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!
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She stood before the open wardrobe in her room, abattlefield of pastels, staring at its contents with a quiet mixture ofexasperation, confusion, and mild annoyance.
It was a problem she had deliberately been putting off forthe last two weeks. In her defense, she had far more pressing matters to attendto – namely finding if she was actually the Hermione she knew, and if sheactually had magic. Compared to that, a closet full of clothes had seemedtrivial.
But now, after the aftermath of her breakthrough, she couldn'tignore it any longer.
The clothes themselves weren't exactly the problem, notreally. The six-year-old girl who was and always has been Hermione Granger sawnothing wrong with them. They were familiar, comfortable, associated with herparents' love and a life of gentle, suburban normalcy, inline with societalnorms.
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'sbody; he, she, was a new, singular consciousness forged from two lives. Therewas no dysphoria, no crisis of masculinity versus femininity. He had alwaysbeen an observer, adaptable to his circumstances, and a part of him was evenquietly curious about this new way of being.
Still, it felt wrong. It was a different kind ofwrong.
It wasn't the wrongness of a lie, but the wrongness of aprofound mismatch. His first life had been lived in muted tones – grey cities,worn-down jackets, the quiet functionality of things that didn't drawattention. His existence had been about survival, about blending in, about thegrim necessity of a world that had stripped him of childhood.
Jeans were durable, forgiving of dirt and wear. Colors werea luxury, and bright ones were a liability, drawing attention when survivaldepended on being overlooked. His wardrobe had been a uniform of quietfunctionality, a second skin that helped him blend into the cracks of a worldthat 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 wasutterly alien to the core of his first soul. And so, the contents of this newwardrobe 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 hisfirst war for survival. And so they felt like a costume of lie.
And while the concept of "girlish" clothes wasfine in theory – he could adapt to that over time – the sheer, unapologeticvolume of pink…
Her eye twitched.
She reached out and pushed a hanger aside. A pink dress withwhite 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 assaultof cheerfulness. She narrowed her eyes at a particular monstrosity of a dressthat 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 leaningagainst the doorframe, a warm, amused smile on her face.
"You were staring so intently, I thought you'd declared waron 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 towear."
"Oh? What's the trouble?" Mrs. Granger walked over, herpresence filling the room with a comforting scent of tea and gentle soap.
"It's just…" Hermione gestured vaguely at the sea ofpastels. "Everything is so… pink."
Her mother's smile widened. "Well, it has been your favouritecolour for a very long time."
"Has it?" The question was out before she could stop it, agenuine 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 aflicker of unease so small it would have hard to spot by even adults, impossiblefor six-year child.
But to her with a mind forged in a world where survivaldepended on reading the unsaid, it wasn't noise. It was a signal, as clear as abomb 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 oneyourself. You said the pattern on it was more complex than the others, and thatit would be more interesting to look at. Don't you remember?"
The conversation continued normally, but Hermione's focushad shifted. That flicker of concern, though expertly hidden, was as clear toher newly analytical mind as a signal flare. She watched her mother now, notjust as her daughter, but as an observer. The easy posture, the casual tone – theywere all perfectly in place. But the look in her eyes held a careful, searchingquality. Her smile didn't quite reach them anymore.
It took her just a few moments to understand. To connect theseemingly unrelated dots. Her mother's concern now in her facial tics, the memory-probingquestion about wallpapers, behaviour in the past, rapidly filtering throughmemories, cross-referencing them to connect them together.
Her mother wasn't justhaving a conversation with her about clothes. She was trying to diagnose her.
She understood what brought this on. She remembered thehospital. The hushed, worried conversations her parents thought she couldn'thear. The neurologist with his kind eyes and serious voice, explaining when herparents asked if the lightning strike would have effect on her young developingbrain.
"We can't be sure. She seems fine now. Her neuralactivity is completely within normal range right now." he had told them. "Still,look for any changes. Personality shifts, memory lapses, sudden changes inpreference. Anything that seems out of character. It could be nothing, or itcould be a sign of something we need to address."
Her sudden aversion to pink. Her becoming quieter, morewithdrawn, over the last two weeks. The long hours she spent sitting perfectlystill in her room, what they must have assumed was some form of quiet play ormeditation.
They had noticed. Of course, they had noticed.
She sighed internally. I should have seen this coming Shouldhave known they would notice. They were her parents, and their worry hadbeen 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 atschool says our tastes can change as we get older and learn new things?"
She paused, looking up at her mother as if genuinely tryingto recall the lesson. "I think mine is changing. I don't think pink is my favoriteanymore. It feels… a bit too loud for my head now. Can people's favorite colorschange, Mummy?"
She looked up at her mother, deliberately making herexpression open and innocent. It was a mask, another one, but this one waswielded not for survival, but for kindness.
The relief in her mother's eyes was immediate and profound,a wave of warmth that chased the clinical chill away. The tension in hershoulders eased.
And it worked. Of course, it worked. A sad, familiaracknowledgment echoed in the back of her mind. Deception, even when gentle, hadbecome frighteningly easy with the mask.
"Of course, they can, sweetheart," she said, her voicegenuine 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 yousome new things. Any colour you like."
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True to her word, the weekend was a flurry of departmentstores and clothing racks. Her parents, especially her mother, relieved andeager to indulge her daughter's "new phase," gave her free rein.
Hermione was methodical. She bypassed the racks of pink andlavender, the glittery logos, and the frilled monstrosities without a secondglance. Her hands sought out different textures and tones. Sturdy denim, softcotton, and warm wool in shades of forest green, charcoal grey, deep blue, andsimple matte blacks.
Her new wardrobe was a quiet revolution. It was built on afoundation of practical, unisex staples: comfortable trousers, plainlong-sleeved shirts, and thick, warm jumpers that felt like a gentle shieldagainst the world.
She didn't reject everything feminine, however. That wasn'tthe 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 inmuted greens and greys. They were practical, simple, and devoid of the cheerfulnoise 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 brightpastel colours had been changed by quiet, yet still elegant pieces. Hermionefelt a strange sense of rightness seeing them. A small declaration that both girlshe was and the man she had been could finally, peacefully, coexist.
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Sunday evening bled into night, marking the end of hermedical leave. Her new clothes were folded neatly in her drawers, a quiettestament 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 wardrobewas solved, her mind was free to fixate on the far greater discovery. It hadbeen two days since the breakthrough – two days since she had stood in thedesolate landscape of her own soul and welcomed the cold. She had spent theweekend navigating her parents' concern and methodically rebuilding herwardrobe, 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 thatinitial, euphoric rush. But now, in the quiet of her room, with the mundanereality of school looming, the extraordinary secret she held felt more potentthan ever.
She waited, listening to the familiar rhythm of the housesettling into slumber. The distant rumble of her father's snore, the soft creakof 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.