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Harry’s third year at Hogwarts had not gotten off to a great start. In his first day alone, he’d gotten attacked by Dementors, everyone thought he was a wimp for fainting from said Dementors (stupid Malfoy), and he’d learned there was yet another psychotic madman out for his head. Then Professor Trelawney had foreseen his death, which would really put a damper on anyone’s mood. The only good thing to come out his first week at school was Malfoy getting injured due to his own stupidity, but since Harry wasn’t the type of person to revel too much in his enemies’ pain, it wasn’t much of a consolation prize.
And then, as if all this misfortune was not enough, all of the Gryffindor students sat in one on one meetings with Professor McGonagall where she told them all about how puberty would be affecting them in the coming months and years. It would have been amusing just how wrong Professor McGonagall would have been about how puberty would affect Harry if it hadn’t been so terrifying. Harry, you see, had not been born as a boy. No, he had been born as a girl. But from a very early age, he’d known that was balderdash. The fact he had girl parts was irrelevant; he was a boy and that was all there was to it.
He believed it so strongly, in fact, that at some point when he was a child his accidental magic had basically rewritten reality so that everyone in the magical world remembered him as the Boy Who Lived. Everything touched by magic, such as books printed on magical printed presses, also changed. However, the Muggle world was unaffected. The Dursleys thought of him as Iris Potter (even thinking that name made Harry want to throw up a little) and had no clue he was really a boy.
In fact, they’d been so certain he was a girl that when the Hogwarts letter addressed to Harry Potter arrived, they’d shared it with him to taunt him about how there was a whole world of magic out there and he wouldn’t be able to access it. There was one key flaw in that theory, of course, and that was that the Dursleys were morons. Harry had simply replied in secret, elated that he’d found a society who knew him as Harry and not She Who Would Never Be Named Again. He’d owled Professor McGonagall to take him to Diagon Alley. It turned out that Mrs. Figg was a Squib and covered for him by making the Dursleys think she was babysitting him during the shopping trip. At the end of that summer, he’d just sneaked out to King’s Cross.
Since then, Harry had been blissfully happy being thought of as a boy by just about everyone in Hogwarts. The only people who knew the truth were Ron (who had figured it out, as often happens when your best friend shares a room with you), Hermione (who Harry told), and Madam Pomfrey (who’d figured it out when examining Harry after the Stone debacle). Harry also had a hunch Professor Dumbledore knew, but then again, he always acted like he knew everything, so Harry wasn’t really sure.
The happiness of passing for a boy was looking like cold comfort, though, compared with the trials and tribulations he was facing right now. As if things weren’t bad enough, Harry was coming down with some concerning ailment. His breasts were feeling extremely sore (alas, transition potions had to be authorized by one’s guardian), he’d been feeling so tired he could barely get out of bed sometimes, and his stomach had been hurting him incessantly. Harry knew the sensible thing would be to go and see Madam Pomfrey, but the mediwitch had more than enough on her plate right now with the Dementors around. People were becoming very depressed and people who were already depressed had their condition worsened. It was even rumored a student had tried to kill themself, though given the constantly shifting details in the story, Harry suspected that rumor wasn’t true or at least had been heavily distorted.
No, Harry wasn’t about to go running to the mediwitch like a wimp, like the coward Malfoy thought he was, just because he had some sort of weird flu. Still, it was not a pleasant experience to say the least. Harry found his temper, already hard to handle, increasing as time went on. He kept snapping at people who were just trying to help him. Sometimes, he was overcome with a great, intense sadness and he felt like crying all the time. God, the Dementors were the worst.
And then he’d woken up one morning, early from a nightmare, and blood was staining his sheets. Harry let out a yelp and looked down at his lower portions and he managed to suppress a scream of horror with a Herculean effort because he was bleeding from his vagina.
“Ron,” Harry whispered urgently at the next bed over as he opened the curtains and quickly covered himself up. “RON!”
Ron groaned and mumbled incoherently before opening his curtains minutely. “It had better be a life and death situation,” he muttered.
“I’m bleeding down there!” Harry said, feeling absolutely panicked. Was he experiencing some horrible curse? Had someone stabbed him during the night?
Ron’s face turned chalk white. “We don’t talk about that,” he whispered. “Blimey, Harry, you can’t just go around talking about this stuff! It’s not done!”
Harry’s heart sank. Whatever was happening to him must have been bad if Ron refused to even discuss it. “Ron, please, if you know something about what’s going on, please tell me.”
“No, I am not doing this,” Ron said and closed the curtains firmly.
Okay, so Ron wasn’t going to be helpful. Harry’s next instinct was to go to Madam Pomfrey, but he quickly shoved that idea down where it belonged. Madam Pomfrey was a busy woman. She’d repeatedly told him she wished he didn’t get hurt so much and this would only make her disappointed in him. Harry wasn’t about to disappoint yet another adult.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to bleed to death. There wasn’t as much blood as there appeared at first glance. So he just wiped the blood away with toilet paper and soldiered on. It was his way. Physical pain didn’t matter. Life was a struggle and if you gave in, you were weak. That was the way of things and as far as Harry was concern, it was a philosophy that had served him well over the years.
But the blood wouldn’t stop haunting him. Harry had thought about talking to Hermione about it, but Hermione wasn’t exactly a medical expert and anyway, she had looked so frazzled recently. Harry couldn’t bring himself to bother her. What would she know about mysterious blood based curses anyway?
Just as he was about to bite the bullet and talk to Hermione anyway – the pain was getting intense – Harry had a sudden epiphany. He was dying. It made so much sense. Had Professor Trelawney not foreseen his death? He had seen a Grim that night on Privet Drive – a clear omen of death. Why would Professor Dumbledore hire a teacher to teach a subject that was nonsense? If Trelawney was good enough to work at Hogwarts, then she must have known her stuff, and Harry must have been about to die.
It was strange how unworried Harry was by the prospect. Of course, he didn’t want to die. But he was bizarrely at peace with the prospect. After all, he’d cheated death numerous times over the past couple of years, to say nothing of how he’d survived the Killing Curse. He’d been living on borrowed time all along in a sense. When he was dead, he would be able to see his parents again – he felt it in his bones – and Black would stop hunting him and the Ministry would withdraw the Dementors. Everyone won. Professor Dumbledore himself had said that to the well organized mind, death was just the next great adventure. If Nicholas Flamel, one of the greatest mages to ever live, could accept his own death with stoicism, then surely Harry could do the same. It was time to organize his mind and prepare for the end.
The first step was to deal with his financial assets, so he reached out to Professor McGonagall and asked her about how to make a will. She looked extremely disturbed by the idea. “Mr. Potter, you are thirteen,” she said slowly. “Why on earth would you need to know such a thing?”
“I’ve nearly died repeatedly in the last few years,” Harry said patiently. “And my life is in danger this year as well, or are you going to tell me those Dementors are there for the heck of it?”
Professor McGonagall shook her head in dismay. “For a child as young as you to be concerned about such things…it’s just not right.”
“I just don’t want any of my gold to go to the Dursleys,” Harry added. “I want my money to be divided equally between Ron and Hermione.” This seemed to convince Professor McGonagall, who was as fond of the Dursleys as Harry was. That was to say, not at all. She seemed convinced they had been trying to brainwash Harry into thinking he was a girl for their own sick amusement, which amused Harry a great deal, since that would be exactly what the Dursleys themselves would probably think the magical world was doing to Harry if they ever found out he was trans. Which they never would, especially since Harry was dying.
Professor McGonagall nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll make arrangements for us to visit Gringotts next weekend. Thank you for coming to me with this, Harry. But I promise you, there’s nothing to be worried about. Black will never dare go near Hogwarts with the Dementors patrolling the grounds.”
Harry scowled. “Respectfully, professor, I find myself more concerned about the creatures that want to destroy my soul than the madman who wants to take my life.”
“I will sooner die than allow the Dementors to harm a single one of you,” Professor McGonagall vowed. A disturbing thought seemed to occur to her. “Harry, you wouldn’t…harm yourself, would you?”
Harry blinked. What a ridiculous notion. “Of course not, professor. Why in God’s name would I ever do such a thing?”
“Right, yes, of course,” Professor McGonagall said, looking slightly embarrassed. “You must forgive an old woman for her silly notions, Mr. Potter.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh as he left Professor McGonagall’s office. Why would he ever want to hurt himself? Even if he had any desire to cause himself pain, it was completely unnecessary. He was dying anyway and if he wanted pain, well, his body was giving him plenty to choose from.
The next step probably wasn’t going to amount to anything, but there was no reason not to give it a shot. Ever since his first confrontation with Voldemort (well, second if you count that time as a baby, but Harry didn’t), the question of just why Voldemort had wanted him dead in the first place had been nagging Harry. What kind of a dark lord was scared of a baby? Surely not the same kind that had terrified the magical world to the point where they weren’t willing to say his name. It was his last chance to gain answers, so he made his way to Professor Dumbledore’s office.
The headmaster seemed very surprised but pleased to see him. After accepting Dumbledore’s customary opening offer of lemon drops (Harry did so love those sweets and the kind he found in the Muggle world just didn’t compare), Harry got straight down to business. “Professor, in my first year, you told me you’d tell me why Voldemort tried to kill me when I was older. Well, I’m older, so…?”
Dumbledore cracked a grin. He looked genuinely amused at Harry’s audacity. “A very nice try, my boy, but not quite good enough.” Other people might have found it condescending to be called my boy, but to Harry it was a glorious affirmation of his gender. “I will tell you when you are an adult or if the situation devolves to the point where it is necessary.”
For an instant, Harry was tempted to inform Dumbledore he was dying, but he decided against it. There was no need to upset the old man unnecessarily and the idea of resorting to revealing that for the sake of emotional blackmail disgusted Harry. Maybe Malfoy would have done such a thing, but Harry was better than that. “Sir…I’m trying to find a polite way to put this…you’re a very old man.”
“Perhaps you should have tried a bit harder, Harry,” Dumbledore said in a lightly chiding tone of voice. Harry bowed his head in shame. “You are wondering what will happen if I should pass before deciding to reveal the information, yes? I assure you, I am not the only person who knows the truth. Professor McGonagall will tell you if something happens to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, biting his lip nervously. “Do you…worry about death, sir? I know you told me in my first year it doesn’t bother you, but how can that be? Are you really so certain it’ll be a great adventure?”
Dumbledore leaned forward, looking deeply troubled. “I do not know, Harry. I merely have faith. For an old man such as myself, death is merely finishing writing a story. For one such as you, it would be as if you burnt the manuscript and all that might have come of it. Do you seek to have your own story come to an end?”
What was with all these people thinking he was suicidal? This wasn’t the impression he was trying to give at all. Harry had absolutely no desire to take his life. He didn’t want to die, he just didn’t see the point in being upset about his story coming to a close if that was what fate had chosen for him. His parents had died for him. Killing himself would have been spitting on that sacrifice. “Sir, I promise you, I have no intention of causing myself harm,” Harry swore. “I just want to have my affairs in order in case Sirius Black kills me.”
“Hogwarts is perfectly safe,” Dumbledore promised.
“Tell that to the basilisk I killed last year,” Harry shot back and immediately regret it when Dumbledore looked distraught by the mention of the danger he’d had to put himself in to save Ginny. “I’m sorry, sir, that was out of line. But I promise you, I’m not suicidal!”
“I believe you, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I apologize for my lack of faith in you, but the Dementors are having an adverse effect on people’s mental health and it is far better to be overcautious than the converse in such matters.” Harry supposed that made a lot of sense. “Now as much as I would love to continue this conversation, I must deal with something far more daunting than even Lord Voldemort himself: paperwork.”
Harry took his cue and left the office. Well, he wasn’t going to get any answers from Dumbledore before he died, but that was okay. His parents would tell him the truth after he was dead. And once that happened, it was sort of academic anyway. How ironic that his own body was causing the one thing the most dangerous mage in living memory could never accomplish.
The last thing he had to do to get his affairs in order was to give thanks to his friends. No one could be blessed with better friends than Ron and Hermione. Sure, they had their flaws and sometimes they could drive him up the walls, but they were true and loyal and amazing. They’d proven multiple times they would risk their lives for him and he would do the same. Being deprived of Ron and Hermione for what would hopefully be a very, very long time was the worst thing about his impending death in Harry’s opinion.
“First off, I’m not suicidal,” Harry announced as the three of them ate breakfast in the Great Hall.
Hermione looked more than a little weirded out. “Okay…”
“It’s just, people have been assuming I am for some weird reason, so I’m telling you right now, I’m not,” Harry explained. “I just wanted to tell you, both of you, you’re the best friends anyone can ever have. I love you both. I always will, even when I’m gone.”
Hermione blinked repeatedly. “When you’re gone,” she said slowly. “Yes, I can’t imagine why people think you’re suicidal when you’re saying things like that.”
“Hermione, back off,” Ron said. “It’s, you know, that time of the month.”
Hermione gasped. “Oh! Oh, well, of course. I totally get it now.” She patted Harry on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Harry, we all get out of sorts when we have our periods.” Harry had absolutely no clue what a period was or what it had to do with a time of the month, but anything that convinced Hermione he wasn’t suicidal was good for him. “And this has been your first one, I suppose. Surely Professor McGonagall told you all about it, right?”
“Oh, yes,” Harry lied. “I talked to her about it the other day.”
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Good! Oh, that’s good. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. Well, then…good. We love you too, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d be in a troll’s stomach, that’s where you’d be,” Ron joked. Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a fond smile on her face.
Well, with that settled, there was nothing more to be done than wait for the inevitable end. He composed a note explaining the circumstances behind his impending death and left it taped to the bottom of his bed. Harry hoped the end would come with some swiftness; the pain he kept having in his legs and stomach and groin area was getting worse.
According to Professor Sinistra, Scotland was going to be experiencing a strong aurora borealis event on Wednesday night. Harry had always wanted to see the Northern Lights, and he supposed as long as he was going to kick the bucket, he should start crossing things off his bucket list. So he sneaked off to the Astronomy Tower under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak and waited patiently for the ethereal light display to appear.
The tranquility of the night was broken when the door to the platform swung open and Hermione and Ron ran out, looking utterly frantic. “DON’T JUMP, HARRY!” Ron screamed.
Harry laughed. “I’m not going to jump, you two. Honestly, didn’t I tell you? I’m not planning on offing myself.”
“We found your suicide note,” Hermione said, her face pale and panicky. “And then Fred and George said you were on the Astronomy Tower and we rushed straight here!”
Harry was confused. How on Earth would Fred and George have known where he was? But he was also annoyed. He expected his friends to have more faith in him. “If you’d read the whole note, Hermione, you’d know I’m dying, not suicidal!”
“You’re…you’re dying?” Hermione said, sounding small and weak and instantly guilt coursed through Harry. His friends were just worried about him. And he’d have frankly been worried in their shoes too.
Harry sighed. “I should have told you, but…I don’t know. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Oh, thank you ever so much, Harry,” Ron snarked. “I really appreciate that.”
“A few days ago, I started bleeding from the vagina and it hasn’t stopped,” Harry explained. “I can only conclude I’ve been cursed with a dread curse of blood.”
Ron suddenly burst out laughing. Harry stared at him. What the hell? What kind of friend was he, laughing at Harry’s impending death? “You…oh my God!” he said, barely even able to get words out through his guffawing.
“Ronald!” Hermione snapped. “It’s not funny.”
“The hell it’s not!”
Hermione stomped on Ron’s foot. “Harry, you’re not dying,” she said. “You’re just having your first period! And someone here didn’t explain it to you.” She glared fearsomely at Ron. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No!”
Hermione sighed. “Harry, every month, w – people with uteruses bleed for a few days,” she explained. Hermione was very supportive of Harry being trans, but she occasionally slipped – correcting herself nearly instantly every time – because of preconceptions from the Muggle world. “They also have pain sometimes, and mood swings. It’s perfectly normal.”
Harry pointed at Ron. “Then why did he act so disgusted?!”
“He’s an idiot,” Hermione said simply.
Ron shrugged. “Yeah, probably. Look, I thought Mc – Professor McGonagall would have told him,” he corrected himself quickly after Hermione’s fearsome glare. “We had all those horrible talks. This is the kind of thing she should have told him!”
“Professor McGonagall doesn’t know I’m trans,” Harry said quietly. “She didn’t know she had to tell me.” He suddenly grinned. “So I’m gonna be okay! I’m not dying! I’m just going to be in horrible pain every month for the rest of my life. Remind me how this is better again?”
“Well, it’s actually only until you turn fifty or so,” Hermione began pedantically, but she was interrupted by Harry hugging her. He was so happy! He was going to live! He was going to keep spending time with his best friends, no matter what silly conclusions they leaped to, and he was going to survive and thrive.
Harry was embarrassed to realize he was crying. Stupid period, making him all emotional. Stupid best friends. Stupid everything. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. “You’re just the best friends a guy could ask for,” he cried.
“And this, uh, period stuff,” Ron said, looking absolutely disgusted with even hearing the word come out of his mouth. “It doesn’t make you any less of a guy, okay? Not to me, not to anyone who matters.” Best. Friends. Ever. “So if you’re not going to jump, why are you here?”
“Northern Lights,” Harry explained. “Sinistra swears they’re going to show up tonight.”
“Ooh, I never even thought about that!” Hermione said. “I suppose we are far north enough for them to make an appearance.”
“Want to join me?” Harry asked.
Hermione looked hesitant. “Well…we are out after curfew…but then again, in for a penny, in for a pound.”
The three of them proceeded to lie on the cold ground. Hermione conjured warm blankets for the three of them and soon, the beautiful ethereal patterns of lights appeared in the sky. But as far as Harry was concerned, the magnificence of the Northern Lights paled in comparison compared to the two forever friends at his side. With Ron and Hermione on his side, Harry’s life was going to be good and long.