Author's Notes: In a way, this could be read as a companion piece to "Break Free, Let Me Go," considering Harry is also a trans girl in this story, and the events semi-follow the other story. However, this one-shot is darker. Warning for transphobia, abuse, and bullying.
When Harry is three, she tries on Aunt Petunia's dress, though it completely dwarfs her malnourished frame, and her aunt yanks it off her with trembling fingers, telling her in a voice that hisses like snakes, don't ever do that again. Freak shatters the silence, and Harry's face crumples in silent tears. She knows better than to make a sound.
When Harry is four, she draws herself on the wall of her cupboard with broken crayons stealthily acquired from Dudley. Her self-portrait has curly black hair and bright green eyes, and is wearing a poofy pink dress, like the one she saw in the newspaper the other day, when Uncle Vernon ordered her to throw it out. No one sees it but her, and she cherishes it every night, looking up at the bright scribbled lines in the dim light that seeps in through the vent and wondering when it will ever come true.
When Harry is five, she asks Aunt Petunia when the thing between her legs will fall off, and can't understand when her aunt says it won't. "But I'm like you," Harry says blankly, and doesn't understand the slap that makes her ears ring, or the way Aunt Petunia stuffs her into her cupboard, hissing through the vent that a freak like Harry will never be like her. It's the first time, but it won't be the last.
When Harry is six, Dudley pushes her down the stairs and she nearly breaks her neck. Her arm is fractured in two places, and the waves of pain that keep rolling through her make her want to throw up all over the carpet. She doesn't, though, because she's too afraid of what will happen if she does. Aunt Petunia only takes her to the hospital two hours later, when it's clear that Harry's "freakiness" can't do anything, and she's too afraid the neighbours will talk. In the car, she demands that Harry tell the hospital staff she fell down the stairs, and despite the suspicious glare from the nurse with messy black hair like her own, Harry sticks to that story. The nurse gives her a lolly and tells her not to worry, but Harry knows better.
When Harry is seven, Aunt Petunia decides that her hair is far too long and sits her down on a stool in the kitchen, clipping it so close her scalp bleeds. The only hair she leaves is the fringe, "to hide that horrid scar," Aunt Petunia declares with a sniff. It's hideous, and Dudley laughs at her from the living room, calling her baldy. She goes to bed still sniffling, afraid of what will happen in the morning, when her classmates see the hatchet job her aunt has made of her hair. In the morning, Harry awakes with all of her hair completely grown back, as long and untidy as always, and earns a week in the cupboard, though even her uncle admits he can't see how she's managed it.
When Harry is eight, the library at school is her new home. She spends as many hours as she can, tucked into the corner, balancing book after book on bruised knees. Transported into a world of magic, where Oliver Twist begged for some more, where Frodo trudged with the Ring weighing down his neck, Harry starts to think that maybe there can be something more. The librarian always gives her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, ignoring her flinches and the way her head tucks down, and sometimes even guides her to new and interesting books. The library is a sanctuary, a place not even Dudley cares to go, and while Harry has no friends out there, running on the playground, or chumming around with Dudley, she has all the friends she needs in the worn, fragile pages of her favourite book.
When Harry is nine, she can't duck Aunt Petunia's frying pan fast enough, and the collision of the pan with her forehead is enough to make her see stars. Soapy water splatters against her eyes, and through the ringing in her ears, she can hear her aunt's shrill voice instructing her to sit down. It's a good thing, really, because Harry's legs are far too wobbly to hold her. It's another hospital trip, and one that's far harder to explain. Harry can't think straight for a week, and the pain takes almost two to fully dissipate. Her aunt cuts her chores in half to compensate, and her uncle takes to thumping her arms and legs as hard as he can instead. "Toughen you up," Vernon tells her with a sneer, as she stumbles against the wall, her shoulder throbbing.
When Harry is ten, she manages to sprint six blocks without stopping to get away from Dudley and his gang. She feels like she's going to throw up, her lungs burn, and her entire body feels weak and shivery, but Dudley is nowhere in sight, and for once, triumph glitters in her smile as she pushes herself up from the grass-tufted corner. It doesn't even matter that Aunt Petunia will yell at her when she gets home, that Dudley will sucker-punch her the moment she's in through the door, or that Uncle Vernon will sneer at her, call her a freak, and shove her into the cupboard at the nearest opportunity. This feeling of freedom is far too sweet.
When Harry is eleven, she discovers what freedom really means, and the world of witches and wizards and magic, and even though it makes her queasy, the heft of her wand in her palm feels like coming home. "Hogwarts," she tests on her tongue, and it feels right. Her robes are made for a witch, not a wizard, and Madam Malkin pops so many extras in her bag, it makes her lean to one side when she drags it along. Her owl hoots in her ear, and she names her Hedwig, because it feels right, and maybe, just maybe, Harry's found a way to belong.