Colin. She never liked that name.
It branded her, made her feel an odd pain in her chest. It made her want to scream and cry and kiss Harry. But she couldn't. Not in that body.
So Colin (Colette?) bit her lips, didn't protest when her father dressed her in boy's clothes and talked about the wife she would one day have. Pretended to ignore Hermione Granger flirting with her, ignored having to dress next to boys every morning with an erection. But she still cried, every single night, curled into a ball.
She knew a single person who sympathized—or, for that matter, knew. Dumbledore. The resident LGBT counselor.
She broke down in his office, sobbing. "I just don't want this to happen."
He looked her in the eyes and smiled. In his hand were hormone blockers.
So, when she was eleven years old, she started to take the drugs. No one but the supplier knew.
When she was fourteen, she came to him again, desperate.
"I told my dad." Pause. "He kicked me out."
"You can stay with Rosmerta," said Dumbledore. "She's particularly excepting."
So, that summer, she began life at the Three Broomsticks. No one knew. No one was notified.
And that was exactly what she needed.
She began work that summer, waiting tables and cleaning bathrooms and submitting photos. Because she was saving up. Saving up for the surgeries.
In her sixth year, she had enough.
Dumbledore took her to the clean little office. The doctors were warm and friendly.
Her chest went from flat to a B. Her body was pumped with estrogen. But most importantly, the bane of her existence was gone.
To celebrate, she dyed her hair blonde and legally changed her name. Colette was born.
Dumbledore helped her fake a story. She was an exchange student. Her parents were dead. She was perfect.
But that year, Harry didn't come.
He was off saving lives, fighting for the greater good.
And Colette hated this. So much.