Female dresses, Harry decided, were more uncomfortable than itch powder. He choked, pulling a strap up… too tight.
He jammed his foot into heels, the only female footwear he knew how to wear. In his bag were a pair of shoes, a wig, an old lipstick—things he'd sneaked away with.
Crikey. He was sure his ankle was bruised. Harry tried to walk, but standing straight was impossible—not even for five minutes. He wobbled drunkenly, trying to keep his balance.
Twenty minutes later.
Staggering, swearing, wobbling like a toddler—he finally conquered the traps of hell. And now, for the wigs.
He stared at them. The wigs stared back.
They were pasty blonde—the kind Aunt Petunia had worn once, back when she had tried and failed at being stylish. The wigs also had a weird smell that made his stomach churn.
Harry scrunched his nose in disgust. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he told himself.
If Mad-Eye were around, Harry reasoned, he wouldn't look at the… well, the female parts. He hoped.
Then came the lipstick.
The only thing about being a girl that Harry knew was that it was applied to the lips. Simple, right?
Not so much.
The ruined shirt in front of him was a testament to his failure. His cheeks now had a faint pink glow. He couldn't tell whether it was from the lipstick or because he had rubbed the stuff off so vigorously in frustration.
Alright, time to finish this, Harry thought. But… wait.
He glanced down at his legs and arms. I have to shave!
An hour later…
Harry looked down at himself—well, herself, he supposed. Alright, Potter, he thought, trying to motivate himself. Time to play the dumb bird.
The second Harry stepped out of the house, he bolted from the door like a girl after a one-night stand—wringing his hands and constantly looking back. Perfectly normal, he reassured himself.
Once out of Little Whinging, though, he pulled the cloak from the bag. With a swift motion, he pulled the hood down and stabbed his wand into the air.
BANG!
The Knight Bus roared into view. Stan Shunpike swung open the door, eyes gleaming as he took in Harry's new appearance. He leered and gave a wide, too-enthusiastic greeting.
"Hellooooooo, darling!" Stan practically spat, reaching to grab Harry's hand and pressing a big, wet, noisy kiss to his knuckles. "Welcome aboard the Knight Bus—emergency transport for stranded witches and wizards everywhere… and pretty damsels." He winked.
Horror surged through Harry's veins. No. Not dealing with this. He shook off the sensation and looked at Stan. "Diagon Alley," he said firmly, stomping past the Knight Bus conductor.
Several roller-coaster-like moments later, Stan, not discouraged by Harry's icy reception, rolled his sleeves up, puffed out his chest, and leaned against the bus's grill.
"Oh, boy," Harry muttered.
"So…" Stan began, but Harry interrupted with a swift movement.
THUNK.
A handful of sickles dropped into Shunpike's front pocket as Harry scrambled out of the Knight Bus and slammed into something—a sign?—something hard anyway.
"Leaky Cauldron." He swore and immediately clutched his nose, tilting his head back to stop the bleeding. At least I didn't break my nose, he thought with a grim chuckle.
In hindsight, it was probably better this way.
He had some galleons left over, and he certainly couldn't show up to the will reading cross-dressed. He picked up a decent robe and a new cloak with a fur-lined hood to protect himself from the biting winds. The shop he bought it from had a name written in French—one he couldn't be bothered to spell.
But what mattered was he looked good—and, more importantly, masculine.
Merlin, it felt good to be a man again.