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Dad and Harry are taking me to get my apparition license today. We had a long talk about it last night, and I decided that I would go as myself, take the photo for the ID as myself even though I still have another year to go at Hogwarts.
I’ve been pushing down this secret part of me for so long that it’s become small and tight and so hard that it hurts my gut. It’s a pain that keeps me up at night. It’s so distracting that it makes me stumble over my words when I speak, but still I can’t let it out. This hard little part of me is buried, burrowed so deep inside me that I’m worried it will tear a hole in my belly, rip my insides to shreds trying to get out. And still I’m quiet, still I can’t find the words to explain. To explain me.
That’s why, today, I’m wearing my short sundress, the blue one with the daises that Al likes. It’s got thin straps that have a tendency to slip off of my shoulders and the cups of my white lace bra peek out when I lift my arms. I’ve put on a pair of flimsy summer sandals and pink lip-gloss. My blond lashes are tinted brown, which Al says makes my grey eyes look bright and blue.
Dad cut my hair last night from a picture that I clipped from Witch Weekly. It’s still long, but it’s got lots of layers that kind of float up when I walk. He curled it for me this morning.
That same copy of Witch Weekly featured an article on wizard’s fashion called “Clothes Make the Man.” I’ve tried, but I can’t figure out what that means.
Harry is what a lot of people would consider masculine. He’s scruffy and sloppy, and he wears things like plaid shirts and tatty trainers, and drinks lager. But he’s also gentle, always wants a hug, and, while he definitely has a, ‘I’m Harry Potter and I don’t take shite from anybody’ air about him, he can be really quiet and sometimes seems to fade into the background, like he’s just watching. Like he has no idea that people can’t take their eyes off of him.
Dad, in many ways, could also be clipped from Witch Weekly’s article. His features are as fair and delicate as mine, and I’ve got his slender frame, but his clothes are aggressively masculine. He’s obsessed with Muggle suits, and they’re made of perfectly tailored hard lines. His suits are works of art that turn his body into angles and sharpness. But then there’s his ability to do my hair, his not-so-secret love of listening to opera on the wireless, and the fact that he lets me put varnish on his toes. Do those things make him less of a man?
And then there’s my Al, who isn’t what anyone would call masculine. He wears tight clothes, and the only way to describe how he moves about a room is to say that he flits. He’s gentle and quiet like Harry, but when he gets excited his hands flutter around his face as he talks a mile a minute. He’s a butterfly, delicate and frenetic at the same time. And his magic is beautiful. It gives off this soft blue light when he casts, and he’s brilliant at Charms. Whereas his uncle George is known for the wickedest charms, Al makes pretty things like cloud-like bleating lambs that float above a baby’s crib or the scent of fresh laundry to waft through the house. Nobody would put Al in an article about masculinity. Nevertheless, he’s my man.
And then there’s me. A boy in a dress. That’s how people will see me anyway. Or maybe they’ll ask if I want to be a girl. But the answer’s not yes or no. It’s not as simple as that. It’s not as simple as looking at my dress, and knowing me. My clothes don’t make me a woman or a man, but they are a part of who I am. So much so that I need to wear them. I can’t get the words out to explain, not without stuttering, but I can wear my blue sundress with the daisies and curl my hair. I can dress as myself, even if I haven’t yet figured out exactly who I am.
My clothes might not make me a man, but they do make me feel beautiful.
And I will be beautiful.