Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesday, September 2nd, 1998

Harry Potter stumbled into one of the very few abandoned classrooms left after The War. The rebuilding had commenced, but it was slow, especially as classes had to be added and gotten rid of based on available professors. Hell, a good portion of the ‘eighth years’ were spending this year apprenticing instead of normal classes so as to become a professor next year.

All of the returning eighth years were forced to see mind healers, therapists, and others were offered for younger students as well, especially the newly seventh years. Each eighth year had their own therapist because Headmistress McGonagall didn’t want any chance of overlapping opinions, or a student being treated wrong because they shared a therapist with a student who hated them. Besides, with different therapists for each person they could all see them at the same time which made scheduling easier, every Saturday from 1:00 to 2:00 P.M. The younger students just had two therapists they shared and who were currently living at the school.

Hermione thought it was a good idea. She thought the school should continue having counselors, at least two but maybe more than that would be better, from now on. Just like muggle schools are required to. Harry didn’t care, but he did not want to have his own. Not to mention the group therapy sessions with all of the eighth years the last Saturday of every month. Sharing a floor with them was bad enough.

Everyone was stuck in Gryffindor tower, all the students that is, because everywhere else was either uninhabitable, housing teachers and other staff, or being used for class. The eighth years were still split up into different dorms, six now instead of eight, but it wasn’t based on house. Harry got Ron, thankfully, but he also got Malfoy and Zabini, which had to be intentional. 

The room didn’t look very classroom-like or abandoned, which Harry was sort of sad about. He was mostly just annoyed about having to have a meeting on a Wednesday, but McGonagall said they needed to meet their therapists before the first ‘real’ meeting, and today was the day. There was no class until Monday after all.

The room had been emptied except for the teacher’s desk that the woman, Dr. Katherine Whitaker, was using and a plush red armchair in front of it. Plus, the doctor’s stuff on the desk.

Harry sat in the chair, something telling him to fight back, but being too tired to do so. He just wanted to sit.

Dr. Whitaker smiled. “You must be Harry Potter.”

He wanted to make a snarky remark about how that was obvious because, well, he was Harry Potter, or about the fact that he was her only patient, at least at the school. But he was too tired.

“Can I call you Harry?”

‘It is my name’ he wanted to say, but was, again, too tired. He hadn’t spoken since that May 2nd, and he wouldn’t any time soon. Well, he’d have to after he got custody of Teddy from Andromeda after the school year was over, she just couldn’t take care of him full time after her own child’s death, but that was June’s problem.

“You don’t have to talk.” She promised. “But I’d still like to communicate with you. Too bad we’re not in the non-magical world, some of my patients from there use AAC devices, but those aren’t really a thing here. And I know BSL, but I’ve been told you don’t. You can write your answers if you want, which I suppose is a type of AAC.”

She was talking a lot, but it didn’t sound like she felt awkward or was trying to fill the silence Harry left. She just sounded like she talked a lot in general.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You probably don’t know what AAC means. It’s Augmentative and Alternative Communication. It’s all types of communication, of talking, except oral.”

Harry still didn’t respond, just sat there, staring down at the floor. He was so tired.

“So, do you want to do that?” Dr. Whitaker asked, handing over a yellow legal pad and a very muggle pencil.

Harry held them, looked at them for a moment or two, then just dropped them. Let them fall to the floor. For some reason that made him smile, and he didn’t smile often.

“Did you like dropping them?” She asked after noticing his smile.

Harry’s hands opened flat then clenched closed a few times, completely of their own volition. He wanted to drop more stuff, especially the legal pad and pencil. 

Dr. Whitaker stood, picked up the dropped items, then opened a drawer of the desk, searching for a moment before pulling out whatever it was she was looking for. She handed it to Harry and he looked at it for a moment before it clicked what it was.

A palm sized red rubber ball. He dropped it to the ground and giggled in delight, as if surprised, when it bounced right back up into his hand. He dropped it again, feeling elated when it came right back.

If this is what therapy was, maybe he had been fighting too hard against it.

Harry wasn’t really thinking for the next however long. He dropped the ball, it bounced back to his hand, he dropped it again. Dr. Whitaker was silent too, just watching and writing. That was until she wasn’t.

“Our session is halfway over; it’s 1:30.” She said, and Harry wondered if it was meant to be a nice way of saying ‘you can stop bouncing that stupid ball now’ . But, he didn’t want to stop bouncing it. It made him feel good, he liked it, he could control it. It always came back.

“Mine.” Harry surprised himself by shouting, not unlike a young Dudley. Completely selfish and with a power behind it to hurt anyone who tried to take it away. Harry didn’t want to be selfish or scary, but it was his bouncy ball and no one was taking it.

Dr. Whitaker didn’t seem surprised at the talking or attitude nor did she seem upset at his negative traits shining through. “I’m not gonna take it away, you can have it.”

“Mine.” He repeated.

“Yours.” The doctor nodded. “Harry’s.”

“Harry’s.” The eighteen year old agreed, almost sounding like a toddler or perhaps a house elf. A part of his brain was telling him he was acting odd and should stop, but he just felt so possessive of the little rubber sphere, like he needed it to survive. It was his .

“What else is Harry’s?” She asked after writing something on the paper. Maybe the start of a list, maybe a note to figure out why he was acting like a territorial dog, maybe both. He didn’t know.

“Hermione.” He decided. “Ron.”

What else was his?

“Jacket.” He tugged at his blue flannel jacket with the hand that wasn’t clutching the bouncy ball. “Teddy.”

“Who’s Teddy?”

“Godson.” When he finally began talking again he assumed it would all come pouring out like a faucet, but even one word at a time was a struggle. Or maybe that was this territorial-possessive-animal feeling.

Honestly feeling was maybe the wrong word, it was more like a lack of feeling. He was used to his brain feeling like a towel had been stuffed in it, preventing most thoughts from forming and making the ones that did very slow, but this towel-stuffed-in-brain feeling was different than the usual one.

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t feel anything but an absolute sensation of ‘mine’ .

One time when he was seven he had made Uncle Vernon very mad, way more than he had ever seen before or after that, even when Hagrid had come to take him to Diagon Alley. Honestly, when Hagrid came it was mostly fear, not anger.

Well, Uncle Vernon was mad so he got kicked out, actually kicked out. Harry wasn’t sure what made them take him back the next morning. But, since Harry was kicked out he had to go away so he was walking down the street, alone and scared and cold because it was after dark.

And there were these two dogs down the road who he heard barking and growling at each other every night. Fighting. And he’d never minded before because he was safe, from the dogs at least, in his cupboard and they were outside. But, now he was outside too.

And eventually he walked so far he saw them. There was a brown boxer tied to a post and a white pyrenees in the road, it was wearing an old collar, but nothing else. They were both active in the fight, but it was clear the boxer started it. Did every night. Because the pyrenees wanted 

to take over its territory and eat its food and live in its house and it didn’t want that.

Harry managed to get past them without being hurt, without being seen, but it was terrifying and added to his hatred and fear of dogs. Only Sirius helped that hatred and fear decrease.

But now Harry felt like those dogs. Like the boxer, defending what was his, even if it wasn’t much, and willing to fight in a seemingly hopeless war to make sure he kept it. Like the pyrenees, longing with his whole person for a home and warmth.

Harry won The War. Harry had a…house, and sort of had Hogwarts. Harry had physical warmth and people trying to give him metaphorical warmth. And yet….

Harry didn’t have much, but he had that damn rubber ball and he wasn’t letting anyone take it away from him. This felt even more important than defeating Voldemort. It was more important than defeating Voldemort. It was his .

Harry suddenly zoned back into life, having not realized he was ever zoned out, to find the ball still clutched in his right hand, but now also pressed against his chest where his heart was, and to hear himself growling. Growling . He really was acting like a dog.

Dr. Whitaker didn’t seem fazed, not at the growling and not when he stopped thanks to the feeling of shame trying to soak through the towel and into the rest of his brain, and failing except at making him notice it was there. “Are you okay, Harry?”

“I didn’t tell you you could call me that.” Harry said without meaning to; that kept happening. 

“That’s true.” She nodded. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to call you?”

Harry frowned and lowered his hand holding the ball to his lap, squeezing it. “Harry’s a weird name, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s a fine name in general, but maybe some people named Harry actually aren’t meant to be named Harry and so then it’s weird. Is that how you feel? You’re not meant to be named Harry?”

Harry didn’t know how to answer. She was right, he didn’t feel like a ‘Harry’ never had. Which would have been confusing enough to experience, to have called out, even if it also wasn’t for that odd not-feeling-ashamed-but-still-feeling-shame-present thing and a waning animalistic feeling of needing to protect his ‘territory’. His friends and godson and school and this strange rubber ball…and his jacket….But those things made it way worse.

“It’s okay to not want to be a Harry.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’m even a human.” So many more unintentional, previously unknown, words, accompanied by a dry sob/laugh. Katherine Whitaker was making him far too comfortable, though he was so uncomfortable, far too fast.

“You’re not the first person to ever tell me that.” The doctor assured, seeming like there was more she wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if it was wise.

“Why do you sometimes work in the muggle world?” Harry suddenly asked, suddenly remembered, suddenly comprehended. 

“They need therapists too.”

“But there are muggles who do that. Why would a witch need to?”

“I’m not a witch.” She corrected. “I’m a squib….Most of us are.”

“Most therapists?”

“Yeah, in the magical world at least, some in the non-magical world, some of us do both. I do both. It’s one of the few jobs we can do without having to give up this part of ourselves.”

“I never—”

“Thought about it?” Dr. Whitaker finished. “No one does, not most of the time….But this isn’t about me or squibs, this is about you. Do you know what you want to be called?”

Of course he did. He had to be called Harry, it was his name. And yet—

It felt so wrong .

“I, um,” Harry took a deep breath, “I guess….”

“It’s okay.” She assured. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“You have to call me something.” Which confirmed, both to her and him, that ‘Harry’ was wrong.

“We’ve just got a couple minutes left now, but I’ll be seeing you again at our usual time on Saturday. That gives you seventy-one hours to think about it. If you still don’t know by then we’ll figure it out, but there isn’t much need for it now. If I absolutely have to, I'll just call you ‘Potter’, okay?”

“Okay.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re Ron Weasley then?” The blonde woman asked once Ron had sat in the wooden chair in front of her desk.

“You’re Sarah Pollard then?” He mimicked. 

“That’s Dr. Sarah Pollard, thank you very much.” She smiled. “How are you doing today?”

“You got any siblings?”

“A brother.”

“Imagine if he died.”

“I’d be devastated.”

“I’m devastated today, then. I’m devastated every day.” 

“Can I ask you an invasive question?”

“That is your job.”

“When was the last time you changed clothes? Or showered? Or brushed your teeth?”

“That’s three questions.”

“I have many more along the same lines.”

“What’s today?”

“September 2nd.”

“September 2nd which is a…?”

“Wednesday.”

“A week-and-a-half.”

“A week-and-a-half?”

“Since I showered and changed my clothes. I do it every Sunday.”

“But not this past Sunday?”

“I do it most Sundays…some Sundays.”

“And your teeth?”

“Who fucking knows, mate….Harry’s sevententh birthday, I guess. A little over a year.”

“Can I ask the similar invasive questions?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“How long since you last brushed your hair?”

Ron touched the tangled and matted mess that had grown down to around his chin, having not been cut since the morning of Bill’s wedding, thirteen months and one day ago. “Dunno….Same as my teeth, I guess….I guess it was probably actually Bill and Fleur’s wedding, the day after Harry’s seventeenth. My hair and teeth being brushed that is.”

“And is deodorant being applied the same amount of time?”

Ron scoffed. “I don’t think I ever wore deodorant very often…but yeah.”

“What about eating?”

He thought about it. He had slept through breakfast and lunch today, and hadn’t eaten the feast yesterday, it made him nauseous. He didn’t pack lunch for the train and slept through breakfast yesterday. Felt too sick about returning to school the day before that. The day before that, every day before that, he hadn’t gotten up until 1:00 P.M. and was asleep by 6:30 P.M. 

Ron shrugged. “The 30th, I guess. I must have eaten something, a sandwich or something, that afternoon.”

“So you haven't eaten in three days, and when you did it was just a sandwich ‘or something’?”

“Something like that.” He shrugged again.

“What about drinking? When was the last time you drank anything?”

“Last night, at the feast. Had…juice. Pumpkin juice.”

“When was the last time you drank water?”

“Uh, had lot of it during The War….Probably April, late April.” 

“So over four months?”

Another shrug. “If you say so.”

“So, you haven’t been doing very well for a while, huh?”

“Didn’t I say I’m destroyed, or something?”

“Devastated. You’re devastated.” 

“Right, devastated….I really am.”

“I know.”

“Harry won’t talk to me.” Ron admitted, not sure why. “It was all fine with us during The War, well mostly. And then it ended and it was summer break and stuff and I thought maybe he was just grieving and trying to let us grieve and it’d be fine when we came back to school. But, he still won’t talk to me. Or anyone. Except he’s been writing Hermione very angry notes about not wanting to do therapy since we found out yesterday, but that’s it.”

“He’s definitely grieving. He’s lost a lot of people, even before The War, and it’s not easy. You know it’s not. Still, it must be hard for you to be ignored by your best friend.”

Another shrug. “Sure….Everything is hard.”

“After everything you’ve been through it would be, will continue to be. That’s why I’m here. Why we all are.”

“And I’m sure you’re going to do a wonderful job at making me all better .” He mocked sarcastically.

“I hope so. I don’t like seeing people in pain.”

“Bad job for you then. Everyone you see is in pain.”

“But I get to help them.”

“I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

“You’re devastated.” 

“I’m devastated, and fine.” 

“That’s impossible.”

“So is killing an immortal, stealing something from Gringotts, and finding The Deathly Hallows, and yet here I am. I’m not a person who is constrained by such fickle things like impossibility.” 

“No, you’re not. But, you’re also not fine. And that’s okay.”

“Do people usually swoon in a newfound feeling of acceptance when you say that? ‘Cause the effect is lost on me, but thanks, I guess.”

“Believe me, Ron, you’re not the first person to ever use sarcasm or annoyance to hide or cope with pain, especially of the mental and emotional kind.”

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m devastated.”

“And you’re also fine.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, let’s go over everything. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, you feel abandoned by your best friend, and you’re devastated. Am I missing anything?”

“You’re missing the fact that I’m fine.”

“Have you always been like this ?”

“Asking so you can decide if I’m worth fucking after the school year ends?”

“I’m asking so I can try and determine if you have clinical depression.”

“I’m not worth fucking. Don’t worry.”

“Why aren’t you worth fucking?”

“So you do want to fuck me, I knew the whole clinical depression thing was an excuse.”

“ Ron .”

“Let’s see: my body is gross, I have no experience, and the last time I tried getting off I kept thinking about my dead brother until it got to the point he was the only thing I could see when I closed my eyes and I didn’t sleep for a week. Oh, and I didn’t get to cum.”

“Sounds like PTSD, but I suppose that’s pretty obvious. I think there'll be a lot of PTSD diagnoses soon. As for the other two things: no one is born with experience with anything, it’s called a first time for a reason, as for your body being gross, I doubt you care about my opinion, and you shouldn’t, but I do have to ask the obvious question. Why do you think your body is gross?”

“Let me think for a second.” He exaggeratingly pretended to think for a moment. “Hmmm. Maybe because it is?”

“Fine then. What about it is gross?”

“All of it. Don’t tell me to be more specific, that’s the truth. All of it.”

Dr. Pollard didn’t talk for so long that Ron couldn’t help but interrupt her thoughts. “Why aren’t you talking?”

“I’m trying to decide if this is most likely dysphoria, dysmorphia, an eating disorder, or just insecurity.”

“This is me having working eyes.”

“Let’s try this a different way: if you could look like anything, what would it be?”

“What’s the opposite of this?” He indicated his body.

“You tell me.”

“Shorter. I’m not woman enough to be 5’8.”

“Is that it?”

“Not even close.”

“Then what else?”

“No freckles, girls look good with freckles, not me though. Not red hair, my brothers and sister look good with red hair, but I could only look good with red hair if I was a woman….Longer hair….It wouldn’t look good on me, only would if I was a woman, but….Merlin do I hate short hair, except on women….And so on.”

“You keep relating everything back to being a woman.”

“I’m eighteen, it’s a commonly thought about topic.”

“But most eighteen year old men don’t relate their bodies to women, saying they would look good if they were a woman, but don’t as a man.”

“Should you really be comparing me to other people?”

“I’m just trying to show you that you might not actually think you’re ugly. Not with your individual features at least. Maybe it’s just dysphoria, maybe you want to be a woman.”

Ron laughed at that. “Me? A woman? I don’t remember getting notified that Hell froze over.”

Dr. Pollard sighed. “Maybe I’m making assumptions too quickly, and I definitely believe you that you’re a man, but, well, what am I meant to think when instead of telling me what you want to look like you pretty much just told me that you want to look different because you’re not a woman? That you would like all these things about yourself if you were a woman?”

“It’s just being objective.”

“What do you like about yourself? It doesn’t have to be physical.”

More laughing. “I don’t like myself. Why would I?”

“You deserve to. You have to live in this body for the rest of your life, and of course you can make changes to make you like it more, but having such a total hatred….I’m not saying you have to love your body, I know that’s hard, but maybe we can work on getting you neutral toward it, and make some changes that’ll help you like yourself more.”

“What type of changes?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Whatever you want, which you don’t have to know yet. But, just for example, you could dye your hair, or pierce your ears, or both.”

“I don’t think changing my hair color or putting holes in my body is going to make me stop wanting to cut it to shreds with my mom’s hair cutting scissors.”

“Why do you want to cut it to shreds ?”

“Because it’s wrong. I hate it.”

“What would you do once you were in shreds?”

“Nothing. I’d be dead; that’s how being cut to shreds works.”

“If you didn’t die. If whatever magic lets you use hair cutting scissors to turn yourself into shreds , then imagine it would also let you do something else afterward, to yourself. What would you do?”

“Put myself back together in a good way, obviously.”

“Can’t you just do that without cutting yourself to shreds? Can’t you just figure out what ‘a good way’ is and do it now, without being cut up first?”

“It’s just a pipe dream. This thing,” He indicated his body, “can’t ever look good.”

“Why not?”

Ron didn’t answer because his knowledge on the topic was few and far between and what he did know didn’t seem proper to put words to.

“Ron?”

“Are you the oldest or youngest?”

“Oldest.”

“Well, I guess you’re both special, huh? First kid, and baby. Not like having six siblings. Not like being the last boy born right before the longed after girl is.”

“That sounds hard.”

“Bill and Charlie and Percy are perfect, they weren’t even that impoverished when they were little. Ginny is even better than perfect, she’s the baby and the only girl and the one they always wanted. Fred and George used to understand me, they were still loved and understood more, but they were also in the middle. But now Fred is dead and George is special and important because he lost his twin. He has it the worst out of the family about mourning. But I’ve never been special or perfect, and I never will….I get maroon sweaters and corned beef sandwiches and….”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Not maroon. Definitely not maroon.”

“There are lots of things it isn’t, but what is it?”

“And not orange either. People think I like orange because of my bedroom, but I just like The Chudley Cannons. Don’t even really like them anymore.”

“So, not maroon or orange, what then?” 

“It’s stupid.”

“I don’t think it is. And I’m sure you don’t.”

“Violet.”

“Violet?”

“What, are you even more convinced I’m a woman now? Last time I checked favorite colors and gender aren’t connected.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t have some big conspiracy to convince you you’re a woman. But it is part of my job to help you discover and accept who you are.”

“Do you try and convince all of your patients during the first meeting that they’re women, or am I just special?”

“I asked you once, you keep coming back to it. And I only asked because you were already showing signs of wanting to be a woman.”

“Is it because you want to fuck me? Are you a lesbian, but just can’t get over the idea of me?”

“I’m not a lesbian and I don’t want to fuck you and I don’t want you to be a woman; I don’t care what your gender is.”

“You can’t deny yourself forever.”

“Why are you so insistent on pretending like you believe I want to fuck you? 

Ron shrugged and went to respond, but couldn’t think of anything .

“And yet,” She went on, “you don’t think anyone would actually want to fuck you.”

“You do seem to have the skills to piece together information.” Ron sighed. “How long have I been here?”

“Fourteen minutes.”

“How? It feels like I’ve been here a billion years!”

“Time does seem to be passing slowly, but I think it’s mostly just because this is the first meeting.”

“I’m leaving.” 

“There’s still forty-six minutes.”

“I don’t care.” And he clearly didn’t as he stood and walked out the door without even thinking about looking back.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Gladys Floyd was a young woman, no older than twenty-five, with long blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and a penchant for suits. Neville Longbottom was none of those things, though he was younger.

“Can I call you Neville?”

“Sure….Can I call you Gladys?”

“Sure.” She smiled, crossing one dress pants covered leg over the other. “How are you doing today, Neville?”

“Um, not the best I’ve ever been, not the worst.”

“That’s a good place to be all things considered. How do you feel about starting your eighth year?”

“Well, it’s not really the same as a normal seventh year. I’m apprenticing under Professor Sprout to become the new herbology teacher, except….Well, being a soon-to-be-professor I get to attend all the staff meetings and the meetings with the runes workers and builders and such, and well, Professor Sprout might not be retiring. Because it’s hard to think about it right now with so many positions unfilled and new ones being debated being added, but Headmistress McGonagall thinks there should be two teachers, at least, for all the classes. One teacher for the first through third years and one for the fifth through seventh years, and then the fourth years would be placed with one of the teachers based on their skills and what careers they want to go into. And Professor Sprout is a big supporter of that, she doesn't even want to retire, she’s just gonna if we don’t do the two teacher thing so I can have a job and because she’s old enough to collect retirement from the ministry so doesn’t need the money.”

“And what do you think?”

“Too bad Snape died before this could go through because he would love not having to teach anyone below OWL level.”

“I didn’t know him personally, and I didn’t attend Hogwarts being a squib, but my older sister did and she was convinced Professor Snape hated being a teacher.”

“Oh, he did….I remember when I was a younger student, how he fought so hard to be the DADA teacher, and well, now that we all know about the curse on the position….I mean, he didn’t know about the curse in of itself, but he knew none of the teachers lasted past a year, which I never really thought about when I was a kid, but now….Sometimes I wonder if he wanted to die.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised….But, you never did answer me. Do you want there to be two teachers per class?”

“I mean, yeah. Because it’ll make it easier for the teachers and the students, but also because it lets people focus on skills. Like, in fourth year I would have made it into the 5th-7th herbology class which would have helped my self esteem and my herbology skills for now, but I’d be with the younger kids for the classes I more struggled with which would get me more help so I could learn better. I can’t think of any problems, except finances.”

“I can’t say I disagree….And you also didn’t tell me how you feel about eighth year.”

“I’m excited, I’m excited to become the herbology teacher, especially if I get to work alongside Professor Sprout and not alone, and I like being in the know-how about what’s going on with the school. And I get to make suggestions and vote with the staff and workers too, I don’t just have to silently watch. It’s scary too, I guess, being an adult and getting a job, and the meetings make me anxious sometimes, but….I’m glad. I was unsure about coming back or not, but I’m already so glad and so sure in my decision.”

“I’m glad! When do you start working under her?”

“Well, I’ve already done a little bit. I’m not sure about the others, but I learned I was apprenticing under her, well I was asked to at least, in late July when my school letter came, hence why I’ve been to some meetings already. And we’ve talked about some stuff and she’s given me books and documents to study, but I don’t start it in a class-like way until Monday, same as everyone else.”

“Do you still live with your gran?”

“Yeah, but I’m spending the summer without her, then moving into my own rooms at the castle next August right before the school year begins. I mean, I’ll see her over summer, but I won’t be living there.”

“Where are you staying over summer?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll only need a house during the summer because I already know I’m going to volunteer to be one of the teachers who stays over Christmas break for the students every year, so I might just go ahead and buy one, but I might also just spend it at someone else's house. I guess it depends on if I can find a house and stuff before June.”

“Do you have any money?”

“Yeah, I got an inheritance of 100,000 galleons(500,000 pounds/$636,522.50 USD) from my gran on my seventeenth and it’s all still safe in Gringotts. I’ll get the rest of the Longbottom money when she dies, but that’ll be long off, thankfully. Plus, I’m getting a galleon a week starting next week for my apprenticeship, though I tried to convince the headmistress otherwise. I don’t want to take any money from fixing the school. I mean, it’s easier than in the muggle world, at least according to Hermione, but workers still have to be paid and some supplies have to be bought, though a lot has been donated.”

“How is your gran doing?”

“Pretty good, and she’s being easier on me now too. We’ve been talking a lot, especially about my parents. Especially my dad. She loved him a lot, I mean she still does, but it’s different.”

“You said she has a while left, right?”

Neville nodded. “She’s just turned sixty-six; I think people think she’s older than she is. The thing though, in the magical world, is we live so much longer. Squibs to at least one hundred, witches and wizards at least two hundred, yet we have kids earlier than many muggles. Most people have their first kid before twenty-five, which I’ve been told by muggle-borns isn’t quite as common in the muggle world. So while muggles are lucky to meet a great grandkid, we expect to meet our great great great great great great great grandkids or whatever. Even with all these people dying young from the past three wars. Gran had her son, my dad, ‘late in life’ and she was only twenty-eight….Maybe we have kids too early. Maybe we should give ourselves longer to adjust to adult life and make more money and buy a house and all that. Maybe then families like the Weasleys’ wouldn’t exist. I mean, not having seven kids, but having seven kids when you can barely afford three….My gran said that used to be more common, but then people died before they could even have a second kid. Or they had kids, but the kids died. Or both.”

“Did your gran have any siblings?”

“Two sisters and five brothers. Two of her brothers died as kids from dragon pox, one of her sisters froze to death in her twenties, her other sister and one of her brothers died in the first war with…with Voldemort, and another brother died in this past war. So, just one of her brothers is still alive, in Germany, and neither of her sisters are.”

“Do you have any other family?”

“I got Great Uncle Algie and Great Aunt Enid, my gran’s late husband’s brother and his wife. And I got a cousin called Elizabeth, but she’s in her forties, so I don’t really know her.”

“Sounds lonely. Not having any family your own age.”

“Yeah….I was gonna have a couple younger siblings, that’s what my parents were planning, but then….Well, y’know.” 

“I do know.”

They were silent for a few minutes yet, reflecting on the past war and the one before it, but when another word was spoken it was once again Gladys. “Tell me about you.”

“What about me?”

“Do you have a crush on anyone? Or are you in a relationship?” 

Neville turned scarlet and squirmed. “Um, I’m single.”

“But, you don’t want to be?”

“Well, um, maybe….Maybe I like someone.”

“Are they an eighth year?”

“Yeah.”

“What house?”

“Um….There’s maybe two people….”

“And they’re in different houses?”

“Yeah.”

“Which are?”

“Gryffindor and…Slytherin.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you friends?”

“Not even close. I mean, I sort of am with the Gryffindor, but not the Slytherin. Not even close with the Slytherin.”

“Do you want to be friends?”

“I want to be more.”

“But if you couldn’t be more would you?”

“If I couldn’t be more I wouldn’t ever want to see him again—I mean, uh, her again.”

“It’s okay, Neville. You don’t have to pretend to be straight; if you like a boy, or man rather, than you like a man. No big deal.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I do like girls, women, y’know….Just also men.”

“You’re not the only person to ever like more than one gender.”

“Do you think any of the other eighth years are like me….That they like men and women? Or are even just…gay?”

“I think at least one of them must be. It’s more common than you might think, Neville, really.”

“Have you ever met anyone who wasn’t straight? Like not just met them, but, you know….Like were in their life, or are in their life?”

“Sure. I have a couple friends and my sister is bisexual.”

“Like me.”

“Like you.” She agreed. “Do you have any friends or anything like you?”

“I dunno. Maybe. But if they are, they haven’t told me.”

“Maybe you should talk to them about it? At least to find out if they’re accepting in general, it doesn’t have to involve coming out if you don’t want it to.”

“I’m just—I guess scared I’ll lose my friends or my apprenticeship or job next year. I wouldn’t be the first person that ever happened to.”

“You definitely wouldn’t be the first, but I can assure you the second two of those things won’t happen. I don’t know about the first, I’m sorry, but do you really want to be friends with people who would hate you for being yourself? Who are homophobic?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Anything else like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you’re scared to tell your friends?”

More blushing and squirming and avoidance of eye contact. “Um, maybe a few things….But, everyone has secrets.”

“Sure they do. But it might help you to talk to me about them….You can think of me as a sort of diary that also gives advice and diagnoses.” 

“I don’t—I mean there’s multiple stuff, but there’s this one thing I’ve been thinking about that’s sorta related to what we’ve been talking about, but I don’t know how to say it. And, I mean, it’s a lot scarier than being bisexual.”

“I won’t judge you or rush you. You can tell me anything and you can tell me at your own pace. I’m here as long as you need me for whatever you need me for.”

“I want to believe that.”

“But you don’t yet.”

“I just met you.”

Gladys nodded. “Indeed you did.”

“I don’t—I don’t like my body.”

“A lot of people don’t, unfortunately.” 

“It’s not even—It’s not even being fat. I mean, I‘m not gonna say I’ve never wanted to be skinny, because that’s a lie, but….It just feels wrong. Not my body itself, but….”

“How other people perceive it?”

“Exactly.”

“But how do they perceive it that’s wrong?” 

“Me liking the people I like is gay….But it—” Neville took a deep breath. “It’s also straight.”

“So you’re a woman?”

“Only…partly….Does that make me a freak?”

“No, it makes you nonbinary.”

“Non-what?”

Gladys sighed. “I swear I’m gonna use my right to go to those meetings you speak so highly about just to force the headmistress to put more books in the school library than just magical nonfiction from twenty+ years ago….Someone who is nonbinary is someone who isn’t a boy or girl or is both or is only partly one or the either or both. There’s lots of different genders that fall under nonbinary.”

“You can do that?”

“You can do anything with gender. It’s a social construct.”

“And there’s, um, books about it?”

Gladys unquestionably pulled a sheet of laminated paper out of the desk. “Here’s a list of twenty books about it and where you can find them the easiest and cheapest. I have a bunch of copies just for this specific reason. There’s many more than that, but those are all nonfictional and have dictionary aspects to help you learn terms and figure yourself out, and/or personal stories, pictures, and diagrams, etc. The first five are by non-magicals for non-magicals, the second five are by magicals for magicals, the third five are by magicals for magicals and squibs, and the last five are by squibs for everybody.”

Neville looked at the list in his hands as if it was the most wondrous and surprising thing he had ever seen. And it was.

‘The Queens’ English’ By Chloe O. Davis

‘Gender, Sexuality, and Magic: How They Intersect’ By Merula Snowe

‘What Does ‘Me’ Mean To You?’ By Harper Frost

And so on.

Twenty books written by people who were like him, for people who were like him. He wanted all of them, immediately.

“Are you okay, Neville?”

“Do I have to change my name?” Neville suddenly asked. “Because I like being Neville.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I need to—I need to go. I need to—I need, uh….”

“Go buy the books, it’s okay. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“See you!” And then he practically ran out, because finally he had answers and truth and he needed it now.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean Thomas looked at the man behind the desk in front of him. Tall and chubby with bleached blond hair that tufted up in the middle; white . But also definitely gay, he could just tell. And so he said so.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” 

Dr. Darron Horton smiled. “I am.”

Dean nodded. “I guess that makes up for being white….I’m bisexual. Yes, I have a boyfriend, no I won’t tell you his name, yes I’ve dated girls before.”

“Well, that’s all good to know. But, I don’t want to know about your boyfriend, not if you don’t want to talk about him, I want to know about you.”

“What about me?”

“Are you one of the apprentices?” 

“Yeah, right. I’m only here to get my NEWTs, then I’m never stepping into another school.”

“Then, what are you going to do?” 

“I’m an artist, and I’m working on a book. Plus I’m helping with the school, but that’s temporary. Just for this year.”

“So, you’re creative?”

“Everyone is creative, just only some people know how to use it. That’s what my mom says. She’s a painter and sculptor.” 

“What’s her name? I might know her.”

Dean smirked. “Josie Powers.” 

“Your mom is Josie Powers .”

“Mhmm.”

“She’s, like, famous.”

“I know.”

“And so your dad is Micheal Powers then? The carpenter.” 

“Well, he’s my step-dad, but yeah….Don’t know my bio, but I got stuck with his stupid last name.”

“Do you have siblings?”

He groaned. “Like fifty-billion half-siblings, but don't let mom catch you calling them half. She says siblings are siblings, it doesn’t matter how you’re related. Which I guess I agree with, but I figured you needed to know they were half for context.”

“How many is fifty-billion in reality?”

“Eleven.”

“Goodness, that is a lot.”

“Five brothers, six sisters. I’m the oldest, of course.”

“What are their names? How old are they?”

“Posie is sixteen, Lilith and Rue are fourteen, Blake is thirteen, Zoe is ten, Carol and Noel are turning nine in December, Barry is six, Coby and Xinnia  are three, and Zeke is ten months.”

“Do you think Zeke will be the last?”

“Not a chance. Especially not with me moving out next summer.”

“Where are you moving?”

“In with my boyfriend. In Dublin.”

“Does he have his own house?”

“Sorta. His parents are moving in with his mom’s sister in England, and so they’re giving him their house. They’re moving in December, so he’s gonna go and set up our stuff and buy some stuff, but we’re not officially moving in together until June, after school lets out.”

“What’s he gonna do?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know about him?”

“If you don’t want to talk about him.”

“He’s gonna be a playwright. He says it’s funny cause there was this guy born in the ‘40s with his first and last name that was a playwright. He’s also gonna work as an editor for The Quibbler.”

“Has he written anything yet?”

“He’s started a play, but he won’t tell me anything about it. Says he wants it to be perfect before I know.”

“Hmm….Do you have anything you want to talk about?”

“Not really.”

“Are you looking forward to class starting?”

“I’m looking forward to doing something . But I really can’t wait to graduate. My mom pretty much forced me to finish my NEWTs. She says my family has been denied education way too much not to grasp for any opportunity we can….I guess she’s not wrong. Me and her are lucky to do artistic stuff. It was all hard, dangerous, labor for practically nothing before us.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

“Not much to say.” Dean sighed. “I study war so my sons can study philosophy so their sons can study art. An abridged quote by John Adams, the second president of America. My mom loves that quote.” 

“Your mom seems smart.”

“Genius. Like actually, her IQ is 180 and she’s so creative, such a problem solver. But she’s not an old white man, so….Well, at least she gets to be an artist.” 

“Have you told her?”

“Told her what?”

“About being bisexual.”

“Oh, she loves my boyfriend. She and dad, Micheal that is, and my siblings are the only ones who know though, the only ones who know about him. His parents know too, and about me, but….Well that’s it. Unless he tells his therapist.” 

“How long have you been together?”

“Since fourth year; after the Yule ball.”

“You had girlfriends before that?”

“One before, one after.” 

“Did she know?”

“Not who he was specifically, not that he was even a boy, but yeah, of course. It was barely a relationship, really, she was just using me, consensually, to make this other boy jealous.”

“Did it work?”

“I guess so. They dated during sixth, well she was in fifth, but, yeah. But neither of them like each other now. She has her eye on someone else, someone in her year, and he….Well, I’m not sure anything about him anymore.”

“Have you dated anyone but him and those two girls?”

“No.”

“What do you have in mind for your future?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you always gonna live in Dublin? Are you going to get married? Have any kids? That sort of stuff.”

“Oh, I guess I’ll stay in Dublin, unless we have to move for some reason. And, yeah, we’ll get married. We’ve already started talking about it. We’ve been dating going on four years now, so if everything goes right he’ll propose next year and we’ll get married the year after that. As for kids….I want a kid, no more than one or two, though. But, it probably won’t happen because adoption comes with a lot of trauma and stuff and I don’t think I could handle that. Plus, I’d want to raise the kid from birth, name them and everything, and that usually doesn’t happen with adoption. Plus, since babies get adopted so often I’d feel guilty for not adopting an older kid.”

“You could have a surrogate instead.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, outside of those three things, what do you see for your future?”

“Well, we’ll probably have a pet or two, plus an owl. Maybe a small garden, but more of a flower garden. I’d like to go to at least one sports game, magical or muggle, a year, ‘cause I love watching sports. I’ll probably continue therapy, and try and get him to as well. Other than that, I don’t really know. I guess we’ll see.”

“What’s your book about?”

“It’s a guide for muggle-raised children. I’ve done some research and found that there are some on the market, but a lot don’t address some things I had problems with, or they’re completely muggle-born centric. I’m gonna petition McGonagall to make it a required book for all muggle-raised children, or maybe even just make her give one to each muggle-raised child herself, I’m not sure. But I know I and many other muggle-raised children didn’t even know about the existence of books like this. I want to write more stuff like this too. Like history books specifically for muggle-raised kids that have knowledge that’s more every day for magic-raised kids and so gets left out.”

“That’s a very good idea. Tell me when your book gets published, I want to buy a copy.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. And I’m not just buying it because you’re my patient, that would be unethical, I’m buying it because it sounds really interesting and like something I could recommend to other patients.”

Dean grinned sheepishly. “Okay, will do.”

“Now, tell me about your art.”

And on they went.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Lindsey Goodwin smiled at Seamus when he sat in the pleather cow patterned chair in front of her desk. He glowered.

“How are you today, Seamus?”

He didn’t answer, his head hurt.

“Do you want to play a game?”

He perked up a tad, but didn’t let it show, not completely at least. “What game? The ‘Tell Each Other Our Feelings’ game?”

“No. It’s Candy Land. You ever heard of it?”

“Sure. Everyone has.”

“Not in this world.”

“Well, I’m not from this world.”

“I am, but I haven’t lived most my life in it.”

“What are you, then?”

“Squib. You’re a halfblood, I know, but how? What are your parents?”

“Mom’s a witch, dad’s a muggle.”

“And you were raised in the muggle world?”

“Yeah….I mean there was some magic stuff, but more muggle than otherwise.”

“Well, then, I guess I don’t have to explain the rules.”

“You don’t.”

“Wanna play, then?”

“....Fine.”

They played twice, Dr. Goodwin got the first game, Seamus the second. Then he had to leave.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione was one of the few people to have no reservations about therapy out of all the eighth years, but she still relaxed quite a bit when she actually saw Dr. Julie Moses. A black woman of about twenty-seven with red box braids, a star of David necklace, and pronoun pin proclaiming ‘She/Her’.

“Good afternoon.” The doctor smiled, indicating for Hermione to sit in the floral plush chair in front of her. She had a desk to hold her things, but was set next to it instead of behind it so her and Hermione had no barrier. “I’m Dr. Moses, but you can just call me Julie if you prefer, and as my pin says, I use She/Her pronouns. What about you?”

“Hermione Granger, She/Her.”

“Oh, I love your name. Your parents big fans of Shakesphere, or is it more of a Greek mythology thing?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask what part of England you’re from?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m from Heathgate, in London.”

“Ooh, fancy. I’m from Central London, um, Westminster.”

“So we’re not far off from each other then? I wish I lived in Westminster, it’s beautiful.”

“It really is. Except you can never forget about the monarchy.”

“You’re anti-monarchy?”

“You’re not?”

“Oh, I definitely am. But most people are all ‘God save the Queen blah blah blah I support colonialism’.”

“That they do. But, what about you? How are you today?”

“Pretty good. I’ve honestly been pretty anxious about this, but you’re not very scary at all.”

“I hope I don’t scare you, that would be very counterproductive to my goal to help you.”

“Yes, it would….Why did you want to be a therapist?”

“I like helping people, and I find psychology interesting, so I combined the two, I guess. It just seemed right. I’m one of those annoying people who knew exactly what they wanted to be from like age eight.”

“Not me. I’ve bounced through jobs, up until this past July I wanted to go into politics to try and fix stuff. But then I was offered to apprentice this year and become the transfiguration teacher next year, and I thought about it, and realized that I would much prefer to teach. Not that I’m giving up activism, but that’ll have to be more centered around the summer.”

“I almost became a teacher, in the non-magical world. But….Like I said, I’ve always felt a pull towards therapy.”

“What did you want to teach?”

“Elementary history.”

“I wanted to teach history when I was nine or so, but I didn’t know what grade. I could technically teach history here, it’s being debated letting Binns pass on, but I really want to teach transfiguration. It’s my favorite. Well, except arithmancy, but there’s already a teacher for that, and a couple people lined up just in case. I wouldn’t mind teaching Muggle Studies, cause that class wasn’t very accurate or modern when I took it, but Justin Finch-Fletchley got the job. He didn’t even have to apprentice since he was raised in the muggle world, so he’s starting teaching this year instead of next.”

“What do you like so much about transfiguration?”

“Well, it’s really useful. I mean permanent transfiguration only works on some things and not everyone can do it, but even temporary transfiguration is important. Like the first thing we ever learn is to turn a match into a sewing needle. And, sure, you won’t have the needle forever, but you can use it for however long you have it, which depends on your level of magic but is usually half-an-hour in the very least, which is usually long enough for whatever you need to sow. And if you need it for longer you can just re-transfigure it.”

“Fair point. What about teaching it? What do you like about teaching it? Or think you’re going to like, at least?”

“I guess….Just passing on the knowledge. Like I know all this stuff and you don’t and now I get to make you know it. It’s just so….So human.”

“I think that’s what I liked about the idea of being a teacher, but I was too young to really put it into words.”

“Do you think—” Hermione blushed. She wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this without sounding like she was written by a vaguely racist white person.

“What?”

“Well, my hair is very…big. And I don’t like it. I mean, it’s cute, but it gets in my way, I want shorter hair. But, I don’t want to lose my natural puffy curls. So I’ve been thinking about getting an afro since I was like ten, but….Would it look any good?”

“Hermione, have you ever experimented with your hair at all, or is it just what you have now?”

“Just this. I mean I had beads when I was a baby, but that’s it. Both my parents have always kept their hair short, so they’re not really….”

“The best with your hair?”

“Yeah. I mean they’ve offered to take me to salons and stuff, but they can’t give me advice or personal stories or anything. And I don’t want to get it and it look bad.”

“I think you’ll look great with an afro, and even if you don’t, it’s no one's business but your own. Hair is so special, not just for us, but everyone. It lets you show yourself, what’s inside. That’s more important than fitting into social norms for beauty.” 

“Maybe….Maybe I will then….But I have no idea where to go. And my parents—they’re in Australia now and we haven’t been able to contact each other, so….”

“You want a magical place or non-magical?”

“Well, uh, probably magical.”

“Go to Gideon’s then. I’ll write the address for you, but it’s where I go. They’re amazing.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah. I mean, I can’t have you going around with a bad cut, can I?”

“I guess—I guess you can’t.”

“What about everything else?”

“What’s everything else?”

“Your clothes and stuff.”

“Oh, I’ve been wearing these very articles of clothing for four years maybe.”

“Four? You need new stuff, stuff for your adult life.”

“I don’t really have the money for it.”

“Isn’t your best friend Harry Potter? Make him pay.” It was only partly a joke.

“Well….Well, maybe I can try and figure something out. I do feel rather childish in this stuff.”

“Maybe that’s what you need. New hair, new clothes, new routines, new experiences. You were a little kid and then you were at war, and now you’re an adult and you're safe and it’s not easy to adjust to.”

“It’s not easy to adjust to….You know out of all seventeen of the people who returned six are Slytherins. Three boys, three girls. And I don’t—I don’t know how to interact with them. Not even Pansy Parkinson, and we’re sharing a room together with Padma Patil, the only returning Ravenclaw.”

“It would be hard. Many, of their own choice or otherwise, sided with Voldemort during The War, and even before that they and the Gryffindors didn’t have a good relationship. That’s gone all the way back to the founders.”

“But, then, everything is different now. Our year was sort of…even. Ten in each house, five of each gender. Now there’s eight Gryffindors, five boys/three girls, six Slytherins, three boys/three girls, two Hufflepuffs, both girls, and one Ravenclaw, a girl. So from forty total, 20 boys/20 girls, to seventeen total with eight boys and nine girls.”

“The War has changed everyone and everything, it’s changed you, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe don’t hold their past actions against them. I’m not saying those things don’t matter, but when you put it into perspective….”

“They were just kids during a war.”

“Yeah.”

“I honestly don’t mind Pansy that much. We’ve only spent one night together, of course, but….She’s not as bad as I always thought. And Padma is pretty interesting. I’ve never been close with Parvati, which should maybe change at least a little, but Padma….Padma gets me, I guess.”

“Are either of them apprenticing?” 

“No. Padma is going to start working with her moms’ at their boutique after graduation, I think Parvati is too, but that’s gonna be more temporary, and Pansy….Well, I don’t know about Pansy, but I know she’s not apprenticing.” 

“What about those two best friends of yours? Harry and Ron?”

“Ron is planning on helping George with WWW for at least a few years, I barely managed to convince him to come back this year, and then is considering coming back to teach flying after Madam Hooch retires, but hasn’t decided. Harry….Harry always wanted to be an auror, but I think that dream’s dead, which I’m not upset about. I think he should be the defense professor, so does Headmistress McGonagall, but he didn’t respond to her owl about it, so she’s still trying to figure out what to do there, now that the curse is broken. Professor Kingsley can’t stay after this year, he has to go back to his actual job, but….I don’t know. Maybe Harry will be ready by then.”

“Returning to his job as in going back to being an auror, or going back to being minister?” 

“Minister. Well, assuming he gets elected since it was kind of an executive decision having him do it this summer, then Carla Kenton now. But, yeah, he’s running.”

“Do you want him to be elected?”

“I think so, yes. He’s never done anything particularly bad, definitely better than Fudge or Scrimgeour or any of the mess after that.”

“How do you feel?”

“About what?”

“In general.”

“Right now?”

“Sure.”

“Uh,” Hermione took a deep breath and assessed her body, “I feel sort of stasis. Like….Like well, stasis. Kind of like….Like I’m just sitting here talking so it’s not happening, but if I was actually doing something, then it would be fast and panicky. My actions, I mean.”

“So, anxious?”

“Is that what that is?”

“Well, I can’t say for a fact because I’m not in your body, but that’s what it sounds like to me.”

“And I guess you know a thing or two about anxiety.”

“Maybe just a few.”

“I just—it’s like I’m on edge. Always. Not in a super big way, not like my life is full of panic attacks and an unwanting to do anything, but just…on edge. Like something is going to happen, something bad, at any second. Like someone, something, Voldemort, is just waiting around every corner. But I’m not even thinking about it. It’s not like ‘oh I can’t turn this corner or a snatcher will take me back to Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix’ but more like ‘oh I need to pull out my wand and tense my muscles and look around because a snatcher might be around this corner and I can’t let them take me again’ . Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense, Hermione.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I’ve known you for less than an hour and I haven’t done any sort of diagnostics on you, but just based on that, and logic to be honest, PTSD.”

“It doesn’t feel like my life has been bad enough for PTSD….I used to go on skiing trips every winter break. Very fancy skiing trips. I got Hanukkah presents every night , and not always super cheap ones. I lived in Hampstead Garden Suburb for goodness sake. How can I possibly have PTSD?”

“Because you went through trauma.”

Hermione sunk in her seat and looked at her hands, clasped in her lap. “(You have PTSD)Because you went through trauma” . Such obvious, logical, words. Words Hermione already knew the truth behind. And yet—

Yet they hit so hard.

“How long—how long have I been in here?”

Julie checked her watch. “Thirteen minutes.”

“Ugh, how? It feels like it’s been a million years.”

“I guess we’re fast talkers.”

“How am I supposed to do this for an hour every week?”

“Well, it won’t be all talking. And you’ll have stuff to talk about in the future. When the year gets underhead and you start experiencing new things, when we start looking at your trauma.”

“I’m all talked out today.”

“Well, I was gonna save it until Saturday, but you can do it today instead, if you want. Well, start it today, it’ll be something you continue adding to for a while.”

“What is it?”

“Write out a list of things you’ve missed from your childhood and teenhood for whatever reason. It can be Voldemort related or otherwise, just stuff you’ve missed, and we’ll find ways for you to do them or get them now.”

“....Okay. I’ll try it.”

A piece of notebook paper and pencil was handed over and Hermione easily labeled it, writing down and circling ‘1’ on the first line.

She had no idea what to write.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Lorraine Lawson checked her watch at 1:05. It didn’t seem like Lavender Brown would be turning up.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Ty Gibson checked their watch for the tenth time past 1:00, it was 1:09 now. There was still no sign of Parvati Patil.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Calypso Andromeda Black had halfway convinced herself to go to the Hospital Wing because that sick feeling in her stomach and shaky breath and, admittedly small, rash on her neck clearly indicated poisoning, when her watch showed the time change from 12:59 to 1:00 and so she had no choice but to turn the doorknob. 

Dr. Sydney Allen was….Boring.

Maybe 5’7, though it was hard to tell with them sitting down, with boring brown hair, boring brown eyes, and boring brown skin. They didn’t even have an interesting birthmark or tattoo. Not unless it was underneath their blue button-up or black slacks. The only interesting thing about them was their total androgyny. But they were definitely not someone who should be giving a Black poisoning-level anxiety.

“Draco Malfoy?” They asked, looking up when she didn’t sit down.

Calypso stalked across the room, took her seat, and formed her mouth into a hard line Uncle Sev had inadvertently taught her how to do long ago. “My name is Calypso Black.” It was a growl. One much scarier than her chin-length wispy sort-of-curls she’d dyed blue after a definitely-not-panic-attack in Aunt Andi’s bathroom, than her hand-me-down leather jacket covered in rebel pins and patches, pink tank-top that said nothing but ‘Hope’ in zebra print, and white-washed jeans from Cousin Dora, than her messily applied pink nail polish. 

“Oh—”

“My name is Calypso Andromeda Black. I am a woman. I am not a part of that family any longer, I am not associated with that family any longer. I know only my aunt Andromeda and my cousin Teddy, and the dead. You know nothing about me. That file you hold knows nothing about me. And I expect you to address me as such. Even if no one else, not most at least, does.”

“Right, of course, sorry.”

“Just get on with it.”

“Alright, how are you today, Calypso?”

She closed her eyes with a deep breath, she’d told herself and Aunt Andi, and Teddy though he didn’t understand, that she would be better now. Nicer. More herself. But it was so hard to let down those shields that protected her for so long. “I’m sharing a room with three boys.”

“That must be hard.”

“I don’t mind Blaise being in there because he’s one of my best friends and—but Potter and Weasley….If it’s not bad enough they hate me, now I have to share a room with them. And they’re boys. Or men, I guess.”

“Does the headmistress not know?”

“No, she doesn’t. But, I guess I have to tell her soon.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m apprenticing to be the potions professor.”

“And you don’t want to have to keep hiding yourself even past this year?”

“Well, partly, but also….If she decides to replace me, I don’t want to waste a whole school year of her efforts.”

“Why would she replace you?”

“Because I’m trans, duh.”

“Has she told you she has a problem with trans people?”

“No, but….But, she’s sixty-three. Well, she will be in October at least.”

“Age doesn’t always determine politics.”

“No, but there are trends.”

“That there is.”

“I just want to get it over with already. It’s not like anything will change. I’ll still have to do everything with the boys, the men.”

“Not necessarily. And the language used for you will change.” 

“I’ve been to every meeting, even before I got offered the apprenticeship, because I’m part of the rebuilding team, but I’m so…scared to add in my ideas, the ideas my family have, had before they died.”

“What sort of ideas?”

“Mostly queer ones.”

“Like what?”

“Gender-neutral bathrooms. And dorms. And changing rooms. I guess having gendered ones is okay, but there should also be non-gendered ones, and it shouldn’t be policed who uses what. Same with the uniform, anyone should be able to wear whatever uniform they want…or maybe there shouldn’t be a uniform at all. Or at least the uniform should be optional. So, if you like the look or not having to spend time choosing your clothes or whatever, you can wear a uniform, but if you don’t like the idea of it, you don’t have to.”

“Those are all very good ideas, I think you should present them at the next meeting, maybe even to her personally. Do you have any others?”

“Well, McGonagall is going to have a Yule Ball every year, except it’ll be before break so everyone can attend, and I think she wants one for under-fourths and one for over-fourths and then the fourths can choose which to go to. But, I was thinking that it shouldn’t be boy’s ask or girl’s ask, just whoever wants to ask someone can. And no one has to have a date. And a person can have more than one date, as long as everyone is aware. Or you could go as a group or something if you wanted. And there shouldn’t be a dress code because not everyone can afford fancy clothes. And it shouldn’t be dress coded by gender either. It shouldn’t be boys wear dress robes or suits and girls wear dresses. Anyone should be able to wear what makes them comfortable.” 

“More good ideas. I can’t think of any problems with any of them.”

“Doesn’t mean McGonagall or the other team members won’t.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll never know until you try. And this is important.” 

“There’s just so much wrong with the school. Which sounds harsh, but it’s true. And now I have the power to fix those things, at least some of them. But, I don’t know if anyone will ever listen to me.”

“You have to at least try. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I get kicked off the team, or even out of the school, and lose my apprenticeship.”

“Sounds like that would cause a scandal that would let you fight for your goal with even more help.”

“And with more hatred.”

“That’s the way of the world.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

“I don’t disagree.” 

“I just want—want everything to be better. And easier. I thought once The War was over nothing would matter anymore. It’d be nothing. I’d get up, I’d work, I’d go to bed, same as everyone else. Then The War ended and I just couldn’t stand by my family, my mother and father, any longer, but I held through the trials. Father to Azkaban forever, mother to France. And I had nothing, no one. So I went to Aunt Andi’s. And I expected to be kicked out, left in the very literal rain, but she….She hugged me and fed me and sent me to bed. Said I was her nephew and that would never change. And I cried, because I knew that would change. I made it a week before dying my hair. She cried, said I looked like Cousin Dora…before she died. And I told her it was time to stop loving me and to kick me out because I wasn’t her nephew anymore. She asked me what in the world I was talking about, and….And I told her I was a woman. And she hugged me and fed me and told me to go back to bed because it was way too early to be up, it was about 5:00 A.M., and I was her niece and that would never change.”

“And you’ve lived with her since?”

“Her and my little cousin, Dora’s son, Teddy.”

“She’s his grandmother?”

“And guardian…for now.”

“For now?”

“After the school year Potter gets custody, which isn’t fair. Andi says she just can’t raise another baby, not after Dora, and not after her husband died. But, I can. And I love him. Potter doesn’t even know him.”

“Why does…Potter…get to have Teddy?”

“He’s his godfather.”

“Oh.”

“He’ll never go for shared custody, probably won’t even let me visit him. I’ll never see my baby cousin again, not after this upcoming winter break.”

“Do you think he’ll be a good guardian?”

“He can’t even take care of himself. That’s not an insult, it’s a fact.”

“Maybe you’ll get Teddy instead, then.”

“Yeah, right. I have a Dark Mark. I was a Death Eater.”

“You were a child.”

“The ministry doesn’t care. I’m lucky to not be in Azkaban right now.”

“Unfortunately, you’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“I wish I could just skip all this. Coming out, apprenticing, giving up Teddy or whatever happens there. I wish I could just go to sleep tonight and wake up and it be next September 1st.”

“You’re not the only person who’s ever wanted to skip a hard thing, or a lot of hard things, and there’s nothing wrong with it, but you have to remember that’s not actually possible. You have to keep yourself from obsessing about it, and I’m not using that word flippantly, but all that’ll do is keep you from living. Now or in the future.”

“I don’t wanna die. I thought I would, but I don’t. I don’t not want to die either, but….”

“Good place to be.”

“Shouldn’t I want to not die?”

“You shouldn’t do or feel any particular why, about anything. There’s no should or supposed to, there’s just is. You have a right to feel however you feel, and the universe doesn’t care about right regardless, so you always will.”

“Doesn’t make where I am good.”

“Where you are is alive, I wouldn’t call that bad.”

“If I were dead would I be bad? If I….”

“You, bad? No.The situation? Well, your situation is already bad. You were a child in war, a soldier in war, and that was indescribably hard. And now you have to do something infinitely harder.”

“What?”

“Survive. Survive in a world that is safe. Get up, work, go to sleep. Just like everyone else. And find another thing, or two, and a spontaneous thing every now and then to keep yourself mentally stimulated, physically stimulated. Someone or something, or multiple of one or both of the above, to keep yourself sexually and/or emotionally stimulated.”

“How is that harder?”

“That’s a complicated question. Because it’s new. Because it’s always been a fantasy to you. Because just because The War is over doesn’t mean its effects are.”

“Do you practice?”

“Practice what?”

“All these…lines. Do you stand in front of your mirror with a tape recorder and note cards and practice until it’s memorized? Until you stress the words just right? Until you enunciate enough so you never stumble or get misheard?”

“Not exactly. But, sure, I practice. I think up scenarios and what I’d do in them. I reread books to make sure the information sticks just in case it comes up. I have a journal with my own ideas and experiences and experiences I’ve heard of that a patient might have also experienced in some way. I want to be prepared so I can help you, and my other patients, as much as possible.”

“What if you’re not prepared for something?”

“I do my best with what I do know, I let them know I’m not as well versed in it, and I research it later so I can make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Plenty of times.”

“How long have you been a therapist?”

“Four years, but I’m currently getting a doctorate. Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, um, Ted, Aunt Andi’s husband, had a doctorate.”

“In what?”

“Law and Policy.”

“Are you going to get a doctorate? Or any type of degree.”

“No point. Already apprenticing for potions professor, that’s what I want to be, and there’s no degree for that.”

“Fair enough….Do you have anything in particular you want to talk about?”

“To be honest, I’m just waiting for this to be over. I need a nap.”

“I have something for you to do, if you want to.”

“What?”

“Write letters to your parents. You don’t actually have to send them, though you can if you want, and you don’t have to show them to me. But write them and say what you really want to, the whole truth, the stuff you’ve never been able to.”

“Then what do I do to them?”

“Whatever you want. Send them, keep them, give them to me, burn them, whatever. It’s your choice, and you don’t have to make that choice now.”

“....Okay….Do you have paper?”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Christa Blackwell read the note in her hand for the third time.

Dear Dr. Blackwell(how do I become a Dr.??? It sounds cool),

I’ll be there Saturday, but can’t today. I’m ill.

                                   —(Hopefully soon to be Dr.)Pansy Parkinson

She wasn’t entirely sure if Pansy was actually ill, was nervous, or just skiving off, but she had to believe the girl. If just professionally. 

At least she had sent a letter and didn’t just not show up.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“I like your name.” Blaise said as he sat, well more like intentionally fell into the seat across the desk from Dr. Effie Reyes.

“Effie or Reyes?”

“Both, but really so much Effie.”

“I agree. I mean, I wouldn’t have chosen it if I didn’t think it was the best name.”

“In a trans way or….”

“In a trans way. She/Her.”

“I, uh, me too. He/Him.”

“Can I ask you some things about your transition? For therapy reasons.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, first of all, how long has it been?”

“Oh, about…twelve years. Since I was six.”

“And were your parents supportive?”

“Mom was. My father….Well, it doesn’t really matter because he had a heart attack later that day, but no not really.”

“And if the attack hadn’t occurred, do you think your mom would have stayed with him?”

“No. Even if I wasn’t a boy.”

“So they didn’t have a good relationship?”

“My coming out was the very last snowflake that made the snow storm a blizzard, so to say.”

“How do you feel about the whole thing?”

“Very traumatizing. Glad it’s over. Glad he’s dead.”

“You said that very flippantly.” 

“It’s called coping with humor.”

“I don’t know if I would call that coping or humor.” 

“You sound like my mom.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Mmmmm. I haven’t decided.”

Dr. Reyes laughed a bit, then got serious. “How are you doing today?”

“Mostly just…eh. I mean, I’m happy, but nothing more than that. It’s just, like, a surface level feeling.”

“Well, not everyday can be filled with big emotions, and not every second of the day will you feel the same. What about therapy? How do you feel about that?”

“It’s not my first time; mom put me in therapy after my father died, but I stopped right before I started Hogwarts. I wouldn’t have chosen to do therapy, but I don’t mind. And if someone like my mom or a friend suggested that I should, I would’ve anyway.”

“Do you think you need it?”

“I don’t want to, but logically, I suppose so. I didn’t do very much during The War, to be honest, on either side. Mom hated both, and I think I agree. But, I guess it’s not easy to watch or hear about, and I certainly didn’t like the idea of Voldemort winning. Mom said if he did we’d move, hopefully to Italy because that’s where she grew up until she went to Hogwarts, but maybe out of the country. Probably Canada. But, that didn’t end up happening.” 

“Would you enjoy living in Canada?”

“Dunno, never been. Better than here with Voldy, though.”

“About anywhere would be.”

“Indeed.”

“What did you talk about during your first therapy session last time?”

“Nothing. I hated her, didn’t talk for a month or so.”

“Well, then, the first session you talked in.”

“Trains.”

“Why trains?”

“Because I’m the most stereotypical autistic boy ever.”

“Do you still like trains?”

“It’s complicated. They’re cool, but they also contribute to global warming, so….I feel bad for Callie.”

“Who’s Callie?”

“My friend, Calypso.”

“Why do you feel bad for her?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

“But— oh . Is she not out yet?”

“She’s not.”

“Has she told anyone but you? 

“Her aunt, who she lives with, and our best friend Pansy, but that’s it.”

“It must be pretty stifling for her then, having to pretend all the time.”

“Especially since she’s apprenticing, which means not only is she in the closet now, but she might well be in the closet forever.” Blaise nodded. “She said she was gonna come out yesterday, but then she didn’t, and now…I don’t know if or when she is.”

“It’s good she has you for a friend then, even if it’s not exactly the same thing.”

“I know she’s jealous of me sometimes. Of my vag and boobs and hips. And I feel sort of bad because I’m not really jealous of her. I like all those things about myself. I wouldn’t want a dick or flat chest, even if I wear a binder pretty often, or facial hair or anything.”

“Not every trans person wants the same stuff. You can tell by looking at me I don’t wear inserts or have had top surgery, but I have had other surgeries, and laser on my face. No shame in wanting to keep certain parts of your body, or all of them, during or after transition.” 

“Mom says that too. But it feels realer coming from you, since you have experience she doesn’t.”

“It’s important to know many different people of many different ways, it’s more important to know people like you.”

“I think most people would disagree.”

“If they’re girls born with vulvas or boys born with penises, and most are, then I’m not interested in what they have to say.”

Blaise laughed. “My life motto.”

“Back to apprenticing though: are you?”

“Not quite, but I will be teaching here come next year. Teaching art, this year though I’m just doing a normal seventh year. No art apprenticeship, of course, next year being the first time the school teaches it.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m really excited about working with Dean Thomas, because he’s also queer and black, but we’ve never really gotten on.”

“Is he also working here? Doing art?”

“He’s doing art, just not as a teacher, or here at all. But, he’s going to be one of many volunteers I’ll be having come in to work with my classes. He’s already agreed, but we’re going to be meeting up to discuss it more this year.”

“That’s exciting. How come you came back, then?”

“Callie. And Pansy, but mostly Callie.”

“Is her working here next year any part of the reason you are?”

“I think I would anyway, but I would never not work here if she was….It’s complicated.” 

“What’s Pansy going to do after school?”

“She’s going to open a bakery/book shop/coffee shop in Diagon. She’s already got the deed and everything for the building, but there’s all these repairs and hiring and such to do, so she’s here in the meantime.” 

“It sounds like you’re all pretty confident in your futures. Can’t say I was the same at your age.”

“Well, Calypso has spent her whole life being told she had to work in the ministry, but now that she’s old enough, and no longer under her parents’ influence, she’s realized there’s nothing she wants to do less. So, when she was offered an apprenticeship, she took it without thinking. Though, I think she’s become excited for it. I’ve never really had job expectations put on me, but I’m not about to say no to a job, especially one that has free housing most of the year. And Pansy, though her parents didn’t really want her to work outside the family, has wanted to open her bakery/shop-thing since we were eight.” 

“What do you think you would have done if not being an art teacher?”

“Probably at a shop, Pansy’s or otherwise.”

“Do you regret that you can’t now?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Would you have been happy working at a shop?”

“I wouldn’t’ve been unhappy.” 

“What does your mom do?”

“Potions, sometimes, she doesn’t really need a job. Big inheritance from father’s death.”

“How big?”

“Not Malfoy big or anything, but enough for me to grow up good, and for her to live on for the rest of her life.”

“Is that including her occasional potions job and old-peoples’-money from the ministry, or…?”

“....I’m not sure. I’m just repeating what she’s always said to me.”

“Can you tell me more about growing up?”

That opened a long conversation with as much summarized as possible about eighteen years of life.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m not a Death Eater.” Theodore Nott said before even looking at Dr. Kristen Woodward.

“I know.”

“I know everyone thinks I am, or was, or whatever, because my dad was and because I never actively fought against You-Know-Who, but I also never actively fought for him. And what was I meant to do? Fight against him and get murdered, actually murdered, by my father? Why would I do that? I do want to live, somewhat, y’know.”

“I don’t think, nor have I ever thought, you were a Death Eater, Theodore.” Dr. Woodward assured. “I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I did.”

“Call me Theo. Theodore is…gross.”

“Theo, then.”

“I really don’t have anything to talk to you about.”

“What about the ‘somewhat’ wanting to live thing?”

“Why would I need to talk about that?”

“Because you deserve to want to live more than just somewhat.”

“I’m not gonna, like, Avada Kedavra myself or something….Avada Kedavra doesn’t work if you cast it on yourself, unless you’re under the Imperius Curse.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve seen people under the Imperius Curse forced to Avada Kedavra themselves before.”

“No, I mean how do you know it won’t work if you do it on yourself otherwise?”

“What’s it matter?”

“Because I have a feeling you didn’t read it in a book.”

“So?”

“So, vaguely wanting to live, wanting to die, and actively trying to kill yourself are three very different problems with very different solutions.”

“It was a while ago.” Theo defended.

“ Still .”

“So, what, are you going to get me expelled or something? Locked away in St Mungo’s mental ward?”

“No, Theo, I’m not. Because you don’t deserve to be expelled and hospitals are drastic measures I don’t like to use, because often they don’t help, or even make things worse. But, I also can’t let you go around trying to kill yourself without doing something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Well, to start, talking about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There are many things to talk about.”

“Like what?” Theo forcefully repeated.

“When was the first time you attempted?”

“I don’t exactly have the date memorized.”

“How old were you?”

“Six.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Didn’t want to keep living, fucking duh.”

“But, what made you want to stop living?”

“The world sucks.”

“We’ll talk more about that later, but when was the most recent time you attempted?”

“May 2nd.”

“This past May 2nd?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I think you know.”

“Just a couple jumbled theories.”

“The War was over, figured I’d get arrested, knew no one would believe me regardless. Didn’t know what would happen to my parents. The life I had been trained for my whole, well life, was now impossible. And I didn’t know what I wanted to happen, to me, my parents, my life.”

“What did you want to happen?”

“Well, for them to be arrested, obviously. And I knew I deserved to be as well.”

“I think we both know it's not that simple.”

“Dad deserved to be, I'm glad he was. Mom…she was so innocent. Just wanted the best for those she loved, even if it was bad for others, or what was best for one person she loved was counterintuitive to the best for another she loved. I didn't want to be arrested, just to die. But I deserve both.”

“No one deserves to die.”

“That's very broad. What about You-Know-Who? That muggle guy who killed all those people for being different that You-Know-Who always gets compared to?”

“They didn't deserve to die because the things that happened to them that made them that way never should have happened.” Dr. Woodward sounded one hundred percent sure.

“What if someone's born evil?”

“That's impossible. Everything happens for a reason, even if the reason is unclear.”

“Then why do bad things happen?”

“Some are only considered bad because of the society we live in, others are caused and fuelled by the bad that happened before them.”

“There has to have been an original bad thing.”

“Does there?”

“Where would the fuel come from otherwise?”

“What fuels humans?”

“Plants and animals.”

“What fuels animals?”

“Plants and other animals.”

“What fuels plants?”

“The sun. Do you have a point?”

“Yes. What fuels the sun?”

“....The sun…?”

“And where does the sun get the fuel to fuel itself?”

“From…itself…?”

“Do you get my point?”

“Not exactly.”

“Bad is fuelled by bad, and you can trace it back to a certain point. Person A murdered Person B because Person B murdered Person A's dog and Person B murdered Person A's dog because Person A's dog murdered Person B's cat, for example. But at a certain point you find the bad is just fuelled by itself. No catalyst, just a bunch of bad piled onto each other and seeping into people.”

“Shouldn’t the bad be punished?”

“To an extent, but certain punishments, or too much punishment, or too extreme punishment, just causes more bad with no good to level it out.”

“But, then how do we stop bad?”

“By removing the situations that cause it before they can.”

“What about the bad that has already happened?”

“Help the people its influenced, the ones being hurt and the ones doing the hurting all the way back as far as possible.”

“How?”

“Therapy, government programs, education, etc.”

“I’m not a real person.” Theo suddenly said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m nothing. No one knows anything about me, not even me. Which I guess means that I’m not really anything or anyone at all.”

“You are someone, you just haven’t discovered who yet. No one in your year has because those years you were meant to be learning and experimenting with your identity, you were fighting in a war. Not to mention the abuse and suppression from your parents. But, you still have plenty of time. Most eighteen year olds don’t know completely or at all who they really are.”

“What exactly am I meant to do, though? Fuck everything in sight? Wear a dress, out in public? Smear lipstick over my mouth as if it’s chapstick?” 

“Well, yeah, pretty much.”

“I’ll become a laughing stock.”

“You will not, because your peers will be doing it too. And it doesn’t matter regardless because discovering yourself is much more important than being popular.”

“I guess I can’t get any less friends.”

“You don’t have to start big or anything. Buy a sex toy, wear clear lip gloss, pierce your ears. Then build up from there.”

“What if someone finds out?”

“Well, what if they do?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Theo, and I certainly can’t make you do anything. All I can offer is advice and insight, you have to figure out what’s right for you. And I think what’s right is experimenting with your sexuality and gender and the way you present yourself to the world, but I may be wrong, or even if I’m not you may disagree. At the end of the day you’re the one who has to actually do it. You’re the one who has to decide what you need and want then make sure it happens.”

“....Did you always want to be a therapist?”

“Since I was five.”

“Why?”

“I’m willing to tell you, but I need you to know beforehand that it’s not a happy story. It involves trauma and a lot of personal stuff.”

“I want to know.”

“Did you know there’s a way to predict if a child will be a squib? It’s invasive and not always accurate and shouldn’t exist, but it’s done all the time. That’s how parents abandon their squib children long before they’re old enough to show substantial magic. My parents were amazing, and it doesn’t hurt me in the slightest that I’m the youngest of three. But when I was four they took me to a clinic near my childhood home because I was showing very little magic, which isn’t odd for that age, but when I did it always hurt me really bad. Physically, mentally, and magically. They wanted to get me on medicine that would block the magic until I was older so I’d stop being hurt. It was a new thing at the time and is much safer and more advanced now, but they thought it better than to keep hurting myself. Well, the healer went behind my parents’ backs and did that test on me. Not only that, but when it was found that I’m a Level One Squib, instead of just putting me on the suppressants and/or getting me magical counseling, the healer performed a series of unnecessary spells, potions, and even one surgery that completely killed my magical core. So, now I can see buildings and such if I’m already in them, but if I want to get into them I have to have a magical person take me, and I otherwise can’t interact with the magical world at all. Unlike other squibs, I can’t take potions except the few that work on non-magicals, I have a decreased chance of having a magical child, and I will likely live just as long as non-magicals do.”

“That—that’s horrifying.” Theo finally said. “But, what does that have to do with being a therapist?”

“When my sister, the oldest of us three, was eleven she went off to Hogwarts, I was five at the time, my brother was eight. Well, she came back from winter break with a book she found about squibs in the magical workforce. A lot of them I couldn’t do because of my Squib Level now being less than a Three, and some were just plain terrible. But, one I can do, and don’t hate doing, is a therapist. I’ve even grown to love it, though I can’t say I would have chosen to do it otherwise, and I definitely don’t like why it’s practically my only career choice in this world.”

“What would you have done otherwise?”

“There’s honestly no way to ever know. My life has been completely influenced and changed by that healer’s choice. And since I was so young….That test is my first concrete memory, I only vaguely remember a couple things before it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not the person who should be sorry, Theo.”

“Still. It’s not right….Did they lose their healer's license?” 

“No. Healer’s rarely do, no matter how bad their actions are. The only healer I know who’s ever lost their job was the one at St Mungo’s who worked with my mom during my brother’s birth.”

“What did they do?”

“She didn’t do anything is the problem. No anesthetic, no explanations for what was going to happen, no bedside manners. And he was a C-section, we all were, so….”

“She cut your mom’s abdomen open, moved her organs, and removed a child with no anesthetic?!”

“Yes. I’m honestly surprised she was fired; healers do that and worse all the time with no repercussions.” 

“That’s so fucking stupid.” 

“We do not live in the kindest of worlds.” Dr. Woodward agreed. “Which is why we have to do all that I was talking about before. The changes and forgiveness and healing. To decrease the bad, but more importantly, increase the good.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A big difference. If you decrease the bad without increasing the good you’re left with nothing in the world, no bad, but also no good, if you increase the good without decreasing the bad there’s still a Hell of a lot of bad. You have to do both.”

“I find it hard to believe either can be done, let alone both.”

“That’s when you have to do it yourself. You don’t think others are going to change the world, or are at least scared they won’t? Then change the world yourself.”

“How? I can’t do anything. I’m not anybody.”

“You are someone and you can do a lot in your life and with your life. Realizing that, really realizing that, is how you start changing the world. They want you to feel powerless and small and nobody. Because they know if you don’t realize your strength, you can’t overthrow the systems that benefit them and hurt others.”

“No one will listen considering the system benefits me.”

“The system is less hard on you than some others, it does not benefit you. There is a difference that not nearly enough people comprehend.”

“I’m middle class. I’m white. As far as I know I’m not gay or anything. I’m a pureblood, if just a second generation. How am I not benefited by the system?”

“Because some people are rich. Some people have the power to remove and restrict rights of queer people and people of color and anyone else they want, including you. Because some people are from families that have been pureblood for hundreds of thousands of years. Because you were abused and suppressed and forced into choosing between hurting people, or at least not keeping people safe, and staying alive. As a child no less.”

“It could be worse.”

“And it could be a Hell of a lot better, too.”

“I just want to restart. I think sometimes, that if I could just go back to the day of my birth, to when I was five, eleven, thirteen, everything could be fixed. I could make none of the bad happen.”

“That’s not how the world works. Even if you could fix some of the bad doesn’t mean no other bad would happen anyway, or that you could fix or prevent all the bad from happening.” 

“I know.”

“But you still want it?”

“I feel like Sisyphus. And I don’t even have any great metaphor about it or any explanation. I just do.” 

“That’s how emotions usually are. That’s part of why I’m here, to help you explain your emotions better. Not to me or others, but to yourself.”

“Can you explain your emotions to yourself?”

“Not always, no one can, but yes, sometimes. More than I could before I started learning about this stuff and applying it to myself.”

“You therapy yourself?”

“What’s the point of being a therapist otherwise?” 

“Fair enough.” 

“What about you? Have you figured out what job you want yet?”

“I don’t want to be anything. Except dead. Sort of.”

“Well, that can be our first goal.”

“What can?”

“Finding out what job the idea of doing is more pleasurable than killing yourself.”

“No job is like that.”

“It doesn’t have to be realistic or possible or any other requirement, the idea of it just has to keep you alive.”

“So it could be, say, fashion model for dresses in the muggle world?”

“Sure.”

“It’s not that, wouldn’t be, but something like that is an option?”

“Anything and everything is.”

“....Okay.”

“Any ideas?”

“Another reason why I want to go back is because then I could be anyone, no expectations, no…whatever. If I change now people will compare it to who I was before and whatever. But if I go back I can just be a girl or be gay or whatever and I just am.”

“Do you feel like a girl? Or gay?”

“No….But I imagine it sometimes. A lot.” Theo frowned. “I wish I could just be like ten different people and can bounce between them as I want. And one is a lesbian and one is a straight girl and one is normal me and like a bunch of other different things. I don’t just want to be me, Theodore Henry Nott. Not this version at least.” 

“Choosing just one identity isn’t easy, but you have to figure out which one, if any, is actually you. Are you a girl, or boy, or otherwise, or multiple of the above? Are you gay or straight or something else? Are you Theodore or Theo or someone else?”

“I don’t know.”

“You still have plenty of time to figure it out.”

“People say that, but….It feels like my life is already over….Another reason I want to go back.”

“That’s the trauma. Being a kid is super important and you didn’t get to be so now you’re suffering. It sucks, but it’s treatable. I promise I will do everything in my power to help you feel better. But it’s really about what you’re willing to do.”

“I don’t want to have to be willing to do anything. Why do some people get to just be normal and happy and themself from birth? Why not everyone? Everyone gets it good, or everyone gets it bad. Why not that? Why all mixed up?”

“There are many different theories and theologies attempting to explain that.”

“What’s yours?”

“What’s yours?” She counters.

“I asked first.”

“I think it’s our fault, as humans. War only happens because we start it, poverty only happens because we don’t end it, bigotry only continues because we let it.”

“I think….I’m not enough of a person to think anything.”

“Maybe you’re not. Maybe you should become one. By my theory, you can only be a person if you let yourself be.”

Theo let out a long breath through open teeth and almost closed lips. “Does that go for everyone?”

“Yup.”

“But most people don’t have to make the choice?”

“Not consciously at least, because most people never question their humanity. It’s unfortunate you do, but…well, it does give you more power, in a way. Everyone else is coerced into their humanity, but you have to give humanity your consent before it entangles you.”

“And if I don’t give my consent?”

“You’ll gain a lot, lose a lot. And will yet still be punished by human punishments, because you look human, and looking human means being treated human.”

“I can’t murder someone without prison.”

“Yes, but you can also not enjoy such pleasures as a house without a human job. And being the only of your species sounds quite lonely.”

“Is it more lonely to be the only of my species knowing I’m the only of species and living as such, or being the only of my species and desperately trying to be human?”

“I think that’s for you to decide.” 

“If we were in a book,” Theo suddenly laughed, “at least certain muggle fiction ones that father hated when I read, then that would be the end of the chapter and the beginning of the next one would be set three days later with my thinking about the session. Especially what happened of it that wasn’t shown in the last chapter.”

“Do you want the chapter to end here?”

“It’d make things easier.”

“All you have to do to make it end is walk out that door.” She pointed at the door behind her, three feet to the left.

“Would you like me to?”

“Well, from what perspective?”

“What perspectives are there?”

“Well, from a worker’s perspective, I get paid either way. From a therapist’s perspective, it’d probably, but maybe not, be better for you to stay. From Kristen Woodward’s perspective, I want to help you, I want to feel like I have a purpose, like I’m here for a reason, which would involve you staying.”

“Complicated.”

“Very. And that’s how I make every choice, including saying or not saying every word I do, during these sessions. Is it a worker talking, a therapist talking, or Kristen Woodward talking?”

“I could never be a therapist.”

“It’s not easy, not if you do it right, at least, but I think it’s worthwhile.”

“Do you have a therapist? Or have you ever?”

“I’ve had a therapist since I was thirteen….What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s…reassuring…maybe.” Theo bit his lip. “Does your therapist have a therapist?”

“I’ve never asked her, but probably.”

“Could you imagine being the therapist of a therapist who was the therapist of a therapist who was the therapist of a therapist who was the therapist of a therapist?”

“I’m sure someone must be.”

“It’d be funny…if you even knew that was the case.”

“It’d be weird, certainly.” 

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, normal, boring.”

“What do you plan on doing when you leave here?”

“Lay on my bed until I fall asleep.”

“At 2:00 P.M.?”

“Yeah.”

“How about I make you a deal?”

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“I’m not not allowed to.”

“Alright.’

“You can leave now if you don’t go lay on your bed until you fall asleep.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Anything, literally anything, except that.”

“Can I sit on my bed?”

“Yup.”

“....Okay….So, I can leave now?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, um, bye.”

“Goodbye, Theo.”

Not seeming to understand what just happened, Theo slowly walked to the door, repeatedly looking back. But, Dr. Woodward didn’t take back her words, so he opened the door and walked to his dorm, sitting instead of laying, though not entirely sure why considering she’d never really know if he upheld their deal.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Daphne Greengrass?” Dr. Beatrice Davila asked once said eighteen year old sat on the light blue couch across from her matching chair.

“Yeah…..Dr. Beatrice Davila?”

“Yes, though you can call me Bea.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Jittery and nervous and sort of like she couldn’t breathe, despite the fact that she was currently breathing. “What about you?”

“I’m doing well.”

“Um, great.”

“Are you apprenticing?” 

“No, I, uh….Sorry, I’m not talking very pureblood-y.”

“Talk however you like, I’m certainly not going to talk like a pureblood.”

“I don’t know what job I’m gonna have yet.”

“That’s alright. What are your plans, then?”

“Mostly just…just survive.”

“That’s not surprising since I’m sure that’s how you’ve spent the past year, at least.”

“My father, and mother, have plans for me.”

“What would they be?”

“Finish school, marry a pureblood man, have at least one son.”

“Do you want any of that yourself?”

“I want to graduate.”

“But no kids or husband?”

“Are you going to tell my parents all this?”

“Even if I wanted to tell anyone what you said to me, I legally can’t, that being said, I don’t even want to, so no.”

“You can’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

“No, I don’t want kids. Definitely not a husband.” 

“Do you want to get married at all?”

“I just said I don’t want a husband.” Daphne seemed nervous, like someone was trying to trick her into saying something she shouldn’t.

“You can get married without having a husband.” 

“Sure, if you’re a man then the person you’re married to is your wife, but I’m a woman, so I’d have a husband.” 

“ You could have a wife.”

“I’m a woman.” Daphne repeated, insistently. 

“I know. You could still have a wife.”

“No.” Was all she replied, and Bea thought it best to drop the issue. 

“Alright, no marriage, no kids, what then?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. What do your days usually look like?”

“Well, during the summer I got up and….”

“And?”

“Well, I must have done something. I was awake at least eight hours a day, at least six or seven.”

“It’s alright. It must have been a pretty odd and rough summer. What are your plans for this school year?”

“Go to class, eat sometimes.”

“Anything else?”

“I just need to graduate.”

“Alright, do you have any, say, resolutions?”

“Resolutions?” 

“You know how people make New Year Resolutions?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any, but for the school year?”

“Not really….I have to sleep less, just a little less, to go to class.”

“Do you plan on adding anything to your life? Meditation, jogging, an instrument. Anything?”

“No.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“You already asked that.”

“I asked how you were feeling right now, not today in general.”

“The same.”

“Fine?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have anything you want to talk about?”

“With you? No. Right now? No. With you right now? Definitely not.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Sleep?”

“Ding. Ding. Ding.”

“Then, why not sleep?”

“Because I have to be here.”

“No one can force you to come or be awake while here.”

“It’s mandatory for so called eighth years.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can be forced, and definitely doesn’t mean you have to be awake.”

“So, I could just leave now and go to sleep and that would be that?”

“Yup.”

“There has to be a catch. You’ll report me and I’ll get detention or something.”

“I’m not a cop. I’m not reporting shit.”

“What’s a cop?” 

“Non-magical auror.”

“Why not just say ‘I’m not an auror’ then?”

“Because ‘I’m not a cop’ is a phrase commonly used in the non-magical world.”

“But we’re not in the muggle world.”

“Well, regardless, I’m not going to report you. You’re an adult and this is your therapy appointment, forcing you to be here is counterintuitive.” 

“Why should I believe you?”

“You have no reason to.”

Daphne thought for a second, stood, nodded at Bea, then silently left.

Bea began her post-session notes.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tracey Davis.” An eighteen year old girl with shoulder-blade length dirty blonde hair, a baseball cap, oversize Slytherin tee-shirt, blue basketball shorts, and white tennis shoes said as she casually laid on the red chair left for her, crossing her legs over the armrest opposite the one her head and arms under it were laying on.

“Dr. Valentine Howe, Val for short.” The thirty-something year old woman in the other red chair, sitting up straighter and more business casual, replied.

“I’m bisexual. My girl friend is a lesbian.”

“I’m straight-ish, and single.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze, or at least ask, why I brought up sexuality and my obvious gayness immediately?” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t? Psychoanalyzed it, I mean.”

“What’s the verdict then?”

“Trying to figure out if I’m safe, and trying to be some sort of rebellious, a political way of telling me to go fuck myself. Same reason you’re wearing those clothes, and that much makeup, and both of those things at the same time.”

“Not wrong. But I like these clothes and makeup.”

“And I’m sure you like your girlfriend too, doesn’t change the reason behind the action.”

“True.”

“How are you feeling today, Tracey?”

“That’s boring. Ask me something interesting.”

“Like what?”

“Blood status. Kinks. Childhood trauma. Go wild. But, not something boring like how I’m feeling today.”

“If you so wish. What’s your blood status?” 

“Half-blood, but barely. Dad a halfblood with one muggle parent, one muggleborn, mom a muggle.”

“Any childhood trauma? Outside of the obvious.”

“Not gonna ask my kinks?”

“I’m thirty-seven, you’re eighteen, and we just met. Maybe later, but definitely not now. Now, non-obvious childhood trauma?”

“I’ll be nineteen next month, the twelfth.”

“Tracey.”

“Unless you decide something was traumatic later, no. Very boring. Dad wasn’t around that much, but was far from absent. Mom was always at home and yet felt a million miles away, because I don’t like social interaction that way. Got a sister two years older and a brother two years younger, they’re fine. No one freaked out when I told them I was bi and they don’t, like, hate my girlfriend or anything. Dad’s a lawyer, mom’s mostly unemployed.” 

“What are their names?”

“Dad is John, mom is Alison, sister is Olivia, brother is Noah. Boring.”

“Did you share a room growing up?”

“Nope. Four bedrooms, mom and dad shared, us kids each had our own. Thank goodness, I hate being around my family. I mean I love them and they don’t, like, scare me or anything, I just….I don’t know, family is weird. Random strangers you have to live with and are socially pressured into loving for no reason.”

“Now are you willing to tell me how you’re feeling today?”

“Are you always this boring?”

“Why won’t you answer?”

“Because it’s B-O-R-I-N-G bbbbbboooooooorrrrriiiiinnnnngggggggg!”

“Can you at least humor me?”

“Ugh, fine. I feel normal. Fine. Boring.”

“You use the word boring a lot.”

“A lot of stuff is boring.”

“What isn’t boring?”

“Me, my girlfriend, marbles.” 

“Why marble specifically?”

“Special interest.” 

“So, you’re autistic?”

“Is that not obvious?”

“Well, I haven’t known you long.”

“Well, I am, and those are non-boring things.”

“Tell me about marbles.”

“What about them?”

“Everything you know.”

Tracey sat up quickly, almost falling off her chair in the process. “Really?”

“Really.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

All five-feet-and-two-inches of Benji Abbott, from her dirty black sneakers to her short and choppy red hair, collapsed into the wooden chair across the desk from Dr. Ella Moyer, absolutely exhausted. No other adverb-adjective combo could describe it.

“Hannah Abbott?” The doctor asked, smiling at the ragged teen.

“No.”

“No?”

“Just no. Abbott, but not Hannah. I just can’t—no.”

“Oh, what then?”

“Benji. You know why?”

“Why?”

“It is completely and utterly meaningless and unnoticeable. No one takes a second glance at Benji.”

“Your deadname isn’t exactly noticeable either.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.” 

“Any middle name?”

“Cameron. Not having a middle name is noticeable, but having a weird one is also noticeable. So, Cameron, it’s common and sounds right and no one has a reason to question it.”

“I have to ask this, for therapy reasons, but it is up to you whether you answer, always, what are your pronouns? And are you a trans man, or?”

“I’m genderfluid, my pronouns change. It’s She/Her right now.”

“Okay; do your gender and pronouns always line up?”

“No. I’m a boy right now.”

“Got it. So, do you have anything you want to talk about today?”

Benji purposefully exhaled as long and hard as she could. “I have a girlfriend and we’ve been going out for five years and she’s a lesbian.”

“I’m assuming you’re not out to her?”

“I’m not out to anyone but myself, you, and my parents.”

“What was your parents' reaction?”

“Once Hogwarts ends I’m homeless, and it’s only after Hogwarts ends and not now because it’s a boarding school.”

“I’m really sorry. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Stay with my girlfriend over the summer, she inherited her aunt’s house after her aunt was killed a couple years ago, killed by Voldy himself. Very brave, minister material, that’s why she was killed. She was in line after Fudge. Then maybe get a job as a teacher at Hogwarts, but in a new subject. Not an apprenticeship, but I might be able to do music or something.”

“Is that why you don’t want to come out to her? Fear of a bad reaction like your parents, or a break up either way? Fear of losing your only home option?”

“Duh. Even if it goes well, what lesbian would stay with someone like me? And who wants to live with their ex-partner of five years?”

“There’s really no way of knowing until you come out.”

“What’s your opinion on the matter?”

“It’s complicated and I can’t really say either way. In some ways it’s better for you to come out, in other ways it could be way way worse. Or there could be no bad parts. It really depends on her reaction. I don’t want you to be unsafe, but you could be unsafe if you come out or don’t.”

“She likes the new me. New hair, new clothes, new attitude. Doesn’t mean she’ll like the real me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I want to be six again. Best friends with her, seeing her aunt as family, not aware of my abuse. Pigtails, ugly dresses, and coloring books.”

“I can’t make you six, reverse your relationships or knowledge, bring back the dead, do anything about your hair and clothes, but I can let you color.”

“Right now?”

Dr. Moyer silently pulled out a pink pencil box filled with crayons and a coloring book with a unicorn and rainbow on the cover. “Go wild.”

“Do I get to keep the pictures?”

“Up to you.”

“.....Ok….Thanks.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Stanford Hoffman was no older than twenty-seven with bleached blonde hair and a I-stayed-out-too-long-gardening-last-summer tan. Despite being sat behind a desk, he was clearly very tall and lanky which fit well with his tight, white, A-shirt and skinny jeans.

“You don’t look anything like I expected from either your name or profession.”

“What were you expecting?” He asked, but his grin made it evident he already knew.

“About thirty years older, wearing a suit.”

“Family name, I’m a fourth. And I don’t think either of us would be very comfortable if I was wearing a suit.”

“Do I look how you expected?” Susan had long blonde hair she let hang loose, and was wearing a Hufflepuff crop-top, jeans, and a full face of makeup.

“You don’t not look like your name.”

Susan returned his grin, then frowned. “Can we talk serious?”

“Of course.”

“I think there’s something wrong with my girlfriend.”

“Wrong in what way?”

“Like….She doesn’t seem altogether happy around people, including me. Not, like, sad exactly, but…uncomfortable.” 

“Always?”

“Not always when it’s just us, but, otherwise, yes.”

“How do you feel when you’re alone with her and she’s still uncomfortable?”

“Not—not good. I don’t want to blame her, I don’t, but at the same time….I don’t want my girlfriend to be uncomfortable around me. I sorta blame myself, I guess. Why am I making her feel bad?”

“Do you think it’s completely rooted in you?”

“I don’t know….She’s always uncomfortable when I’m around, well occasionally not, but mostly, but how am I supposed to know if she never feels uncomfortable when away from me?”

“You could ask her. Ask if it has to do with you, ask why she’s uncomfortable in the first place, ask what you can do to help.”   

“What if it upsets her?”

“Communication is a very important part of a relationship; it’s essential you two are able to tell each other how you feel and why.”

“What should I do if she does get upset, though?”

“Talk more. People don’t get upset for no reason and they rarely get upset for surface level things. So, if you ask her why she’s been uncomfortable and she gets upset, it’s likely not because you asked, but because of something deeper, something rooted in her discomfort.”

“What if she tells me she wants to break up?”

“Then maybe it would be better for you if you did. I’m not saying it wouldn’t hurt, it would, but if she’s unhappy and you’re worried about it all the time, then maybe it’s not the right relationship for you.”

“Is that….Is that just if she wants to break up or in general?”

“Not just if she wants to break up, but not in general either. There are many scenarios that could lead to the relationship needing to end, but right now that doesn’t seem necessary to me.”

Susan let out a sigh of relief. “Good, because I don’t want to.”

“You never have to do anything you don’t want to, even if I suggest it.” 

“Then why suggest it in the first place?”

“You might not know it’s an option or you might need verbal confirmation.”

“I think I just—” Susan trailed off, the words seeming wrong to her brain, slowing it down as all the energy she’d eaten for breakfast and lunch rushed to try and help.

“Don’t think, just speak.”

“I think I just need you to shut up and look at the wall slightly behind me and nod and say ‘mhmm’ and ‘yeah’ every now and then as if you would rather be elsewhere but in a way that friends do when they’re tired from listening to you talk for two hours straight.” 

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Works for me.” Dr. Hoffman pointedly looked at the wall, nodding at her to speak. 

“Perfect.” Susan was suddenly lacking words to say, so just went with the no-thinking method that worked a moment before. “When I was six I decided I hated pink because pink is for girls. I don’t know why I wanted to not seem girl-like, I guess internalized misogyny and my mostly male friend group at the time, but I managed to convince myself for years that I actually hated pink. Until I went shopping a few months ago. When my aunt died V-V-Voldemort burned down our house, I lost everything. Well, nearly everything. I obviously haven’t had time to shop the past couple of years, but when I went last May I found myself drawn to pink stuff. Light pink heart shaped sunglasses, hot pink princess dresses, shiny pink nail polish. Everything I wanted was pink and super girly. And I’ve felt sort of like a feminist-failure, but now that I’m thinking about it, the villainization of girly stuff is much more anti-feminist than being a stereotypically feminine woman.”

“Mhmm.”

Susan smiled, sitting up straighter with pride, at the agreement, validation. There wasn’t anything wrong with her, in this sense, after all. “It’s not just pink though. Before May I hadn’t worn a dress that wasn’t school related since I was seven or eight, I’ve been wearing leggings and tee-shirts and hoodies. I hate clothes like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! And I’ve only been wearing lipgloss, and only on special occasions then, no other makeup, not even nail polish. I let my ear piercings grow up and never got them repierced even though I’ve always wanted to. I’ve only worn boxers and sports bras. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that, but it’s not me. But, I’ve been forcing it to be me in the name of feminism. That is not feminism! That’s forced masculinity with the idea of femininity being inferior!” 

“Right.”

“And you know what else?”

“What?”

“I like shaving. Everything . I like flowery perfume. I like dressing like I’m going to a Victorian Era ball and drinking grape juice out of second hand plastic wine glasses. I want to get tattoos and piercings in random places just because. I want to cut and dye my own hair on a random Tuesday night. I want to draw a large hot bath with rose petals and real wine and candles just to get myself off.”

“Mhmm.”

“So, yeah, fuck all that shit. I’m gonna do whatever the fuck I want and no one can stop me and if they try I’ll just laugh in their faces because they have exactly zero power.” She was getting fired up now, so sat up high enough she was barely in her chair, fist clenched on her hips.

“Yup.”

“And I don’t know,” She continued, “why you being so nonchalant and providing exactly nothing to the conversation is making me feel so good, but I should find more people willing to just shut up and listen to me, because I deserve this.”

“Uh huh.” 

“Exactly.”

“Can I talk more now?”

“No.” Susan immediately responded, before flinching back in shock. “I—sorry. You can talk.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m gonna ask again and I want you to answer honestly: can I talk more now?”

“....Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re feeling so good about my interaction, or lack of it, because what little you're getting is positive which isn’t always the case, but also because I’m practically a wall. You don’t have to think about my reaction or my thoughts because in this interaction it doesn’t exist. So, you’re just hearing yourself and you’re being heard by someone else which allows building confidence.”

“I deserve to be listened to.”

“You do. And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

“I deserve to be listened to.” Susan distractedly repeated.

“Have you never been told that before?”

“Well, sure I have, sort of, but….Not exactly, not directly. And saying something, or implying it, or whatever, isn’t the same as actually following through on it.”

“A lot of go-girl-girl-power-fem-boss and not very much the-words-you-speak-are-valid-and-I-really-just-want-to-listen-to-what-you-have-to-say?” 

“Pretty much.”

“What was your aunt like?”

“Tough. Strong. Not just physically, she could punch you out, but she’s more likely, she was more likely, to make you feel like a tiny, ugly, miniscule worm just with her words. And they were never even that mean. Sometimes she would just repeat, not even change the words, repeat you exactly. That made you feel the worst of all.”

“Did she make you feel that way?”

Susan choked out a wet laugh. “No, it’s a miracle I’m not super spoiled. But I was in the audience during some court cases. I was interested or bored or she couldn’t find a babysitter. It was fun, but she also made my skin itch, and I had no part in the whole thing.”

“Was she always like that?”

“No, just when you deserved it, and it was super hard to make her mad at you. She was sweet, very gentle, very understanding.”

“Did she raise you?”

“Yeah, my parents died during the first war with…Voldemort when I was a baby.”

“How was she related to you?”

“My dad’s sister. Everyone in my family except me and Aunt Amelia were murdered during the first war, Aunt Amelia during the second. I’m the last. My parents, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my cousins. It was a big family, and less than two decades later it’s just me.”

“I’m so sorry Susan.”

“You’re not who I need an apology from.” She was silent and still for a moment before giving a dry laugh. “You wanna know something? Something that means absolutely nothing, and absolutely everything? That I just can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

“Her name was Amelia Susan Bones, mine is Susan Amelia Bones

“You were named after her.”

“Most of my family was still alive, they didn't want to name me after a dead person, thought it bad luck, and yet I got Aunt Amelia’s whole name.”

“Do you know why?”

“I was meant to be Susan Michelle. Dad and Aunt Amelia had another brother, Edgar Mitchell. I was meant to get Amelia’s middle name for my first and Edgar’s middle name, at least a feminized version, for my middle. But an hour before I was born V-Voldemort personally killed him. They could have chosen another family member but they thought, Aunt Amelia told me they thought, that was wrong. I was meant to be named after dad’s siblings, so I was. ‘Course I could no longer be Michelle, so I just got Amelia.”

“Are you glad you got her full name? Not about your uncle dying, of course, just the getting her full name part?”

“I don’t know….It’s funny, though mom and dad could never know it, they named me after the one person in the family who didn’t die during that war. And yet….Yet I’m still named after a dead person now.”

“If you have kids, do you plan on naming them after the living, or the dead, or?”

“If I have kids I’m going to forget I’ve ever met a single person in my life. The child may be Amelia or Edgar or Lily or Albus or Harry or whatever, but it will not be named after Amelia Bones, Edgar Bones, Lily Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, whoever. It’ll just be…just be the name. Because legacy is good, but not everyone wants to be a legacy, and some people think it’s bad luck to name a child after the dead and some think it’s bad luck not to. Because—because it’s not my name. It doesn’t matter what I think is right and proper and good luck, because I’m not the one who has to deal with the consequences. So when my child is born I will select a name that fits them and it will be nothing but their name, and if they change their name, even better because it is theirs, not mine.”

“I have an idea that I’ve never done before, but I think it might help you.”

“Okay?”

“Write a list of names. Future names for your kids, your family members that died, book characters you like, I don’t care. It can be a mix of names from different sources as well, whatever you want. Just make a list of names.”

“Do I make it right now?”

“If you want, or you can do it later.”

“I want to now.”

“Works for me.” Dr. Hoffman rifled through a filing cabinet for a few minutes before coming up with a pre-sharpened pencil and empty purple notebook. “This is your now, whenever I have you write something, unless the specific situation calls for something else, use this.”

“Okay.” Susan hadn’t used a pencil since before Hogwarts, but easily slipped in the old habit of twirling it between her fingers as she stared at the blank page. What names should she write?

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Padma had never been nearly as fashion-centered as her twin sister, and yet she was two minutes late to her first therapy appointment because she spent so long choosing what clothes to wear. 

She knew her doctor's name, Lana Burton, but that said so little to her person. Padma, and Parvati, were identified as Indian by their names and there which came a list of stereotypes for people to lean on. The same could be said to Cho Chang being Korean-Chinese. To Blaise Zabini being Mozambican. Lana Burton wasn’t obvious about anything.

If she was white, or really anything except Indian, and Padma wore traditional Indian clothes it could be taken wrong, used against her. The same was true if she didn’t wear traditional Indian clothes. 

It was a balancing act Padma was often faced with. Parvati had never been a big fan of clothes traditional in any way, not just Indian. Despite her being a known fashionista she was very casual in what she wore. Padma though….

Eventually she settled on her favorite ghagra choli, a bright rose colored one with a mostly white bottom at the end of her skirt. Her hair pulled back into a simple three-strand braid she’d mastered at a young age, then relied on from there instead of learning how to do any other hairstyle. 

“Padma, right?” The doctor smiled at her, eyes barely glancing at her clothes despite all her efforts.

Lana Burton was white, very white, blonde-hair-blue-eyes white. And her clothes looked like something Parvati would wear: a faded rouge t-shirt beneath an open white cardigan that went past her knees, bottom half even more boring with just jeans and gray tennis shoes.

“Yeah….What do I call you?”

“You can just call me Lana.”

“Okay.”

“How are you today, Padma?”

“I’m fine.” She had absolutely no reason to trust Lana, to tell her anything. And she’d heard enough therapy horror stories to know better than to go spilling her heart, especially so early. “A bit nervous, I guess.”

“About therapy?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me some of your specific concerns?” 

“I don’t really know. I just am. There’s not really a specific fear, not that I can point out, at least.”

“That’s okay. What sort of thing do you want to talk to me about during these sessions?”

“I guess just my life. What I’m doing and experiencing, how I grew up, The War….Just the stuff I’ve experienced and am experiencing and will experience.”

“That’s a really good start. Do you have any other ideas? Have you been experiencing anything like extra anxiety or depression, in the sense of the emotion or the disorder, recently? Or for a long time?”

“I’m not sure, maybe.” Definitely. Padma knew a lot about psychology, she knew she had PTSD, she knew other disorders were likely there as well, or likely to develop. But that’s not how you start therapy if you want to retain control on your life.

“It would be very understandable considering everything you’ve been through.”

“Sure.”

“Can I ask you some questions? Just general stuff about your life.”

“I guess.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a twin sister, Parvati. And a little brother, Ari.”

“How old are you three?”

“Me and Parvati are eighteen, Ari is nine.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“What are their names?”

“Amma is Maya, mom is Zoya.”

“Amma means mom, right?”

“Yes.”

Lana nodded. “That’s what I thought, but I don’t know much Hindi. Only one or two words.”

“I don’t either.” That shocked most people. “Parvati knows a lot, though, Ari’s the only one of us who’s fluid. Amma is too, mom doesn’t know any.”

“How come you all know different amounts?”

“Ari was raised speaking Hindi, as well as English, by the time he was born amma spoke it regularly to clients. Me and Parvati were left to learn if we wanted, she did, I didn’t.”

“What job does your amma have?”

“Amma, and mom, own a boutique.” 

“Have you worked there before?”

“Not really, but I’m going to start after I graduate. So is Parvati. I think she only wants to work there short time, though, I plan on taking it over after amma and mom retire.”

“Is the boutique successful?” 

“Very. Everyone loves them.”

“Did The War affect the boutique?” 

“It affected everything, but other people certainly had things worse than us.”

“And is it bouncing back?”

“Yeah, sure. Everyone needs new clothes.”

“What about Ari?”

“What about him?”

“Is he going to work in the boutique after graduating?”

“Oh, I don’t know, probably. I guess we’ll see when he’s older.”

“Do you have a choice about working there?”

“Of course.”

“Are you dating anyone?” 

“No.”

“I probably should have already asked, but do you have anything to talk about specifically? This session, I mean.”

“Not really….I sorta forgot about the meeting until my alarm went off at 12:50.”

“What were you going to do before you remembered the meeting?”

“Just keep reading my book, I guess.”

“What book?”

“Oliver Twist. Parvati let me borrow it, it’s her favorite book.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s a bit dull, honestly. The story is cool, but it’s so old and worded so…oldly…that it’s hard to get into. But, I like the old-book-aesthetic, so I’ll persevere.”   

“What sort of books do you enjoy reading?”

“Oh, I hate reading. But, I love stories.”

“Have you ever seen a movie?”

“Of course, mom’s a muggleborn, I’ve seen tons. Movies are…okay, I just….I get bored. Just sitting there, watching something….It’s not mentally stimulating enough, I just can’t get into it.”

“Hmmm. Audiobooks?”

“I zone out and miss everything.”

“Fanfiction?”

“Fanfiction?”

“Do you know what a fandom is?”

“Yeah, it’s the people who like a certain book or movie or whatever.”

“Right. Well, fanfiction is when someone in a fandom writes a story about the original story. It might be what would happen if the main character started dating someone else than they really did or it might be what the person thinks happens after the story ends. It can really be anything, whatever they want.”

“Oh? That sounds…interesting. In a good way.”

“Well, there are plenty of websites you can read and/or write fanfiction on.”

“How? Like how do I find the websites?”

“Just Google ‘fanfiction’, one word, and the sites show up.”

“Okay.”

“....What kind of stories do you like?’

“Not really sure. Just whatever sounds interesting when I read the description.” 

“Do you have a favorite book, or story, I suppose?”

“I guess….I really like this one book, ‘The Love That Split The World’ by Emily Henry.” 

“What’s it about?”

“Well,”

Chapter Text

“Lav, it’s 12:55, we need to head to our therapy appointments.” Parvati slowly, sleepily, murmured. 

“No….I’m sleepy.”

“I am too, but we have to go.”

They were curled up together, half-undressed and warm with body heat, lying in Parvati's bed in the room they shared. 

“Who cares? It’s not even a real appointment, it’s just a pre-appointment.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“We won’t. They can’t punish us for skipping therapy.”

“Well, but….Maybe we need therapy.”

“Maybe, but skipping one appointment, a pre-appointment at that, won’t mess anything up.”

Parvati wanted to disagree, but her brain was so muggy and her joints so heavy. All she wanted to do was sleep for an hour or twelve, and that was exactly what Lavender was suggesting. 

Perfect, lovely, Lavender. 

How could she disagree with those droopy brown eyes? With that small little smile the blonde couldn’t help but have. Those soft, shaky fingers that had just connected the two of them in an Aphroditic way. 

Except….

“Lav, Sunday is the Full Moon. You’ll probably be too sick Saturday for therapy.” 

“I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t convincing, didn’t even bother trying to be, but Parvati was willing to believe any word that left that mouth. That beautiful, slightly chapped, mouth that tasted of artificial cherry.

“Well….Sleep is important.” 

“You can’t function without it, can’t survive.” 

“Mmmm, my brain is tingly.” 

“I think that means you need to sleep.”

“May…be. Maybe.”

Lavender yawned and snuggled her head against Parvati’s shoulder. “Don’t you feel good?”

She really did. Her brain was so loose and relaxed, her tummy upset in a way that made her crave tea, any tea as long as it wasn’t British, everything below her navel was tingly-numb.

“Don’t you?” Lavender asked again.

“Yeah.”

“So, why ruin it? Why lose the warmth? Why put all our clothes back on? Why leave our own special, safe, alone place where no one can judge or bother us?”

Those all sounded like good points to her.

“Don’t you want to stay here, like this, forever?”

She knew that was unrealistic, impossible, but….”Yeah.”

“So, let’s do it.”

“Okay.” Her body finally fully relaxed, as if it had just been waiting on edge for her permission. It wasn’t long before she drifted on, not a thought on her mind.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

Parvati felt much worse when she awoke again. Her head ached, her mouth was dry, and her muscles didn’t want to move, as if glue had been carefully applied between each one.

“I don’t feel too good.” Parvati mumbled, not sure if Lavender was even awake.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I think….I think we need water.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t wanna get up though.” Even talking hurt.

“Should we just go back to sleep?”

“Can’t. I feel a billion degrees.” 

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

“Dunno.”

“Is it—is it weird to say my vagina feels…wrong?”

“Like, kinda icky and wet?”

“Yeah. But, not horny wet.”

Lavender didn’t respond for a few seconds. “I think it might be the cum.”

“We never cleaned up.”

“We kinda just went to sleep. Immediately.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I need a shower.”

“Me too….You can go first.”

“Thanks.”

“Should we get water first?”

“Probably.”

“I just don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“But, I guess we don’t have a choice.”

“Forever lasted a lot less time than I thought.”

“I think it usually does.”

The next thing Parvati knew, Lavender was handing her a glass of cool water she almost spilt sitting up. It felt so nice on her throat, though, and her headache began slowly lessening. It was even better when the blonde handed her a chocolate tasting potion for all her pain.

“Thank you.”

“No big deal. I’m gonna take a shower and brush my teeth and all that….Oh, it’s 5:43, by the way.”

“Okay.”

Parvati laid back down once Lavender left into the bathroom. It probably wouldn’t be her turn to shower for another hour or so, which meant they wouldn’t both be ready until dinner was practically over.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, though. They’d just ask the elves to bring something to their dorm.

Tea still sounded nice, and maybe a vegetable heavy soup. Parvati loved vegetables.  

She would also love a massage and some chocolate. The latter would come with dinner, but the former was more of a fantasy. 

A face mask would be lovely too, but they weren’t exactly a priority the last time she went shopping. Lavender wouldn’t have any either; she didn’t like how they felt on her skin.

When Lavender came out, at 7:00, she was wearing her softest pair of pajamas—a pair of men’s shorts covered in quaffles and a The Weird Sisters tee-shirt that was just a little too big—and her hair had been pulled back in Dutch braids.

“I can’t believe I slept without braids or my bonnet on your non-silk pillowcases.” She groaned, flopping down on Parvati’s bed. “My hair was not fucking pleased about that.”

“It was just for a few hours.” She was so, so stupid. How could she forget to make sure Lavender took care of her hair? “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Right.” But, it really, really was. “I’m gonna go shower now.”

“Okay….Are we going to eat in here?”

“I figured. I was thinking vegetable soup and oolong tea, though if you want a different drink that’s fine. I know you’re not much of a tea drinker, and even then really just like black tea.”

“I’ll probably get milk. I don’t like soup and tea together.”

“Right.” She should have remembered that; why was she being so negligent today? “Well, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Parvati slowly stripped off her clothes as the bath filled up—she had never been more glad for the bath-shower mix instead of just having a shower.

She removed her Gryffindor shirt first, slowly running her hand up her stomach before tugging off her purple sports bra. Before she could think about it she was cupping her breasts, one at a time, left then right, left then right. Her light blue boy shorts came off last, but instead of immediately throwing them in her hamper like she had the first two clothing items, she brought them up to her face.

They smelt musty, like her vagina and the juices it produced. She sort of thought it smelt good, at least neutral. Not bad—everyone always says vaginas smell bad, but hers doesn’t, and neither does Lavender’s so she’s not too sure what that’s about.

They’re so wet and sticky, and she feels giddy touching them. They’re proof she’s had sex and her having sex is proof she’s wanted. She likes being wanted.

The tub eventually fills to right below the spout, so she gently slips in, not hesitating to lay down flat. The tub is long enough she doesn’t even have to fold her knees like she does at home.

Her legs don’t stay flat for long, though, as she raises her knees up so her hand reaches her vagina.

She’s not horny, Lavender pretty much took care of that for the rest of that day, but she was feeling sensual, and her nerves were on high alert.

Parvati couldn’t help the soft whimper that came out as she slowly circled around her clit. After a few circles she brought her finger up to her face. A string of goopy white stuff was hanging from it.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the cum, so just put her hand back down with it still attached. Her vagina was covered in ejaculate anyway, so it really didn’t make a difference.

Parvati had never had her vagina filled before, but she thought it might feel nice now. She didn’t want thrusting, maybe just to occasionally wiggle her hips a bit, but really just to have something in there.

Maybe they, if the thing in her vagina was attached to a person, would suck hickeys into her neck as they caressed her breasts. She wouldn’t have to do anything for them—just lay there and feel good. But, she wouldn’t be doing nothing out of cruelty, but out of beauty and pleasure and love.

Her person wouldn’t want her to do anything, they would just want to focus on her. Not always, not every time, but for a little bit sometimes. Including now.

Her circling fingers were okay, she wasn’t going to stop, but it would still be nice to have someone, or something, working on her as well. It could be Lavender, but it didn’t have to be.

She never went far enough to orgasm, didn’t want to, but made sure to keep constant light pressure as long as she wasn’t actively cleaning herself. 

Instead of grabbing her towel as she typically would have after she stepped out the bath, she slowly walked over to the mirror and wiped off the fog from the steam. 

She couldn't help but think she was gorgeous. Her dripping black hair, goose bump riddled skin, slightly hairy mons pubis. 

It took her a moment to realize her right hand had drifted back down, to slowly caress her labia.

For one of the first times in her life, Parvati finally understood why bodies are described as temples. She, at least the flesh she was graced with, was something to be revered and respected, decorated and devoted to.

She stood and stared at herself until her stomach made its emptiness known, and so began slipping on her clothes.

Soft sweatpant shorts, a small purple shirt that just barely covered her stomach with her arms down, a low, loose ponytail only meant to keep her hair from her face. She brushed her teeth, rubbed in a white skin potion, clipped off a hangnail. 

It was 8:03 when she re-entered her room, and the food had already been delivered. Lavender must have ordered it.

“That looks tantalizing.” Tantalizing? Since when did she say words like that? But, it was true—the only word that could describe that food was tantalizing. 

Lavender didn’t seem to mind, just smiled. “I know. It’s been here a few minutes, but I wanted to wait for you.”

“Thank you.”

Each bite was enthusiastic, but slow. She was focused on genuinely enjoying every bite. If she was a temple, then what she ate was an offering, and offerings are special. 

“Are you okay? You’re awfully silent.” Lavender said a few minutes into the meal.

“I feel funny.”

“Like sick?”

“No….It’s not a bad feeling.”

“Oh.”

It was silent for another few minutes before Parvati spoke, figuring it was only right for her to engage. “Do you regret skipping therapy?”

“No. Do you?”

“I’m not sure. I guess it doesn’t really matter, though, in the grand scheme of things.”

“I just don’t see why today mattered. Our first meeting was meant to be Saturday, so my first will be Saturday. It’s how the world works.”

“I guess I can understand that.”

“I don’t see why no one else can.”

“But, no one else even knew we weren’t going, not even us, until we didn’t?”

“Not just today. Whenever I want the world to work how it’s supposed to.”

“Like when?”

“I can’t think of anything specific right now, but I swear it happens.”

“I believe you.”

“Well, anyway, I could never regret spending time with you.”

“Of course.”

“You love me, right?”

“Yes. Have I done anything to make you feel otherwise?” Shame and insecurity slowly creeped up the edges of her good Temple feeling, eating it alive. 

“No….”

“Then what is it?”

“I just—I don’t know. Today’s just an off day, I think.” But, it wasn’t an off day. Ever since the war ended, and she became a werewolf, Lavender had been much less sure of herself and how people felt about her. It started immediately, but got much worse when her mom refused to have a werewolf for a daughter

“It’s okay.”

“Are we going back to bed after we finish eating?”

Parvati really wasn’t tired, almost six hour naps usually did that, but she didn’t want to upset Lavender. “Do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” In the week prior to the Full Moon Lavender’s symptoms got worse and worse, especially tiredness and pain. By four days before the Full Moon she could only get out of the bed long enough for something like school, less than eight hours with little physical activity, and needed a cane for the pain. If she did something more high activity, like sex for example, she was only able to do any other activity after sleeping for four plus hours, if at all.

“Sure, then.”

“You don’t want to.”

“It doesn’t make a difference to me.” She lied. “If you wanted to stay up I’d be good for that, but you wanting to lay down is also fine. I just want to be with you.”

Lavender smiled in relief. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Of course….Do you want me to read to you?” They did that a lot, especially in the last couple days before the Full Moon, but sometimes earlier. 

“Yes, please.”

“What should I read?”

“One of my Judy Blume books, I don’t care which.”

“Is Deenie okay?” That was Parvati’s favorite Judy Blume book, but Lavender preferred Forever .

“Yeah.” 

“Before we go to bed can we eat dessert?”

“I don’t see why not….I’m kinda craving chocolate.”

She laughed a little. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

“Aren’t you coming?” Granger asked, Patil had already left and she was about to. 

Granger had been trying to be nice to her recently, which Pansy really didn’t understand. She knew she didn’t deserve anything good, let alone from Granger, so it wasn’t like the other girl had been pressured into it.

“No. I already sent a note saying I was sick.”

“Oh, goodness, are you okay?” She really seemed concerned. 

“Yeah….Just a little under the weather.”

“Well, I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

Pansy wasn’t lying about being sick, not really. Sure, maybe she didn’t have dragon pox or a cold, but she really didn’t feel good.

There was a flesh eating worm in her stomach, crawling around, sniffing her cells, and occasionally taking a big bite. A bacterial infection had started in her brain stem, spread through the rest of it, then entered her spinal fluid. A group of dermestid beetles crawled through her flesh and began snacking on her heart, desperate enough for food they didn’t care she was still alive.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

Pansy laid back down, snuggling under her covers. It didn’t help, merely made her thoughts louder. She’d be better if she didn’t have a brain. 

Death Eater.

Supremanasist.  

Racist. 

Defamator. 

Discriminatory. 

Pansy clutched her stomach, sobbing, without tears and with little noise, as one of the worser cramps went through it. 

She was on the verge of hyperventilating and felt like her core temperature was a billion degrees.

She’d tried cooling spells, and potions for anything you could think of—pain, nausea, anxiety, even a Pepper Up Potion—to no avail. 

Remember that time you said a slur? Or what about one of the other dozens of times?

How about when that kid much poorer than you worked and saved for months to buy his family Christmas presents, and you stole the money just because you could?

And don’t forget when you told your whole family about your cousin cutting, knowing it would only get her abused and almost disowned? Not to mention you only knew that fact because you stole and read her diary.

Pansy knew she was a bad person, thought about it all the time, so why couldn’t her brain just lay off her a little right now? Why did her body have to join in on the rebellion?

She knew why: therapy.

If she went to therapy she’d have to talk about herself and then her therapist would find out all those horrible things and more and then—well, she wasn’t entirely sure what would happen, but it wouldn’t be good.

Why did she have to do all the terrible stuff in the first place? She should have known better.

“I wanna go home.” Pansy quietly whimpered to herself. But, that wasn’t entirely true. She didn’t have a home anymore, and certainly did want to go back to the place she was raised.

She just wanted the feeling of home. Of safety and love. But, that had never been provided, and certainly not by her family.

Pansy lost track of the time, not realizing any had truly passed until someone entered the dorm.

She jumped up, breathing hard and fast, but it was only Granger. 

“Are you okay, Pansy?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You seem…nervous.”

“You just startled me.” She regretted the words before they even exited her mouth, Parkinsons don’t show weakness. But, then again, she wasn’t very good at being a Parkinson. Did she want to be?

“Alright, if you say so.”

“Where’s Patil?”

“Padma?”

“Yeah.”

“Downstairs. She arrived back before I did, I think her therapy room is closer.”

“Oh.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Not really.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” In fact, it was the exact opposite. 

“Have you seen Madame Pomfrey about it?”

“It’s not that serious.”

“Well, I guess you know your body better than I do.”

“Yeah.” But, she didn’t really know it all that well. She just knew about the flesh eating worm and brain bacteria and dermestid beetles. And the new addition of ants that crawled through her veins, sipping on her blood.

Though, ants didn’t drink blood, so maybe she needed a better metaphor. Ticks? Fleas? But, no, they felt like ants. 

Whatever.

“What have you been doing the past hour?”

“Just…resting.”

“That’s probably a wise decision.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll get you sick?”

“Not really, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you did.”

“I guess not.” But, she wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation, too distracted by the wriggling of her intestines. Nothing was in them, they were just wiggling by themselves. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You just seem sorta spacey.” 

“Oh, I guess it’s just the sickness.” It was the bacteria, eating away at her brain cells.

“Yeah, I suppose that makes a lot of sense.”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

“This might seem like an odd question, but what job do you want after this school year?”

She had had a dream ever since she was eight years old, of opening a bakery-bookstore-coffee shop. It would be large enough to accommodate everything and everyone, but still cozy. No matter what anyone was going through, stepping through the front door would make them instantly feel calmer; she would make people feel calmer, safer.

“Pansy?”

“Huh?”

“You zoned out.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking about the job I want.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I want….” She had never told anyone this before except Blaise and Calypso, not even her parents. She was going to tell them once, but they told her she didn’t have a choice in job. “I want to open this shop that's sort of a mix of a bookstore, coffee shop, and bakery.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“I want it to be.”

“When are you opening?”

“Sometime this upcoming summer. Hopefully at the beginning of it, but we’ll see.”

“Well, tell me when it does, I want to come check it out.”

Did she really want that, or was she just being polite? “Okay.”

“I love bookstores.”

“I’m not surprised.” 

Hermione laughed. “I think most people would agree with that.“

“I wish there was something about me everyone guessed accurately….I mean, except that I’m a raging bigot.”

“Are you a raging bigot?”

“Does it matter? Everyone thinks so regardless, and I haven’t given them reason to believe otherwise.”

“I believe otherwise.”

“Thanks, Granger.”

“Hermione.”

“I know your first name.”

“I was telling you you can call me Hermione. I call you Pansy.”

“Okay.” It was such a simple response it couldn’t even imagine conveying all of the thoughts and emotions in her head, even as the bacteria ate them away. She was not worthy of calling Granger by her first name, but it also wasn’t up to her what she called people. 

“Who are you friends with?”

“Why?”

“I want to learn more about you.”

“Blaise Zabini and Cal—I mean, Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione squinted. “Why did you almost call Malfoy Cal-something?”

“It’s a long story that I don’t have permission to tell.”

“Okay….What’s your favorite color?”

“Chartreuse.” 

“I’ve never gotten that response before.”

“It looks hopeful and sounds cool.”

“Have you ever had a pet?”

“I got an owl right before I started Hogwarts, but that’s it.”

“Do you like chocolate?” 

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t. I mean it’s okay and I like hot chocolate and that kind of thing, but I’m not the biggest fan of plain chocolate. It makes my teeth hurt.”

“Oh.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Gazpacho.” 

“Oh, I want to like gazpacho so bad, but I just can not stand cold soup.”

“I don’t like cold soup either, but gazpacho was a big part of my childhood.”

“Are you Spanish?”

“Spanish and Italian, but my family have lived in England the last three generations.”

“That’s so cool. I wish I knew more about my heritage.” 

“I wish I knew less. My family isn’t the best.”

“Right. Are you single?”

“I don’t think you realize how amorous that sounds.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m genuinely curious.”

“I know, it’s fine. Yes, I’m single.”

“I am as well….That also sounded amorous, didn’t it?”

“A bit.”

“I’m not like that, I swear.”

“Not gay? It wouldn’t be that bad if you were…are you anti-gay people?” That would be very bad for the fantasies Pansy had in the dark empty night. The ones she swore to herself meant nothing, that she didn’t really need or want, but couldn’t sleep without.

Hermione’s eyes widened as she quickly moved her hands around in a way that suggested panic. “No, no! Not gay! I meant I’m not the kind of person who flirts with people I’m not interested in! I’m not homophobic; I am gay!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m interested in all genders.”

“Okay.”

“You got really upset when you thought I was homophobic. I mean, like, personally upset. Are you….”

“Am I gay?”

“Yeah.”

Pansy nodded. It was shaky and unsure—pureblood heirs aren’t allowed to exclusively like the same gender. You can be straight and you can be bi, but you can’t only like your own gender, you can’t do anything that inhibits having an heir. 

“Does anyone know?”

“Draco and Blaise. Some people, including my parents, think I’m bisexual, but that’s not true. I just….I’m only romantically attracted to women.”

“Why do people think you’re bisexual?”

“So I could freely talk about my attraction to women without discrimination.”

“So, being bisexual is allowed, but not a lesbian?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Bi women can still have babies.”

“Oh. That’s dystopian.” 

“Yeah.”

“It feels wrong to ask you if you’re bilingual after finding that out.”

A small laugh bubbled out of Pansy’s throat, or maybe it was a sob. “I can speak Spanish and Italian, outside of English. I don’t know why my family ever came to England, honestly.”

“I know French. Latin too, I suppose. Not really conversational Latin, but I know what the words mean.”

“So you’re finally answering the questions yourself?”

“You didn’t ask about the other ones.”

“I didn’t ask about you being bilingual either.”

“Well, it’s interesting….Do you like custard?”

“Custard?”

“You’ve surely heard of custard before.”

“I have. It’s just a very random thing to ask about. Asking if I like chocolate isn’t too unexpected, but custard? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Well, do you?”

“It’s okay. Not my top favorite or anything.”

“What is?”

“My top favorite?”

“Yeah.”

“I already told you: gazpacho.” It hurt more than Pansy was willing to admit that Hermione had already forgotten the answer to one of the questions.

“Gazpacho isn’t a dessert.”

“Oh. I thought you meant food.” The humiliation of that misunderstanding almost hurt worse, even if she was eased by the thought Hermione was paying attention….Unless she was lying and really been asking about Pansy’s favorite food, claiming she meant dessert to not upset her.

“No, dessert.”

“Probably….” Dessert has more calories. Calories are bad. Calories make you fat. Pansy can’t be fat. Good women aren’t fat. “Ice cream is nice, but I don’t really like sweet stuff.”

“You like cold food, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Favorite food is gazpacho, favorite dessert ice cream, they’re both cold.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose.” Why was Hermione so focused on food? Did she think Pansy was fat? Maybe she was fat—maybe all her work to stay small and perfect was worthless and she was already big and disgusting. 

“You’re more reserved than I was expecting.” 

“Oh.”

“I always kind of thought of you as loud and abrasive.” 

“I suppose I used to be, in a way.”

“In what way?”

“In the fake way that I was everything.”

“I like you better when you act real.”

“I think I do too.”

Chapter Text

1. Hair experimentation 
2. Clothes experimentation
3. Imagination play
4. Pretend tea parties
5. Being read to
6. Making jewelry out of beads and/or rubber bands
7. Collecting baseball cards
8. Doing my nails/makeup messily
9. Actually playing marbles and not just collecting them
10. Dancing in the rain

Chapter Text

1. Amelia Susan Bones
2. Albus ? Dumbledore 
3. Minerva ? McGonagall
4. Helga Hufflepuff
5. Pomona ? Sprout
6. Ciara Erin Bones nee Mallon 
7. Jacob Elton Bones
8. Hannah Marie Abbott 
9. Tom Marvolo Riddle 
10. Raine
11. Cory
12. Arlo
13. Kingsley ? Shacklebolt
14. Vivian 
15. Edgar Mitchell Bones

Chapter Text

                                                                                                                              Dear Mother,

What did I ever do to you? No, maybe you’re not the worst parent in the world, but you’re also certainly not the best. I do love you, but I find it unlikely you can return the feeling. I don’t hate you, maybe I should, maybe not. I don’t know. You abandoned me. I know I’m an adult, but you’re still my parent. Aunt Andi has been more of a parent to me in the past three months than you ever were. Because she doesn’t just give me stuff and pay people to tolerate me, she loves me. I’m learning to cook, to clean, to care for myself. I feel like me for the first time ever. I look like me, mostly. Some people know who I really am, and the rest will soon. You probably never will, unless you read it in a newspaper, but you’ve never been that sort of person.

I’m a woman. My name is Calypso Andromeda Black. I’m a good person.

                                                                                                                             Sincerely, The Woman You Birthed But Who Is Not Your Daughter 

                                                                                                                              Dear Father,

I’m a better person than you’ve ever been. Suck my dick and get another life-long sentence. Fuck you.

                                                                                                                         Sincerely, Someone You’ll Never Know

Chapter Text

Saturday, September 5th, 1998

“Are you excited for therapy in a couple hours?” Susan asked, she and Benji were curled up on her bed, the latter preferring it over their own, though there was no real difference. 

“Sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true, you’ve been off all day. You’ve been off for a while, but especially today. What’s going on?”

“I want to tell you, but….It’s very hard.” Neither of them made the low hanging joke they typically would have.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me, in fact, it might give you even more reason to. I’m your girlfriend, Han, I’m here for you, always.”

“Except, I’m not really who you think I am. Not in a polyjuice way, but….” They didn’t know what else to say.

“I know you’ve changed a lot, that’s totally normal, both when growing up and once you’ve become safe after being in a traumatic situation.”

“This isn’t a change, it’s just new information to you.”

“That’s okay too. Everything I know about you was new information at some point or another.”

“This is much bigger than anything else you know.”

“So was you coming out to me as pan, but that didn’t lead to anything bad. We wouldn’t be together if you hadn’t.”

“But, this could end our relationship.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“And yet, it’s still true.”

“Are you upset with me, Hannah?”

“Hannah doesn’t exist.” They saw no point in drawing this interaction out when she would learn the truth anyway. If they were going to lose their girlfriend today, they’d prefer to get it over with as quickly as possible so the mourning could begin and they could find out if room switches are allowed.

“I don’t understand?”

“My name is Benji.”

“Sorry, are you trying to tell me you’re a boy?”

Benji’s hands shook, their middle tightening—Susan must be so mad. Like their mom, their dad, a billion other people who hated anyone like them for no reason other than the fact they exist. They were still homeless, would stay that way. They and Susan shared all their friends. No friends, no family, no girlfriend, no life. All because they wanted to be a stupid fucking tr—

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Susan was quiet and still tightly, but not to the point they couldn’t escape, spooning Benji.

“I—I’ll try to get a different room, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Being—well, I’m not a boy, not completely, but that doesn’t matter because I know you think I’m a freak, so I’ll just go ahead and return your stuff and switch rooms and—”

Susan cut them off. “You’re not a freak, and I don’t want to break up, or for you to switch rooms unless sharing one with girls makes you uncomfortable.”

“But, you’re a lesbian.”

“So?”

“So, I’m only sometimes a girl. I’m genderfluid.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Five years of dating doesn’t go away just because I found out a new thing about you. You’re not a freak, you’re not a criminal, you’re not whatever wretched insults are flying through your head. You’re Benji and you’re my partner and I love you.”

“But—”

“Not buts, love.”

“So it’s just…okay?”

“Yup.”

“My parents disowned me.”

“I never liked your parents.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you want to live with me next summer?”

“Well, not the only reason, but it certainly exacerbated things.”

“I ought to kill ‘em.”

“Don’t say that. Murder is wrong.”

“They tried to murder you.”

“Not directly.”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“The law.”

“Here, I’ll promise to not kill them if you promise to not object to me imagining killing them?”

“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with what you do in your own head.”

“I love you, Ben.”

“I love you too.”