A/N: Inspired by a post from Tumblr user teddylupinining. (I'm sorry for mauling your innocent, brilliant headcanon with my shipping.)
These characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Only the words are mine.
When you were seven, you stole Victoire's favorite skirt, a pale blue number with a sash and a bow. You changed your body down to her size and lengthened your hair, adding bangs to frame your hazel eyes. You grinned at your reflection, and headed out to your yard with a spring in your step.
You wandered through the grass, looking for wildflowers to weave into your multi-colored hair, which had yet to settle into blue. You liked the way your "boy parts" weren't trapped behind a seam. You liked the rustle of your bare legs against each other, the summer breeze on your skin.
So this is what's it's like, being a girl.
"Teddy Lupin!" yelled Gran from the door. Her tone made you jolt. "What are you doing?"
You stand frozen in your spot, unable to answer.
Sighing, Gran ushered you inside and confiscated the skirt, muttering something about "like mother, like son."
You kept your dress-up games secret after that.
At twenty-three, you shouldn't still be playing dress-up. But there's a box at the back of your closet, sealed with an Impenetrable Charm. Things no one ever sees, little joys in the form of scrunchies and lace tights and strappy bras studded with silver spikes.
You're not bold enough for makeup or heels. Yet.
Something tells you it's more than just dress-up, that you're liquid and you've always been and why shouldn't you be able to express who you are? But then you remember how the boys in school called each other sissies if they were too emotional or liked Herbology or got daily letters from their moms . How everyone snickered at you in first year when you followed Victoire into the girls' dormitory, and the stairs let you up. How, when you came out as pansexual in sixth year, your friend responded, "Whatever, mate. As long as you don't turn into one of those...those pretty boys."
"Exactly," said your other roommate. "It's okay to be a poofter as long as you don't flaunt it."
You bury your hands in your secret box, and try not to think about it.
You don't know how this happened, but you're snogging James under the bleachers. He's still in his Worchestershire Whizbees uniform, hair sticking to his forehead. He smells of grass and wintergreen and musky post-game sweat and him. His arm rests, solid and warm, around your waist. When you break away, you look at James and he has that look of excitement written all over his face. The same look he gets while on the pitch, or when raving about his latest musical obsession.
You take his hand in yours. "All this time...I thought you were straight."
"No," says Jamie, and he circles his fingers against your palm. "I like boys."
Roxy and Lily are sitting on Lily's bed, painting each other's nails. You can't help but stare at the fluid motion of the brush swiping over Lily's nails. Roxy spots you standing there and look of sympathy passes through her eyes.
"You want to go next, Teddy?"
You nod, and look at the floor.
Lily applies a black base ("Because you're punk-rock," she explains, and you can't disagree) and Roxy seals your nails in a shiny clear coat.
"It's beautiful," you say, holding your fingers in front of the light. They gleam like polished onyx.
Victoire does your makeup with a maroon lip and gold eyeliner because, hello, Gryffindor, was she right?
"Yes, Vic, you're always right," you say, and she gives her impish smile.
Louis does your hair, his eager hands sweeping through it, reminding you of the way you used to ruffle Louis's own ginger hair, back when he was only up to your waist or so. He smooths your hair and spritzes it with some metallic-smelling potion and yanks out the knots roughly, making your eyes water. But it's all worth it when you turn to see the proud look on his face as he holds up the mirror.
The kids are gathering around you, giving their opinions, their voices so familiar but some starting to show cracks of puberty. It's bizarre. You watch them chattering away, cussing affectionately at each other, and you wonder when they learned such obscene words.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a messy-haired, golden-tan figure leaning against the doorframe, looking upon the scene.
Shit.
He can't see you like this.
He likes boys. Blokes. Manly men. He's a manly man. Tinier than your average nineteen-year-old, but broad-shouldered, quick on his feet, nothing like don't want to know what he must be thinking. Teddy Lupin, one of those pretty boys.
His expression is inscrutable. "Sorry, kids," says James, stepping forward to grab you by the hand. "I'm going to steal him for a second."
"That's not fair!"
"You always steal him."
"Yeah," Victoire says, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "You've been stealing him a lot, lately."
He rolls his eyes at her. Then pulls you into his room, and shuts the door. "So. New look, huh?"
You gulp. "Yeah...I-It-it's girly, I know, you don't have to pretend-"
"You know," Jamie cuts you off, and steps just a bit closer. "I've always wanted to kiss someone with lipstick."
He's grinning up at you in a way that makes your heart pound.
"...yeah?"
"Yeah," he says, and gets on his tiptoes.
You and Jamie head downstairs and take the last two chairs at the table. Only after you sit down do you register the goggling stares around you, and you remember that you're decked out in a full face of makeup, with your hair styled and feminine. The adults exchange glances, showing various degrees of concern. Gran scowls so hard that she looks almost like her deranged sister.
You don't explain.
"Pass the rolls," you say to your godfather.
Harry blinks. "Of course." He hands over the tray, not taking his eyes off you.
All the children are looking at you with curiosity or pride or both. Roxy is positively beaming. You blush, hair and cheeks both going pink. This is such a small thing and you don't have the words to describe how much it means, the feeling of warmth rushing over your body. These kids, these fucking precious kids. You look over at the boy smiling charmingly beside you, leaning a bit to close, his elbow practically in your plate.
"Jamie," says Louis all of a sudden. "Why do you have a red smudge on your neck?"
(fin.)