AN: This will be a quadruple post including the first chapter.
Chapter Two: In Which Harry Refuses to be a Boy, Rejects Your Reality, and Substitutes Their Own
Harry made it to nearly five years old before dysphoria — horrible, awful, and so unexpected — got to them.
An acute wave of wrongwrongwrong washed over them when Uncle Vernon was upbraiding them for some petty shit, snarling at them, "DO YOU HEAR ME, BOY?!"
So panicked and maladjusted, they didn't even notice when Uncle Vernon hauled them off and shoved them in the cupboard under the stairs.
Harry didn't remember much of what went through their head as they scratched at their skin and squirmed like something slithered under their flesh. Acid-like tears made a mess of their face, blinding them. They were so intently aware of every single inch of their body, every — wrONgWrONg — part, every bit of fl—nononono—esh, and it was pain(horRIfiC)ful, just — just (aBominaBLe) not right!
.
.
.
They didn't much like thinking back on it. They never had dysphoria more than a trickle of unease before — that a body was capable of such utter, crippling rejection of itself was not something they'd realised could happen beyond the abstract.
Um, but, on the bright side, they found out they were some variation of a metamorphmagus. So, yay?
When Aunt Petunia came home and let them out of the cupboard, Harry told her very seriously, "Harry is a girl."
That wasn't exactly right, not really — they were neither boy nor girl. Unfortunately, the gender spectrum wasn't a concept that was known nor accepted just yet — and even if it had been, the Dursleys weren't the sort to accept anything like that. Harry was on the feminine side of the spectrum anyway though, so being called a girl didn't disturb them as much. It wasn't ideal, but they'd much rather be addressed with female pronouns that be triggered into another fit.
They didn't know why being called a boy bothered them so much this time around when it never bothered them in their previous life (it was somewhat vindicating to have irrefutable proof that a good bit of it was biological though), but they were not going to leave it unaddressed.
Aunt Petunia had tried to scold, but Harry hadn't hesitated to show her the 'proof.' Their aunt was utterly pole-axed, though she recovered soon enough to give Harry a cuff for being so shameless. She did, however, go right to Uncle Vernon and let him know ("How did we not know about this until now?!" was the theme of the following conversation), so Harry counted it as a win all the same.
They hadn't thought it would make such a difference in the treatment they'd receive though.
The biggest change was that the Dursleys no longer allowed Dudley to physically bully Harry any more. It was Uncle Vernon himself that gave Dudley a dressing down for whacking them with an action figure when the two of them were playing superheroes one evening.
"You don't hit girls, Dudley!" Uncle Vernon said severely, a heavy hand on Dudley's shoulder. "You don't ever hit a girl!"
It was surprisingly decent of him, sexism inherent to the time period aside. He even backed up his words by refusing to lay a hand on Harry himself the next time he raged at them. It didn't stop him for being an ass that screamed at a little kid for the sole crime of being 'a freak,' but it was something.
It didn't stop Petunia from dishing out smacks as she liked either, but, still, it was something.
And then there were the clothes.
Aunt Petunia took it upon herself to girl-ify Dudley's hand-me-downs as best as she could, even going so far as to dye them softer colours and add little bows on some. She wasn't so old-fashioned that she turned all of the trousers into skirts, but she did convert the bigger shirts into smocks and tunics. She was so gung-ho about it, she actually went out to a thrift shop for a few outfits when she wasn't happy about how boyish Harry's clothes still were.
Harry wasn't exactly thrilled, but if it prevented people from assuming they were a boy. . . .
The metamorphism bit was cool though! Harry experimented with it in the privacy of the cupboard when they were shut in for the night. They liked making their nails into claws and putting patches of scales and feathers along their arms. Watching the colours and patterns shift helped them ignore the claustrophobia.
(Oh, gods, they'd get bigger and bigger, and the cupboard would close in even more on them — but they could keep themselves small now, right? Right. If they stayed small, then it would be alright — they just had to stay small.)
They couldn't do much else with the power at this point — it was Funny Business™ as Uncle Vernon would say — but it was comforting to know that they could literally be any shape or form they wanted; female, or male (highly unlikely, but still), or both, or neither. They were neither most of the time at this point — there were no words to express how relieving it was.
They couldn't wait until they could be more obvious about it like Tonks was.
Harry saw themselves for the first time when they were five years old, on their first day of formal education. This was unusually late for an experience with a mirror, but they weren't yet tall enough for the hall mirror, and Aunt Petunia didn't let them use Dudley's stool at the washroom sink.
The mirror in question was on the wall of their classroom, next to where everyone was meant to put their coats and bags. Harry caught sight of themselves out of the corner of their eye as Aunt Petunia was gushing over Dudley.
Adorable — that was the first thought that came to them. Harry wasn't vain, never had been, never will be, but there was no denying what their eyes were telling them.
The thing that first drew their notice was the hair — it looked sentient in its disarray; a fluffy, curly explosion, like a dandelion drenched in tar. Aunt Petunia's doing, no doubt. Honestly, it was a little frightening. This was the exact reason they grew it long in their previous life. Upon inspection, they saw it was the same dark-to-the-point-of-looking-black cola-red that it'd been in their previously as well.
What kept their attention though. . . .
Harry had never really bought into the descriptions of how amazing Canon-Harry's eyes were in the fics. Flowery details, metaphors — it hadn't really been their cup of tea. But now they understood because 'startling' was a good word for the colour. Bright, cutting green like dandelion juice in a faceted glass. They looked positively enormous within their small face, stark against the olive of their skin.
(Huh, did they have some South Asian ancestry like it had been speculated after all?)
And, oh — what a face! Teeny-tiny, even features, and the prettiest lips they'd ever seen! And such pinch-able cheeks! Ugh, kawaii as fuck! They could stare at this face all day!
The crowning feature, of course, was the infamous scar. Sowilo, the rune of power, on the right of their forehead, slightly bisecting their brow. The shape was actually because of the wand-movement for the Killing Curse — they remembered seeing that on the Pottermore website.
Harry brushed their fringe aside.
The scar was larger than they imagined, reaching from hairline to eyebrow. It was slightly puckered near the middle, the damaged skin wider than at the tips. This was the Horcrux. . . .
"What are you doing, girl?" scolded Aunt Petunia, tugging them away from the mirror.
Harry dragged their eyes away to see they had gotten closer without realising it and had been all but nose to nose with their reflection.
Aunt Petunia didn't get a chance to scold them much longer after that. The teacher popped out from somewhere and rounded them up a few minutes before class was to officially begin. She shoo'd out the parents with a cheery smile, handling the criers like a pro.
The teacher — "Call me Miss Darcy!" — had all the signs of a seasoned primary-school instructor. While still in her prime, she had a matronly aura, her clothes were tidy but low-maintenance, and she herded children like it was nothing. (Harry had taught school in their past life — herding children was not nothing.) With a smile so sugary it had to be processed, she got all the children settled in their seats.
Harry honestly tried to be engaged, but nursery school hadn't interested nor really benefited them the first time around; a second time did even less for them. At the students' current age, it was essentially glorified babysitting — nothing they'd be doing was much different from what they might do at home except with more children involved.
Case in point: Miss Darcy was having them go to town on some colouring pages on the premise of 'learning about animals.'
Nothing else to do, Harry coloured, pretending they were once again in one of their art classes from secondary school. The crayons were the cheap kind made to be abused, broken, and thrown out — typical nursery school fare — but Harry would make do.
Miss Darcy actually had them colour for a notably long time — they only had one activity after that before it was time for lunch. There hadn't been that much colouring from what they could remember of their first time going through nursery school, but that could probably be chalked up to the difference between time periods amongst other things.
Harry gobbled down the peanut butter and banana sandwich they'd packed themselves for lunch as Miss Darcy marched them out to the playground. As the others dispersed into the play equipment, Harry got permission to visit the washroom. They bee-lined to it as quickly as they could without being suspicious.
And there was a mirror again.
Harry didn't know how long they stood there, transfixed at the sight of themselves. They did so love pretty things, loved looking at pretty things — and their current face was already so pretty without them even changing anything yet!
And on that thought. . . .
Slowly, they morphed their features, imagining other faces they remembered liking quite a bit. Almond eyes grew rounder, their nose thinner, hundreds of little details they didn't know how to describe. They shifted through dozens of looks, mimicking Germanic, East Asian, Central American, Middle Eastern, et cetera.
And, for a moment, they shifted to the face of their former self.
Harry wasn't quite sure why they did it — they'd never been as aesthetically-pleasing to themselves as they'd wanted to be, and it was odd in a sort of horrific way to see this face again in their current setting. Straight brows; boring nose; pointy chin; round face with an uneven smattering of freckles, a trinity of them on the right cheek. Not ugly, not at all, but so very underwhelming. It was the face of a person who'd never quite been enough, not in their convictions, not in their capabilities, not even in something as little as being formed in a way that made the owner content.
Harry didn't think they hated who they were before — they certainly didn't despise this face either — but they were undeniable glad they didn't have to be that person any longer. Sure, they hadn't wanted rebirth, but being in a position to literally be whomever they wanted to be? Dizzyingly freeing.
They shifted back to their new base face and sighed in unexpected relief. They let the pleasure of looking at this Harry's face wash over them.
They were just thinking about experimenting with their hair when the bell rang. Their cue to rejoin their class.
A pity. Another day then.
