Harry Potter and his magical world, including all trademarks and such belong to JK Rowling.
Chapter Five
Heather sat with Ron and Ginny in Ginny's bedroom, watching Hermione pack her bag. Hermione was already dressed for Colin Creevey's funeral, for which they would be setting off soon. She wouldn't be returning to the Burrow with them, but would be going straight to the London Airport from the funeral.
"So this thing can really fly without magic?" Ron asked for what felt like the hundredth time since Hermione had announced her plans to travel to Australia using muggle airplanes.
"Yes, Ron," she replied with thinly veiled annoyance.
"And…it's safe?" he asked.
"Well if you ask me it's a lot safer than riding a broom," Hermione answered, folding a pair of socks and dropping them into her beaded bag. She had never been one to be comfortable on a broomstick. It was about the only thing, other than conjuring a patronus, that Heather was better at than her.
"How'd you manage to get international plane tickets?" Heather asked. Ever since their talk the night before, she had become something resembling her old self again.
Hermione hadn't been there when they'd woken up that morning. She had gone in with Mr. Weasley to the Ministry and had only gotten back twenty minutes ago. "A friend of your dad's, Ron, in the Muggle Liaison Office helped me set it up. They got me a new muggle passport and booked the tickets for me. Then it was over to the Department of International Magical Cooperation for information on the Australian wizarding community. I shouldn't have any problems getting back if…when I find my parents. Assuming they want to come back with me I guess."
"What happens if they don't?" asked Ginny.
Hermione paused her folding. "I don't really know. I think they will, if they don't hate me that is."
"Why would they?" asked Ron. "You did it for their own protection."
"They may not see it that way. They may think I was wrong for doing it without their permission. Either way, I'll be back in time for the new term to start unless I haven't found them yet. Would either of you," she looked at Heather and Ginny, "be willing to get my school supplies if I'm not back early enough?" Both girls nodded assent. Hermione resumed packing.
"And…you're sure this thing will stay in the air?" asked Ron.
Hermione chucked a sock at his face. It missed by half an inch and landed somewhere in the corner. She retrieved it with wave of her wand and stuffed it into her back. Laughing, Heather checked her watch and saw it was time to get ready herself. She extricated herself from her seated position and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Waiting for her hanging on the wardrobe door was the black dress, tights, and shoes that she had come to absolutely loathe. If the outfit hadn't belonged to Ginny, she would have already made plans to set it on fire after today. Colin's was the last funeral, they had finally reached the end. After today, maybe she could start looking forward again.
Even with the resurgence of her personality, she was still weary from lack of sleep and her emotional breakdown. She had slept last night, but it hadn't been what she might call restful. The dream hadn't returned, something she was incredibly thankful for. As if to underline this exhaustion, Heather's reflection looked every bit as tired as she felt. Her shoulders sagged, and her skin looked dull, with large black bags under her eyes. A careful application of make up helped with the worst of that.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were already waiting for her. Once again they would be the only ones attending this particular funeral. In their message to the Ministry, Colin's parents had requested that the number of attendees be kept low, because the funeral was being held at a muggle church south of Leeds. Proudfoot was their only escort today, dressed in a muggle suit with a black tie.
Colin's funeral was different than any other that Heather had attended that week. Though his parents had been told how Colin had been killed during the battle, they had been unable to explain his death to their vicar. Without any other option, his death was being portrayed as a tragic accident. As the skinny, reedy voiced vicar prattled on, Heather felt gorge rise in her throat. Colin had given his life to protect others, fighting for freedom and his right to live. To lie like this somehow felt no different than what the Ministry had done to Cedric's death in order to deny the return of Voldemort. She fumed silently, and sensed that on either side of her Ron and Hermione were restraining themselves as well. Heather vowed then to make sure that Colin's sacrifice, and those of everyone else, would never be forgotten.
In the front row she could see the small form of Dennis in between his parents, his body shaking with silent tears. He looked like he had lost a lot of weight in Azkaban, and his shoulders hunched worse than Heather's. When she had entered the chapel, she had intended to go speak to him, but the dead, haunted look in his eyes stopped her in her tracks. Here was someone who's fate she could have directly affected. She could have saved him, could have prevented him spending nearly a year locked up with dementors, if she'd only seen the locket a bit sooner. How could she face him knowing that?
All four of them left quickly once the service came to an end. They escorted Hermione to a nearby alley where they could safely disapparate. Heather made a half-hearted offer to go with her, thinking that a vacation sounded really good right now, but Hermione declined with a knowing smile. "This is something I've got to do on my own" she said firmly. After a round of hugs, she turned on the spot and was gone.
Heather's first priority upon returning to the Burrow was to change. If she had to spend one more moment in that dress she felt she would go even more mental than she already was. George and Mrs. Weasley were waiting for the in the kitchen with lunch already spread on the table. George's face looked clearer than they had since Heather had arrived the day after the battle. He greeted them with a real smile.
"Lunch is served, dears." Mrs. Weasley said as they entered, "tuck in."
Even though her stomach was grumbling, demanding to be filled, Heather bypassed the table and started off up the stairs.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," she called over her shoulder, "but I've got to put something else on first."
There was half a beat, and then George called out. His voice sounded rough from the many bottles of firewhiskey he'd probably drank that week, but it still carried well enough to be heard. "I'd be happy to help you get out of that dress!"
Heather nearly missed the next step. She could already hear Mrs. Weasley berating her son, but there was no real force behind her words. The fact that George had cracked a joke was a good sign, even if it did make Heather go pink at that particular mental image. Maybe there was some hope for them after all.
She descended not long after, now dressed in a comfortable t-shirt and jeans, leaving the dress in a crumpled wad in the corner of her bedroom. The shirt she had picked up first she had been forced to discard after locating a rather large hole that had formed in the armpit, showing off more of her chest than she felt comfortable with if she lifted her arm. As she rifled through her drawers, she found that more of her clothes were equally worn through. The one she had eventually settled on was still intact, even if it was becoming threadworn.
A wolf whistle greeted her arrival, and she laughed as Mrs. Weasley sent one of her famous glares at George. Ron was busily eating away at the contents of his plate while reading an official looking piece of parchment. "Heather," said Mrs. Weasley once she'd sat down and pulled a sandwich towards her, "there was a letter that came for you while you were out." She pointed toward the counter where an envelope similar to the one Ron had in front of him was laying.
Heather got back up and retrieved it, wondering if it was another attempt from Professor McGonagall to get her to return to school. The parchment looked like the heavy type used by Hogwarts for official letters. When she turned it over, rather than seeing the school crest, there was a large 'M' was stamped in the wax sealing the envelope. The seal of the Ministry of Magic. A trickle of foreboding trickled down her spine as she recalled the last few times she had gotten letters sealed this way, reprimanding her for using magic outside of school. She took a deep breath before breaking the seal and unfolding the letter.
Heather,
I hope this letter finds you well. Arthur has been keeping me apprised on your recovery since the Battle, and I'm glad to hear you are on the mend. I'm not sure if you've given much thought to your future plans now that Voldemort is defeated, but I would like the chance to discuss them with you. If you are free, could you and Ron come meet me at the Ministry next Monday at 11 AM? Please let me know by return owl.
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Interim-Minister for Magic
She looked up from the parchment to find Ron staring at her eagerly.
"Well, what is it?" asked Mrs. Weasley.
"Kingsley wants a word with us on Monday." Heather replied, sitting back down in her seat, the sandwich on her plate forgotten.
"Does he say why?" Ginny asked.
Heather reread the letter. "No, just says something about future plans now that the war is over."
Mrs. Weasley shot both Heather and Ron furtive looks but said nothing else besides, "Well, I think that must be a good thing." To Heather's left, Ginny radiated nervous energy throughout lunch. The moment Heather's sandwich was finished, Ginny sprung to her feet and dragged her from the kitchen.
"Where're you going?" asked Ron perplexedly halfway through this third sandwich.
Before Ginny could answer, George said with a knowing nod, "Girl stuff, little bro."
Heather thought she knew where this was going, and so wasn't surprised when she was yanked into her bedroom and the door was slammed behind her by Ginny. "What gives?" she asked halfheartedly as Ginny opened her wardrobe and began pulling out the few items hanging there.
"We need to figure out what you're going to wear!" exclaimed Ginny as though this were obvious.
"Oh not this again." Said Heather with a shake of her head. If past experience told her anything, she wasn't going to be let out of this room until Ginny was satisfied, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to push back, just a little.
"Yes," Ginny said emphatically, "this again. You are going to meet the Minister for Magic. That's something you dress up for. It'd be the same if you were a boy."
"Oh come on," Heather exclaimed. "It's just Kingsley. I've seen him dozens of times. "
"Exactly. Then he was just Kingsley. Now he's the Minister for Magic." She said the title emphatically. "You mean you didn't see the look on mum's face all through lunch. I bet you my broomstick she's already trying to figure out what Ron's going to wear." She held up some of the robes that had been taken from Grimmauld Place last year before the break into the Ministry, which were the closest thing Heather currently had to formal witches' wear and discarded them. "Besides, there's no way that word of this meeting won't get out, and you know what that means."
"Reporters," Heather bit out with a sigh.
"Exactly. Your first time on display for the Wizarding world." By now, Ginny had adopted a slow tone now, like a teacher trying to explain to a particularly slow pupil that two and two equaled four. "I promised Hermione before she left that I'd help you acclimate to being a girl, and this is part of it. Anyway, I thought you liked picking out outfits."
"I do," said Heather, which was usually true, her heart just hadn't been in it this week. "I guess it just feels silly spending so much time on what I wear every day."
"Welcome to being a girl." Ginny said, pulling open Heather's drawers and tossing things out pell-mell.
"Oy, careful!" shouted Heather but Ginny paid her no mind.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing!Don't you have anything nice?" Ginny asked as the last item of Heather's clothing hit the floor.
"Oh yeah," Heather retorted sarcastically, " I forgot to mention the collection of ball gowns I needed while I was on the run. Sorry, must have left them in my other closet."
Ginny crossed the room, taking care to tread on the few uncovered sections of floor. "Well, you need something," she said with finality. She wrenched the door open and shouted down the stairs, "Mum! Can you come up here, please?"
Mrs. Weasley arrived a few minutes later. Her eyes flashed from the empty wardrobe, to the drawers, and finally to the mass of clothing laying everywhere.
"She has nothing to wear," Ginny said simply, gesturing at the floor.
Mrs. Weasley took the point immediately. "Yes, I see what you mean. In fact I've been meaning to say something to you about that, young lady." She levelled a finger at Heather's chest. "Your clothes are becoming much to see-through." Heather looked down and realized with a start that the blue cups of her bra were clearly visible against the red and white stripes of her shirt. No wonder George had whistled.
"So, what do we do?" Heather asked.
"Nothing else to do. We need to go to Diagon Alley. All of Ron's clothes are as bad as yours, worn right through. Of course, that's less of a problem for him than it is for you now, but still. Ginny, I'm sure you need new things as well. Also," she shot a quick look over her shoulder and lowered her voice conspiratorially, "I think it'll be a good idea to get George out of the house. I doubt he's ready to look at the shop while we're there, but he needs a distraction."
The announcement of the trip to Diagon Alley was met by excitement from Ron and resigned equanimity from George. The plan would be to get there first thing the next morning, just after the shops opened in order to avoid the worst of the foot traffic. Proudfoot was summoned, Heather thought he arrived a bit too quickly, who insisted that he wanted an entire squad of aurors to accompany them. After twenty minutes he allowed Heather to negotiate down to four.
When he was gone, the nervous energy inside Heather began to grow again. She was about to go out in public for the first time. The funeral's had been open enough, but most of the attendees had been friends, and it wasn't like anyone was going to say anything at a funeral. But in Diagon Alley or the Leaky Cauldron? Who knew how people were going to react.
To distract both her and George, who was becoming sullen again, Ginny suggested they head up the hill to the paddock and play two-a-side quidditch until it was time for dinner like they used to do. Heather and Ron eagerly agreed, it had been months since they'd been able to fly, not counting their hurried escape from the Room of Requirement. With a little convincing, George finally let himself be brought around. "I just hate seeing such a pretty girl beg," he had said once Heather had finally managed to convince him. Again, Heather's cheeks went pink, but she let the comment go, for now. George's sense of humor returning was certainly a good sign, but she couldn't let it go on for too long before she got back at him.
After a quick change into a sports bra, that she made sure couldn't be seen through her shirt, and a looser pair of jeans, Heather followed them towards the broom shed in the yard. She absentmindedly pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail so it would stay out of her face while she flew. Ginny yanked the wooden door open, which took some effort with the overgrown weeds in front of it. When it was open far enough, all three Weasleys extracted their brooms from inside and turned to look at Heather.
"My Firebolt was lost, I had to blow it up the night I escaped from my aunt and uncle's" she explained.
"That's right!" Ron said, clapping a hand to his forehead.
"Here," George said, reaching back into the depths of the shed and extracting a Cleansweep Five, identical to the one now slung over his own shoulder. "This was Fred's. I don't think he'd mine you using it."
"Are you sure?" Heather asked, tentatively extending her hand to take it.
"Absolutely," George replied, pressing the handle into her fingers.
They set off up the hill, broomsticks and an old quaffle in hand. When they reached the privacy of the paddock, Heather swung her leg over Fred's broom and shot off into the sky. Playing height might only be about five or ten feet off the ground, but it still did the trick. Just like it had every time since her first time on a broomstick, taking to the air felt more natural than breathing. It was as though she had left all her problems behind her. "So, shirts versus skins?" teased George as he pulled up next to her. "You can be on my team."
"No thanks," Heather retorted, rising a few more feet, determined to get him back this time.
"Oy, Ginny! Want to be on my team?" she called in a carrying voice.
"Sure," Ginny yelled back.
"Cool. George wants to be shirts. Guess that makes us skins." She shouted this with an exaggerated wink that Ginny picked up on immediately. As one, both witches reached down and grabbed the hems of their t-shirts, pulling them slowly upwards.
"Alright, alright!" cried George quickly at the sight of his baby sister undressing in front of him. He fixed Heather with a wry grin and saluted with an invisible wand. "You win this round, Milady," he said, resurrecting the old nickname he and Fred had used whenever they had seen Heather since the wedding.
With Ginny and Heather teamed up against the boys, the teams were about even. George was out of shape, it had been years since he had been on a broom, while Heather, Ron, and Ginny were in better shape. The difference in broomsticks also did much to equalize the teams. Ron and Ginny were both flying Cleansweep Eleven's that left the Five's far behind. Despite still being the best flyer of the lot, Heather found that that she had to work harder just to keep up. She missed the fact action and smooth acceleration of her Firebolt.
Ron was enjoying being faster than her for a change, but she didn't begrudge him for it. For almost the whole of their friendship she had been the one to have the better of everything, from brooms, to pets, and certainly dress robes. It was nice to see him be able to gloat a little. Ron managed a particularly tricky catch from George, and Heather was so busy watching him celebrate that she didn't see George barreling down on her. He plowed into her, knocking her from the broom to land on the hard earth. Even through the pain, it wasn't lost on her that Ron took advantage of this to score. A time out was called and George descended to pull her up off the ground.
"Sorry, princess. Didn't see you there," he said with a grin, reaching a hand down.
"Right," grumped Heather, taking it and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. She felt winded and the ache in her chest was starting to act up, but she wasn't going to let that stop her from playing. She scooped up the quaffle and chucked it at George's head. He caught it just in time, his grin only growing broader.
When it became too dark to be able to easily see the dark quaffle, the match was called to a halt. Both Ginny and Heather grudgingly admitted defeat to the gloating boys and followed them silently back down the hill. They were all tired, dirty, and bruised in multiple places, but their aches weren't painful. It felt good to have done something. Never before had quidditch in the Weasley orchard been reached such a fever pitch of dirty tactics. When Heather mentioned this to Ginny she shrugged. "Hey, before you were just a guest. Now you're family. Better get used to it, sis."
Heather luxuriated in a scalding hot bath that night to sooth away the aches and pains of the day. The water covered her completely, and she silently thanked whoever had enchanted the tub so that it was always larger than the person inside of it. Heather had never been much of a bath person before, at least not since she had been a small child. The Dursley's had never let her have enough time to enjoy a bath growing up, and the Hogwarts dormitories only had showers. There was something utterly relaxing about lying in a tub of hot water and letting your worries just drain away. She was using a soap that Ginny had recommended, some sort of lavender infused honey scented something. It was supposed to work wonders on frayed nerves as well as make her skin feel amazing. Heather could attest that both of these effects were spot on.
When her fingers began to feel like dried prunes, she knew it was time to get out. While the Burrow had more than one bathroom, but she wasn't the only one who wanted to clean. As a "consolation prize," George had allowed the girls to clean up first. It wouldn't be long before the pounding on the door would start. Wrapping a towel around herself and holding it in place with her armpits, she cracked the bathroom door open, watching as the heavy steam wafted out onto the landing.
"I'm coming out!" she shouted. It was expected that the girls announce when they were leaving the bathroom undressed, so as to cut down on the number of awkward encounters on the stairs. That being said, she didn't also didn't trust George not to try something Heather wondered idly how Ginny had survived growing up surrounded by so many boys who seemed to flip every time she showed the barest amount of skin.
"It's about time!" shouted Ron from upstairs with half mocking disgust. "You know, Heather. You really are such a girl."
"You know it!" she retorted loudly, closing her bedroom door and locking it behind her.
Her room was chilly after the warmth of the bathroom, sending goosebumps across her skin. With the door locked, she allowed the towel to drop to the floor, enjoying the way her damp skin felt as she air dried. Grabbing the bottle of lotion from her nightstand, she set to work applying it.
For the first time in a while, she ran a critical eye over her body, taking mental note of the many changes that she could see. Some of them were obvious, like her growing breasts and rounder hips and thighs. She remained fairly skinny, even after almost a week of Mrs. Weasley's cooking, but she thought that she had filled out somewhat, losing that deprived look from sporadic meals while on the run.
She looked up into the mirror that hung on the inside of the open wardrobe door. Her eyes met those of her reflection's. Almost gone was the strong resemblance to James Potter that had been so remarked upon in the past years. Instead, her features had softened, mixing with those of her mothers in a face that was pleasing enough to look at. She may never be the same sort of drop-dead beauty as other girls; but she liked her looks. The scar, once so prominent on her forehead, had faded since the battle and the piece of Voldemort's soul inside it had died. She doubted it would ever fully fade, but at least now she could hide it more easily with makeup.
She stood, taking in her legs and bum. Her vain side did enjoy the way that it stood out just enough to call attention to itself, without being the first thing her eye's were attracted too. She remembered catching Justin Finch-Fletchley's eyes resting there more than once during their brief relationship. The ghostly feeling of his wandering hands there sent goosebumps up her spine. Lastly, her eyes fell on her groin. There sat the only real proof of what her gender had been at birth. She screwed up her eyes, doing her best to imagine what it would look like once it was gone. That piece of her anatomy didn't fit. It wasn't as though she hated the sight of it, but she was ready for it to disappear. Hermione had told her that her potions would take care of that, but Heather realized that she had never asked for more information on specifically how that would happen. That wouldn't happen until she started taking her transition potion at the full dosage however.
"Why don't I then?" she silently asked her reflection. After all, if she was really done being Harry Potter, and had no intention of ever taking on his appearance again, why continue to live in this between state? Her reflection stared back at her, offering no reason to dispute this idea.
She grabbed a fresh pair of pajamas, pulled her hair back into a wild ponytail, and went back downstairs. Lighting a lamp in the kitchen, she grabbed a quill and piece of parchment and scribbled out a quick letter.
Madam Pomfrey,
If you think that it's safe for me to do so, I would like to begin taking the full dose of my transitional potions. Hermione explained to me a long time ago just what that will do to me, and I feel like it's time.
Hope you are well,
Heather Potter.
After reading it twice, which didn't take very long, she sealed it into an envelope before realizing that she had no way of having the letter delivered. Maybe she could ask Mrs. Weasley in the morning to borrow Errol. As much as she liked Pigwidgeon, Ron's miniature owl, his track record for fast and correct letter delivery was spotty. The last thing she needed was for someone else to get a hold of this letter. Then again, Errol was ancient. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't collapse halfway between the Burrow and Hogwarts.
She missed Hedwig. That owl had been her constant companion since Hagrid had taken her to Diagon Alley the first time, through every unpleasant summer at Number 4 Privet Drive. It hadn't been fair that she had died just as Heather left that horrible place forever. She wasn't ready to get a new owl yet. Maybe she would see if Diagon Alley had a post office like the one in Hogsmeade tomorrow. Leaving the letter on the table, Heather took herself back upstairs and climbed into bed. She was already asleep before her head hit the pillow. The dream did not bother her that night.