Poor Harry, *sigh* - it was going to happen eventually though!
Chptr6
Harry woke up at two in the morning to an incredible pain in her abdomen. She sensed there was something up, and from the perspective of somebody with no experience of being female, there was something seriously up. With a growing sense of foreboding, Harry pulled herself out of bed, intending to head for the bathroom, when she felt a wet, swooshing sensation in her pants. She felt a wet area in her pyjamas- had she wet herself in the night? No, it didn't smell like that. She tiptoed to the bathroom to look in the mirror and screamed. The door burst open and Hermione rushed in, closely followed by Lavender and Parvati.
"Guys," Harry announced from the toilet seat, sitting in a pool of her own blood, "I think I'm dying". She promptly fainted.
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Hermione really felt for Harry. She remembered when she went through her first period- scared to death despite the fact that she knew exactly what was happening. It was made all the worse by Harry's age, causing Harry to have as heavy a flow as if she'd skipped a couple months. She had explained what was happening, and handed Harry the supplies that Professor McGonagall had sent her, but she had wished there was something more she could do. She kept mulling this thought over until inspiration struck.
She was sitting in the library with a notebook she'd enchanted to shrink to pocket sized, scratching away with her quill. The library was, and probably always would be, her favourite place in Hogwarts. Whenever she was there, everything faded away; immediately, when she would pass over the threshold into this room of wonders, she would make temporary peace with the world. The atmosphere was beautiful and she always felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth; she was happy there. Sometimes, she thought, she could almost hear the books calling to her: 'read me', 'choose me', 'I'm the one you want'; heckling each other for her attention, like tropical birds in mating season. She felt special, especially when it was deserted like now.
But of course, she wasn't there for the books – not this time. She tugged her gaze away from the magnetic displays of non-fiction and got back to writing Harry Potter a guide to womanhood.
God this was weird.
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Harry was sitting on the pink toilet seat in the Parvatified bathroom shared by her fellow 6th year girls feeling distinctly sorry for herself. What on earth had she done to deserve this? She had kind of known about all that girl stuff before, but never really understood. How the hell did girls do this every month? She thought she'd go insane before she got used to it. Hermione had told her that girls bleed the same amount of blood as in nine adults in the course of their lifetime. That was terrifying. She supposed if Snape didn't hurry up with that cure she'd have plenty time to get used to feminine hygiene routines, however, and it was something she was dreading. Steeling herself, she lifted herself of her perch and turned to leave the bathroom to prepare for the morning lessons. She sighed, knowing it would take a lot of mental preparation before she would be able to face the curious students.
Just as she was leaving, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Shocked, she turned to face the mirror and stared hard. She had always looked like her father, and she still had her father's hair – unruly even with its subtly increased length. But now her features had morphed into a feminine parody of their previous form and she resembled her mother more closely than ever. She recognised her mother's subtle beauty in her new sharp features, her heart shaped face, her full lips. With red hair, she would be pretty much identical. Maybe if her parents had lived longer, she might have had a sister who looked just like this.
Harry tilted her face from side to side, getting used to the new features, committing them to memory. She shook her head violently from side to side, as if to clear the disbelief from her mind, and something caught her eye. Her scar had been almost completely hidden from view by her hair, which was falling over her forehead, and she hadn't noticed its absence; maybe because she was hoping for a miracle. Maybe, she thought, this transfiguration was a way to start afresh. She quickly finger-combed her hair into an approximation of the coverage from before, and started to head back to the dorm, a spring in her step, despite her bloody predicament.
Aww, nostalgia! xxx