Chapter Sixteen: Another Brick In The Wall

Harry had never been to a hospital before. In his childhood, any complaints about an injury or illness had been met by Vernon and Petunia with scorn, derision, and accusations of "faking it" before being soundly stuffed into his cupboard. Dudley, of course, was whisked off to Accident and Emergency for even the slightest cough.

In hindsight, he probably owed his latent magic the fact that he'd even survived to eleven years.

From what he'd seen on television and in pictures, though, hospitals in the muggle world were sterile colorless affairs, tile and stucco in a pallet of off-whites bleached of any remaining color by fluorescent bulbs. The only break from the monotony, those depictions would have one believe, was the gleam of cold metal instruments used to poke and tear and cut presumably in the name of saving lives.

The St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries carried on the wizarding world's tradition (in addition to overly verbose names for things) of presenting a luridly lavish alternative to something to which the muggle world took a more minimalistic approach. With dark hardwood floors and paneled walls, the place reminded Harry more of an old bank or a ritzy parlor than a medical center. Still, there was a morose feel to the whole of the building. Here was where a wizard came when he was laid his lowest, when his life was on the line; it almost felt disingenuous to try to dress it up.

At least it had a lift; that was a muggle invention that apparently even wizards saw as useful.

Harry had been to see George in his new body, though being only acquaintances, there hadn't been much to discuss other than a somewhat hollow offering of sympathies. At least there hadn't been any complications. Harry did genuinely feel bad for getting him wrapped up in this latest scheme, though it had been entirely unforeseeable. Hopefully, he simply came to terms with it.

Malfoy, Nott, and Goyle—and their heavily gender-influenced pureblood ideology—were having a significantly worse time of things. During his half-hour visit, Harry had been witness to four tantrums from three patriarchs (Lucius Malfoy had managed two and seemed open the possibility of more) who had just had decades of plans for the next generations of their families torn down around their ears.

It was, undeniably, incredibly gratifying.

Now, though, he had stepped out, ostensibly to get some air. In reality, he simply couldn't tolerate watching the chummy exchange as Fred, Hermione, Daphne, and Bella all did their level best to cheer up the feminized (and as a result somewhat morose) George Weasley. Even the sight of the pureblood bitch-fest wasn't enough to stymie the warm-and-fuzzies they were giving off.

That was what brought him to the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, where he'd been informed that he would be able to Floo back to Hogwarts.

And that was what brought him face-to-face with Neville Longbottom, who would introduce him to the crux of his next scheme.

"Harry!" Neville bleated as Harry stepped off the lift car. His eyes were as round as his face, shocked at Harry's sudden appearance. "You…you startled me, I wasn't expecting to see…well, anyone."

"Visiting a friend," Harry said. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, um…" Neville fell silent at that, and Harry glanced at the sign on the wall next to elevator:

Fourth Floor:

Long-Term Spell Damage

Well, it was Christmas, or thereabouts.

"You've family here?" he asked.

"Um…Mum and Dad," Neville said. "I visit every Christmas."

"…That's kind," Harry said. "I bet they enjoy seeing their son."

"I'm not even sure they…know who I am," Neville shrugged. "They were…"

"Well, say it proudly, Neville," a steely woman's voice said, and a woman in a long red cloak appeared over behind Neville, closing a bony hand over his shoulder. "Your parents were proud aurors and paid a heavy price in service of their cause."

"…Yeah, that," Neville said. "Thanks, Gran."

Neville's grandmother was an impressive woman. While bone thin, she still stood tall and proud, with an iron bearing that just dared anyone to defy her. In fact, Harry was sure she would welcome any poor sod who wanted to take a shot at her or her grandson. She looked down a triangular nose at Harry, who saw recognition in her eyes after a moment.

"Harry Potter," she said, stepping past her grandson and holding out a hand to shake. Despite a lack of circulation leaving her grip cold, it seemed only stronger for it, and Harry actually fought a small wince as he prized his hand free of the greeting. "Wonderful to finally meet you. Lily and James were dear friends of mine."

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Longbottom," Harry said. "Your son and his wife were aurors?"

"Quite famous ones, at that," the elderly matriarch said. "We were just on our way to see them, if you'd care to join us."

"Gran, Harry doesn't want to – "

"It's quite alright," Harry said with a nod. "I'd be honored."

Obviously pleased with his response, Mrs. Longbottom, led the two boys down the paneled hallway. Down here, the quiet seemed almost oppressive, broken only by distant mutterings, the occasional frightened shout, or the sound of a scuffle breaking out as a resident possibly attempted to break perimeter. Past several doors that were shut tight so as to give their occupants a peaceful Christmas, a large set of double doors was thrown wide open, a placard above the doorframe proclaiming it to be 'Ward 49 – Janus Thickey Ward'.

Inside, a bleak sight met Harry.

The Janus Thickey ward was a single long room, open but with curtained dividers not unlike the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. While privacy might have been a concern for some, the occupants of this particular ward didn't seem bothered. Most of them weren't aware enough to be so, at a glance.

Most of the beds were empty, their occupants possibly up and about or released. In the farthest left corner of the room, two beds had been pushed together, their occupants seated in chairs nearby and staring vacantly into each other's eyes. At first glance, it appeared to be a moony-eyed couple locked in the honeymoon phase, but there was a placid sort of happiness to their smiles. These two weren't rejoicing in each other's presence. Theirs was the simple, unbothered joy of those who knew no better. At the trio's approach, both looked up, and Harry saw in their eyes a horrible mirror of his own. Emptiness, dark and fathomless, like a doll's.

These two had been subjected to horrors that even Harry could only imagine, and they had come out the other end with significantly worse than a bleak worldview on a chip on their shoulders.

"Harry, um…these are my parents," Neville said, taking a seat and motioning for Harry to join him. "Frank and Alice."

"What happened to them?" Harry asked as he slowly sat next to Neville across from Frank and Alice Longbottom.

"Shortly after you defeated You-Know-Who," Mrs. Longbottom said, reaching out and fondly running a hand through her son's hair, "my son and his wife were ambushed in their home by a group of his holdouts. We're not really sure what they were hoping to accomplish. Maybe they thought, as members of Dumbledore's Order, Franklin and Alice would have had some idea of what exactly happened to their 'Dark Lord'. Or maybe they were simply hoping to exact some grim revenge on those that had opposed him. They tortured my son and his wife, by use of the Cruciatus Curse."

Harry, watching Neville's expression, saw his face shift into a pained grimace as he looked at his own parents. His mother stared back in unseeing intrigue, as politely interested as a toddler might be in a kind stranger. Without a word, she reached for her bedside table, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing a small slip of paper. Harry wondered if she could at least communicate in writing…but it was nothing more than a wrapper from a piece of gum. Alice Longbottom presented this to her son with no small amount of flourish, and Neville gave her a watery smile as he accepted it.

"Happy Chrismas, Mum," he said in a throaty voice.

Harry didn't like this. He didn't like any of this. He'd never known his own parents, missed them only in the abstract sense that it would have been nice to have a set of his own growing up. But worse than watching a happy family or a group of friends parade their joyous lives in front of him, he was now being given a front-row seat, treated to the sight of a boy who had it just as bad as he did. Harry had the small comfort that his parents were at least resting in the afterlife. Neville had to contend with the constant knowledge that his parents were here, in this single ward, for the rest of their empty lives. Their minds were addled to the point of unawareness, and all he could do was watch them, physical ghosts that were a pale echo of their former selves.

Envy was an old friend of his. But for the first time in his short life, Harry Potter pitied somebody. He pitied Neville Longbottom, and it was making him sad.

Harry did not like to feel sad.

And so, as he tended to, he instead decided to feel angry. Sadness was paralyzing, stopped one in his tracks and left him unable to do much more than blubber and fret over his lot. Anger, on the other hand, was a stunningly effective motivator and quite formidable when given direction.

Harry very much enjoyed feeling angry.

He got to his feet, turning to face the two Longbottoms.

"I do need to be going," he said. "I apologize for the abruptness of my departure and ask that you not attribute it to any discomfort at the nature of this visit."

"…Oh," Neville said. "Alright, then."

"Missus Longbottom, it's been lovely to meet you," Harry went on with a singular nod at the woman, who nodded in kind, seeming perfectly unperturbed by his actions. "Happy Christmas to both of you."

With that, he beat a hasty exit. He needed to get back to his dormitory and spend some time in his lab.

There was work to be done.

…

While normally Minerva opposed the concept of working over the holidays (despite what she felt was unfairly called a "steely demeanor", she maintained a healthy balance of work and life), the current extenuating circumstances rather demanded that she remain a bit busy in the leadup to Christmas. The Board of Governors had been quick to approve her transition from Deputy Headmistress to Headmistress, and that meant that she was in a perfect position to push through a few changes just in time for the start of second term. Some policies would be altered or completely rewritten, she would of course have to pick her own deputy (Filius was the natural first choice, though Arthur's popularity with the students and familiarity with the muggle world necessitated that he at least be brought into consideration), and in addition to the filling of her old position as Transfiguration professor there would also be a few other staffing changes.

Chief among them was one she intended to enact as soon as possible.

That—and that alone—was what brought her to the farthest reaches of Hogwarts castle. The walk to the North Tower was long and arduous, giving one plenty of time to regret the decision to make it in the first place. There was absolutely nothing else of import or interest in this part of the castle, and more than once, Minerva had petitioned to have it boarded off or perhaps converted into some manner of leisure area for the students to mingle outside of the common rooms. Each time, she had found her efforts stymied by Sybil Trelawney's utter refusal to vacate her chosen classroom.

"It is perfectly situated along a ley line, allowing my Inner Eye to gaze into the aetherium with perfect clarity!"

"Inner Eye", Minerva's boot. Sybil simply enjoyed that the location allowed her to remain enigmatic to her students while simultaneously giving her somewhere secluded to get blootered on sherry.

Well, there would be no more of that nonsense. There was a new Headmistress in charge, and her very first order of business was to remove Divination from the curriculum, effective immediately.

"Sybil!" Minerva called, climbing the ladder and rapping her knuckles on the trapdoor that led up into the Divination classroom. Ridiculous. Why make it such a chore to get to class? "Sybil, open this door!"

When no answer was forthcoming after nearly a minute, Minerva sighed and unearthed her wand, leveling it at the door and quelling the urge to cast a Blasting Curse before deciding on a silent Unlocking Charm. With a muted click, the door shifted and opened. As the heavy wood landed noisily against a floor in dire need of a Sweeping Spell, Minerva climbed into stuffy, incense-scented darkness. With the thick drapes pulled tightly over every window, the only light came from the coals of a fire long since left for dead.

"Sybil," Minerva called out again, jolting a bit when she finally spotted the Divination professor, a barely-visible outline in the gloom, slumped over her crystal ball. Rolling her eyes at the woman's theatrics, she made her way closer. "Sybil, we need to discuss – "

"On the first ides of the new year, it will happen," Sybil spoke in a deep and hoarse voice that had Minerva feeling the need to pop in a lozenge just to listen to it. "The darkness of the north, betrayed by his dearest friend and shackled in a prison of his own creation, burns with vengeance. Frail of body but iron of will, he will overcome his binds and walk free once more. He will…will seek the blood of his blood, instill him with his legacy. Together, they will seek out he who betrayed him, he who holds the Hallowed Wand. The darkness of the north…will seek…the blood of his…blood…"

The Divination professor tensed up as though having a fit before letting a hoarse cough and then peering up at Minerva in evident confusion, the coals of her fire reflected in her glasses.

"…That was riveting, Sybil, but I'm still firing you."

…

Becoming the Headmistress of Hogwarts had always been a prospect that had carried with it some degree of trepidation for Minerva. In addition to the general stress associated with the responsibilities of the job, the stark reality had always been that her inheritance of the position would very likely coincide one way or another with the end of her association with Albus Dumbledore. Either through accident or some dramatic demise, there had never been a doubt in Minerva's mind that Albus's last day on the job would also be his last day among the living.

Of course, life was in the business of bucking expectation, and while her time as Headmistress had come on the heels of the dissolution of her most longstanding friendship, it had been not the result of some tragic circumstance but of Albus's own recklessness and ineptitude.

As such, while she was quite happy to finally be able to enact some policies she'd been sitting on for some time, it came with no small share of conflicted emotions. For upwards of forty years, Albus Dumbledore had been a mentor and close friend, a man she viewed as a second father figure. No matter the grim happenings around them, no matter the misfortune to befall the people of their world, Albus had always been there bearing a calm demeanor and ready with a plan. Over the years, however, the plans had grown increasingly convoluted, his calm demeanor now a mysterious façade hiding true intentions he was loathe to share with anyone.

And while Minerva still held immense respect for Albus and the work he had done and continued to do in the name of all things good and noble, the man had absolutely no business running a school.

Her legs were beginning to protest their prolonged use traversing the unforgiving stone corridors as she reached the small outbuilding that housed the Muggle Studies classroom; this castle was simply too large for its purpose. The four founders had no doubt imagined a massive swell in the magical population in the centuries following Hogwarts's inception, though that had been woefully optimistic in the face of a pureblood mania that had effectively ensured their numbers had not only remained stagnant but had even begun to dwindle in the last eighty years.

Matters of self-defeating notions regarding blood status aside, she still fought the temptation to simply Floo from classroom to classroom. Not only was it a singularly uncomfortable form of transport, but as Headmistress, she needed to familiarize herself with all corners of the castle so as to spot any unforeseen change. In that regard, she had certainly learned from the master; Albus's frequent daytime wanderings were old Hogwarts legend, though in recent years, it seemed he'd rather lost his penchant for them.

Perhaps, Minerva mused rather unkindly, he'd been too busy with his "master plan".

The Muggle Studies classroom was an impressive thing, occupying an entire outbuilding that Arthur Weasley had personally crammed full of all conceivable teaching aids. Minerva was tempted to sit in on one of his classes merely to understand some of these…devices' functions. She was woefully uninformed on the current state of muggle technology, but at a glance, they had been hard at work. As she strode by a large and colorfully-adorned wooden cabinet, it sprang to life and sang a beeping tune at her. Arrayed along the front of the thing were a series of buttons and a stick rather like one would use to steer a muggle airplane, sat just below a window of sorts in which her own translucent reflection stared nonplussed back at her. The window itself was aglow with light, depicting a small yellow circle that darted along a blue maze and gobbled up smaller white dots. The whole time, it was chased by a rather crude depiction of…ghosts?

"Ah, you've found Pac-Man, have you?" Arthur Weasley's voice spoke, and he descended a set of stairs down from the raised platform where he conducted his classes. "That one's all the rage in the arcades lately. Bloody addicting game, it is."

"Arthur," Minerva said, tearing her gaze away from the spectacle to greet one of the school's newer hires. "I had hoped to catch you before you left for St. Mungo's. How's George doing?"

"Fit as can be, at least," Arthur said. His cloak was over his arm; Minerva had just caught him on his way out the door, then. "I'm rather afraid he's…taking some time to adjust to the change."

"There's no hope of undoing it?" Minerva asked.

"According to all of the diagnostic spells, there's nothing to undo," Arthur said with a small shrug. "The change is full and complete, far down as they can check. Most of those transformation potions, the Polyjuice and the Youth Potions and the Aging Potions, they leave some trace of the old behind, so as to reset once their time is up. This potion, well…it completely rewrote those boys, made their bodies themselves forget they were boys. They are, biologically speaking, completely and irrevocably female."

"That's going to a fun conundrum to unwrap, sorting out their living situation once they return," Minerva sighed. "They'll be too uncomfortable, I'm sure, to remain in the boys' dormitories, but I don't think they'll find the warmest welcome in the girls' dormitories either."

"But treating them as a special case will just exacerbate the strangeness of their predicament," Arthur added. "I don't envy you the task of sorting it all out."

"Arthur," Minerva said, after a short pause, "you've been quite well received by the students here, haven't you?"

"Oh, I'd hardly brag," Arthur said with a chuckle. "They do seem rather fond of me, though."

"Arthur, they love you," Minerva said flatly. "Students that don't even take your class talk about you like you're their favorite uncle. Nearly every second-year student has already decided to take Muggle Studies next year, three times as many as Charity ever pulled."

"Well, that's quite gratifying, I must say," Arthur said.

"It's the simple truth, Arthur," Minerva said. "And it's why I have a proposition for you."

"Oh, dear," Arthur smirked. "Minerva, I'm so flattered, but I've only just separated from Molly, and I'm simply not in the place to pursue a relationship – "

"Arthur Septimus Weasley, you know as well as I that that is not the tenor of this conversation," Minerva told him, nonetheless smirking back in kind seconds later. "In any case, I'd never dream of snatching you away from Amelia."

"I've no idea what you mean," Arthur said innocently.

"With my vacation of my former teaching position," Minerva went on, "Gryffindor has lost its Head of House, and Hogwarts requires a new Deputy Headmaster. I would like you to occupy those positions."

"Do you really think I'm qualified?" Arthur asked. "I've only been a teacher a few months."

"And in that time, you have demonstrated a considerable ability to bond with and gain the trust of the students of this school," Minerva told him. "Arthur, there's a certain dynamic to the positions of Head and Deputy to Hogwarts. One is generally stern, by the books, the 'bad cop', to borrow a muggle term."

"Well done," Arthur observed.

"The other," Minerva went on, "is the 'good cop'. The one to whom the students look for reassurance when the situation turns dire. You, Arthur, can be that for these children. They know they can depend on me to steer this school in the right direction, but I'm no fool. I terrify half of them."

"You terrify me some days," Arthur said, and Minerva rolled her eyes. "So I'm to be the approachable authority figure? Part of the system but still 'hip with the kids', as it were?"

"Precisely," Minerva said with a nod. "And as a bonus, you are the perfect candidate to deliver the acceptance letters to the crop of muggle-borns each year."

"And what does Filius think of all this?" Arthur asked. "He was the most likely pick, wasn't he?"

"Filius will continue to serve as an advisor, but to be bluntly honest, he never had the patience for the administrative half of the Deputy position," Minerva said. "He finds even grading papers exhausting as it is. You on the other hand are already accustomed to paperwork and bureaucracy, and I think you'll find the workload as Deputy Headmaster to be infinitely more tolerable."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, his expression pensive as he stared blankly at the colorful cabinet behind Minerva. Finally, he nodded.

"Well, you make a compelling case," he said. "I suppose I could give it a go."

"Wonderful," Minerva said. "To start with, I fired Sybil, so we'll need to figure out what class to replace Divination with."

"Your first act as Headmistress was to fire Sybil Trelawney?" Arthur asked.

"It was," Minerva said.

"…That makes sense."

…

Awaking from a doze, George felt a creeping sense of awareness settling back into him, his plight making itself known once more, both in the form of memories of the past couple days and the physical sensation of his new body. Every time he woke, he hoped that things had all been some vivid coma fantasy or that the potion had somehow worn off despite there being absolutely no evidence that such a thing would ever happen.

And every time he woke, he was disappointed to realize that this was all real, this was all happening, and he was forever different.

Sitting up, he let his bedclothes fall away, letting a huff of irritation as a lock of his newly-lengthened hair fell in front of his eyes.

"Sod off," he grumbled at the offending tendril, whipping it away and resisting the urge to clear his throat at the new sound to his voice, which even before puberty had never been so…girly.

"Well, if you want some privacy, you don't have to be so rude about it," Fred's voice spoke, and George flipped his twin the bird as he strode in carrying a tray laden with food. "Snacks?"

"I generally like snacks," George said, reaching out and plucking up a mince pie. Taking a bite, he ate in silence for a long moment, looking up to see Fred staring at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, Freddy?"

"What d'you think about Georgina?" he suggested. "Or Georgeann?"

"Why can't I just keep being George?" George asked.

"Well, look, we can still call you George," Fred said. "But I think it would simplify things if we just told people it's short for a girly-sounding name. Imagine introducing you to someone and they ask why you have a boy's name, and we have to explain this whole mess. Every single time. And then, you know, we've got all sidetracked and things have gone awkward because now we've brought everything up all over again."

"But I've always been George," George insisted. "And that's it. No -ette, no -anna, no -ina. Just George. Why can't I keep being that? I've already lost…well, everything about myself. Can't I just keep my name?"

"Well, think about – "

"There she is!" a girl's voice shouted, one that was both horribly familiar to George and really the second-to-last voice he needed to hear right now. "Mum! Mummy, I found her! She's in here!"

"You don't need to shout, Ginny, I can hear you just fine," the actual last voice George needed to hear called back, and he watched in absolute shock as a small girl with flaming ginger hair appeared in his doorway before propelling toward him in a blur, diving onto his bed and latching onto him with a vice-grip of a hug. In Ginny's wake, the round figure of Molly Weasley followed with her signature warm smile. "Hello, dear."

"Mum?" Fred asked while George extricated himself from his sister's grip. "What're you doing here?"

"Why wouldn't I come to visit if one of my children was in the hospital?" Mum asked, sparing Fred only a second's glance before her eyes found George once more. Her smile widened, and George suddenly felt very conscious about his recent transformation. Mum was looking at him with far too much enthusiasm.

He had his suspicions about where this was going.

"Are you really going to come home with us, George?" Ginny asked, jostling George as she excitedly bounced up and down on the mattress. "Mum says your name Isolda now, and you're to live with us and be my sister!"

"Excuse me?" George asked, giving his mother a beady eye. Suspicions confirmed, then. "'Isolda'?"

"Isn't it a lovely name?" Mum asked. "I simply thought, since you can't really change back, it might be a good idea to just…dive into this, after all. And you can hardly stay with all of those boys. Oh, you'll love living with us, I just know it. I have a lovely house that Auntie Muriel's renting for us, in a muggle neighborhood. It's a three-bedroom, so you'll have your own room, dear."

"You'll be right next door to me, Isolda!" Ginny said, an earnest smile on her face as she no-doubt parroted the words straight from Mom. "I get to have a big sister! And we can braid our hair and paint nails, we can have slumber parties and – "

"That…sounds lovely, Gin, but I'm staying with Dad," George said, looking away as his little sister's face fell. "I don't wanna move out."

"But—don't be ridiculous, Isolda – "

"And don't call me that," George said. "Just because I've got different bits now doesn't mean I'm any different from who I was. I'm George Weasley, and I'm not…upheaving my whole life just because of this. And by the way, how nice of you to show interest in being my mother for once!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mum asked in a cold voice, and Fred got to his feet, glaring over at his mother.

"It means, once we were over tea parties and started acting like boys, you were finished with us, especially after you had the daughter you wanted so badly," he said. "We noticed, Mum. We saw the way you ditched us all once Ginny was born, sent us all to Dad so we'd stop bugging you while you raised your little girl."

"And now that things are different, you think you can just snap your fingers and I'll come running?" George asked. "That I'm so desperate for your attention that I'd forget all of that? I'm staying with Dad. He didn't care if I was a boy or a girl, he loved me for who I was."

"But…" Ginny peered up at George with wide eyes and pouty lip, and years ago, that expression would have gotten her anything she asked for from either of the twins. But Mum's influence had poisoned it, encouraged her to weaponize her charms to get her way. The sweet and warm Ginny they had known growing up was long gone, and in her place was a spoiled princess, one to whom the word "no" meant nothing.

George, however, said it anyway.

"No, Ginny. Sorry, but it'll just be you and Mum."

"But Mum said you'd be my sister!" Ginny huffed. "I wanted a big sister!"

"Well, get used to disappointment," George said, peering up at his mother. "I have."

"I raised you to be more respectful than this," Mum spat back.

"You've hardly raised us at all," Fred pointed out. "Now unless you want to continue arguing, we're already late for Christmas at a friend's house."

"Yeah, I'm tired of being cooped up," George said, nudging Ginny until she huffily climbed from the bed while still maintaining a fierce pout. Somehow, it was even less potent than before, perhaps because George knew he was now fully capable of the expression himself. With his sister tucking herself into Mum's arms, George shakily got to his own feet, still unused to this new body of his and a little wobbly after so long in a hospital bed. "And I need a proper shower. I'm feeling grimy."

"And what are you going to do once you get back to school?" Mum asked with a sour look on her face. "Everyone's going to treat you differently, you know. You'll need to understand what you're about to go through."

"So far the only one treating me differently is you," George said. "I'm not a completely different person just because I have a – "

"Don't say it," Fred beseeched him.

" – vagina now!"

"Oh, there it is," Fred muttered.

"And I'm not suddenly going to be your perfect daughter just because you've decided I'm worthy of your attention now," George went on.

At that moment, the door clicked open, and Dad strode in, hands in his pockets. He paused at the sight of his ex-wife, letting a chuckle.

"I suppose I should have known already why George was screaming parts of the female anatomy," he observed. "Molly. It's good to see you're at least concerned about our son."

"Only because she wants George to be her daughter," Fred said.

"Yeah, with the dumbest name I've ever heard," George added. "Isolda more like…"

"I sold out," Fred suggested, and George nodded, pointing at him.

"Molly, don't you think all this is a bit in bad taste, considering how traumatic this has been for George?" Dad asked Mum, who looked to be doing her best to save face after the day's events had gone completely differently from how she'd no doubt planned. She wore a haughty expression and seemed reluctant to meet anyone's eyes as she remained silent.

"Um…is it alright if we come in?" the voice of Hermione spoke, and she poked her head in behind Dad, her eyes lighting up when she spotted George. "Oh, you're up and about! That's good."

"Seriously, there's a bit of a shouting match going on in the hallway, and I think Lucius Malfoy's out for blood," Daphne piped up from behind Hermione, before she gently shoved the bushy-haired girl forward into the room. "C'mon, we're all friends here. Oh. Company."

Leading up the rear, Bella was all but dragged after the blonde girl, raising a hand in an airy wave at the assembled visitors. Daphne's curious gaze found the Weasley matriarch, who was looking at the three girls with unmasked interest.

"You must be Mrs. Weasley," Daphne said. "Lovely to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," Mum said, having regained a bit of confidence. Reaching back, she ushered Ginny forward, placing her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "Ginny, won't you introduce yourself to these nice girls?"

"Already moved on and trying to collect from outside the gene pool now," Fred muttered to George who shook his head. "C'mon, I reckon we can find some facilities for you to wash up in."

"Oh, before you run off," Bella said, slipping away from where Ginny was now explaining that she would be starting Hogwarts next year and would need "some nice older girls" to help her adjust. Holding out a paper bag from some nearby muggle department store, the bespectacled girl smiled warmly at George. "Some of the least offensive clothing options we could find for you. You and I are about the same size, so we did a bit of shopping before we got here. Trust me, you'll want clothes that are fitted for a girl's hips and waist."

George eyed the bag with apprehension, and Bella rolled her eyes, foisting it on him.

"Oh, don't be a baby," she said. "It's all jeans and t-shirts and plain white knickers, nothing with ruffles or bows. We thought about getting you a bra – "

"Ah, babababa, alright, whatever, I'll try 'em on, stop talking," George blurted, feeling his face heat up as he snatched the bag and stalked for the door with a cackling Fred in tow.

"Sorry, I know this is a weird time for you, but that was priceless," he chortled.

"I'm glad my gender-based identity crisis is bringing you joy," George said baldly.

"That was nice of them, though," Fred insisted. "They got you clothes."

"I want my old clothes," George huffed, hating how…prissy it sounded. "I want my old body."

"At least you still have your old everything else," Fred said. "You still have me, Dad, the family. You have our friends. And they definitely care about you and they're worried."

"That's very kind of them," George said, trying really hard not to sound overly sarcastic. He did genuinely appreciate the concern his friends and family were displaying (barring two exceptions), and he didn't want to throw it back in their faces with scorn and self-pity.

But he felt some self-pity was warranted in this particular situation!

"Maybe you can get them to take you to buy a bra next," Fred added, and George glared (pouted) up at him.

"You're lucky we're already in a hospital," he said.