the role?”

McGonagall’s ruler-straight mouth twitched up into a small smile. “If you can get signatures proving sufficient student interest, I would be happy to serve as advisor to the club,” she said. “I’ve been telling Dumbledore for years that we need to get the Queer Wixen group up and running again. I can give you their old constitution and minutes. Do let me know if you need help writing the proposal.”

“Thank you!” Hermione gasped.

McGonagall smiled. “Get along to class,” she said. “I’ll find the papers I mentioned and get them to you by Monday.”

Hermione tumbled out of her office, beaming. She took the jam jar out of her pocket and hugged it to her chest.

She was going to make a difference.