A.N.: hey everyone, sorry for the late chapter. I had an idea how to take this forward, but i was stuck on execution. Also, the first week of college was hectic, so I barely had time. Anyways, enjoy! Tell me how you like it, and don't forget those powerstones!
---
She stood before the open wardrobe in her room, a battle field of pastels, staring at its contents with a quiet mixture of exasperation, confusion, and mild annoyance.
It was a problem she had deliberately been putting off for the last two weeks. In her defense, she had far more pressing matters to attend to – namely finding if she was actually the Hermione she knew, and if she actually had magic. Compared to that, a closet full of clothes had seemed trivial.
But now, after the aftermath of her breakthrough, she couldn't ignore it any longer.
The clothes themselves weren't exactly the problem, not really. The six-year-old girl who was and always has been Hermione Granger saw nothing wrong with them. They were familiar, comfortable, associated with her parents' love and a life of gentle, suburban normalcy, inline with societal norms.
The man she had been, however, found them… awkward. It wasn't repulsion. He knows, with an unshakeable certainty, that he was this girl now. This wasn't a case of being a boy in a girl's body; he, she, was a new, singular consciousness forged from two lives. There was no dysphoria, no crisis of masculinity versus femininity. He had always been an observer, adaptable to his circumstances, and a part of him was even quietly curious about this new way of being.
Still, it felt wrong. It was a different kind of wrong.
It wasn't the wrongness of a lie, but the wrongness of a profound mismatch. His first life had been lived in muted tones – grey cities, worn-down jackets, the quiet functionality of things that didn't draw attention. His existence had been about survival, about blending in, about the grim necessity of a world that had stripped him of childhood.
Jeans were durable, forgiving of dirt and wear. Colors were a luxury, and bright ones were a liability, drawing attention when survival depended on being overlooked. His wardrobe had been a uniform of quiet functionality, a second skin that helped him blend into the cracks of a world that had stripped him of childhood far too soon.
Frills, lace, and cheerful patterns felt like a costume fora life he had never lived. It was an echo of a carefree innocence that was utterly alien to the core of his first soul. And so, the contents of this new wardrobe felt utterly alien. If he were honest with himself, they felt mocking.
Frills, lace, and cheerful patterns weren't just fabrics; they were symbols of a life he lost too soon. They were an echo, a vibrant, laughing reminder of the carefree innocence that had been a casualty of his first war for survival. And so they felt like a costume of lie.
And while the concept of "girlish" clothes was fine in theory – he could adapt to that over time – the sheer, unapologetic volume of pink…Her eye twitched. She reached out and pushed a hanger aside.
A pink dress with white polka dots. Next to it, a pale lavender jumper with a cartoon kitten. Then another dress, this one a blinding fuchsia. It was an unrelenting assault of cheerfulness. She narrowed her eyes at a particular monstrosity of a dress that looked like a cupcake had lost a fight with a glitter factory.
"Find something you like, sweetie?"
Hermione jumped, a small, startled gasp escaping her lips. She hadn't heard her mother approach. She turned to see Mrs. Granger leaning against the doorframe, a warm, amused smile on her face.
"You were staring so intently, I thought you'd declared war on your wardrobe," her mother teased. Hermione let out a slow breath, her heart rate settling. "Something like that." She turned back to the closet. "I don't know what to wear."
"Oh? What's the trouble?" Mrs. Granger walked over, her presence filling the room with a comforting scent of tea and gentle soap.
"It's just…" Hermione gestured vaguely at the sea of pastels. "Everything is so… pink."
Her mother's smile widened. "Well, it has been your favourite colour for a very long time."
"Has it?" The question was out before she could stop it, a genuine inquiry from a soul who couldn't remember.
Her mother's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. A tiny, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of her eye. It was a flicker of unease so small it would have hard to spot by even adults, impossible for six-year child.
But to her with a mind forged in a world where survival depended on reading the unsaid, it wasn't noise. It was a signal, as clear as a bomb going off in the stillness of the night.
She recovered quickly, her tone remaining light and normal. "Of course, silly. When we chose your wallpaper, you picked the pink one yourself. You said the pattern on it was more complex than the others, and that it would be more interesting to look at. Don't you remember?"
The conversation continued normally, but Hermione's focus had shifted. That flicker of concern, though expertly hidden, was as clear to her newly analytical mind as a signal flare. She watched her mother now, not just as her daughter, but as an observer. The easy posture, the casual tone – they were all perfectly in place. But the look in her eyes held a careful, searching quality. Her smile didn't quite reach them anymore.
It took her just a few moments to understand. To connect the seemingly unrelated dots. Her mother's concern now in her facial tics, the memory-probing question about wallpapers, behavior in the past, rapidly filtering through memories, cross-referencing them to connect them together. Her mother wasn't just having a conversation with her about clothes. She was trying to diagnose her.
She understood what brought this on. She remembered the hospital. The hushed, worried conversations her parents thought she couldn't hear. The neurologist with his kind eyes and serious voice, explaining when her parents asked if the lightning strike would have effect on her young developing brain.
"We can't be sure. She seems fine now. Her neural activity is completely within normal range right now." he had told them. "Still, look for any changes. Personality shifts, memory lapses, sudden changes in preference. Anything that seems out of character. It could be nothing, or it could be a sign of something we need to address."
Her sudden aversion to pink. Her becoming quieter, more withdrawn, over the last two weeks. The long hours she spent sitting perfectly still in her room, what they must have assumed was some form of quiet play or meditation.
They had noticed. Of course, they had noticed. She sighed internally. I should have seen this coming. Should have known they would notice. They were her parents, and their worry had been amplified tenfold since the incident.
Her response was calculated, yet it flowed with a natural, childlike cadence. "I remember the wallpaper," she said, her voice softening. It was a small lie, but a necessary one. "But you know how Mrs. Davison at school says our tastes can change as we get older and learn new things?"
She paused, looking up at her mother as if genuinely trying to recall the lesson. "I think mine is changing. I don't think pink is my favorite anymore. It feels… a bit too loud for my head now. Can people's favorite colors change, Mummy?"
She looked up at her mother, deliberately making her expression open and innocent. It was a mask, another one, but this one was wielded not for survival, but for kindness.
The relief in her mother's eyes was immediate and profound wave of warmth that chased the clinical chill away. The tension in her shoulders eased. And it worked.
Of course, it worked. A sad, familiar acknowledgment echoed in the back of her mind. Deception, even when gentle, had become frighteningly easy with the mask.
"Of course, they can, sweetheart," she said, her voice genuine again. She reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Hermione's ear. "Of course, they can. How about we go shopping this weekend? We can get you some new things. Any colour you like."
---
True to her word, the weekend was a flurry of department stores and clothing racks. Her parents, especially her mother, relieved and eager to indulge her daughter's "new phase," gave her free rein.
Hermione was methodical. She bypassed the racks of pink and lavender, the glittery logos, and the frilled monstrosities without a second glance. Her hands sought out different textures and tones. Sturdy denim, soft cotton, and warm wool in shades of forest green, charcoal grey, deep blue, and simple matte blacks.
Her new wardrobe was a quiet revolution. It was built on a foundation of practical, unisex staples: comfortable trousers, plain long-sleeved shirts, and thick, warm jumpers that felt like a gentle shield against the world.
She didn't reject everything feminine, however. That wasn't the point. She found a few dresses and skirts she could tolerate, even like. One was a simple, A-line dress in a dark navy blue, another a plaid skirt in muted greens and greys. They were practical, simple, and devoid of the cheerful noise she had come to associate with her old clothes. They didn't bother her. They were just… clothes. Functional, and in their own way, elegant.
By the end of the weekend, her wardrobe was changed. He bright pastel colors had been changed by quiet, yet still elegant pieces. Hermione felt a strange sense of rightness seeing them. A small declaration that both girl she was and the man she had been could finally, peacefully, coexist.
---
Sunday evening bled into night, marking the end of her medical leave. Her new clothes were folded neatly in her drawers, a quiet testament to the small, crucial victory she'd won over the weekend. Tomorrow, she would return to school, to the world of timetables and playground chatter.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Now that the practical, immediate problem of her wardrobe was solved, her mind was free to fixate on the far greater discovery. It had been two days since the breakthrough – two days since she had stood in the desolate landscape of her own soul and welcomed the cold. She had spent the weekend navigating her parents' concern and methodically rebuilding her wardrobe, but beneath it all, the magic waited.
It was an itch deep within her, a silent thrum of potential. A tool waiting to be used. A muscle waiting to be flexed. She hadn't had a real chance to test it yet, not beyond that initial, euphoric rush. But now, in the quiet of her room, with the mundane reality of school looming, the extraordinary secret she held felt more potent than ever.
She waited, listening to the familiar rhythm of the house settling into slumber. The distant rumble of her father's snore, the soft creak of the floorboards as her mother made one last check before bed. Two hours later, silence was there, thick and absolute.
The time for navigating social complexities was over. Thetime for quiet, methodical experimentation was about to begin.