"Here, Leah, try this one on."
"You think it looks killer too, right, Vernon?"
"But it's a dress, Aunt Petunia," Harley mumbles, cheeks going pink.
"It's gorgeous, and it'll pop with your hair." Petunia holds up a moon-white sundress in front of Harley. "This one. We're buying this one. You'll look drop-dead stunning."
"Totally fire, Leah—deadass!" Uncle Vernon chimes in, arms loaded with shopping bags but still buzzing like he chugged a Red Bull. No mall-fatigue for this guy.
"Uh… okay, fine."
Harley's brain is screaming HOW THE HELL DO I WEAR A DRESS?! but she just nods, face-planting into her palms. The shy-cute vibe makes Petunia's eyes sparkle like she's high on grandma crack.
"You'll get used to it, sweetie." Petunia loops an arm through Harley's and drags her to the next store. "Now let's find glasses that slay with your outfits."
Eleven years on this planet, and Harley's never been spoiled this hard. She's torn between cringing and melting. The Dursleys are all in—no brakes, no shade. It's gotNBA-level loyalty.
Did Dad seriously screw them over that bad?
Is it just 'cause I look like Mom now?
Petunia's love for her dead sister is palpable, and her hate for Harley's dad? Ice-cold venom.
They hit the mall like a Black Friday riot—bags piling up 'til Vernon's new ride is stuffed to the roof. Lunch is fancy French cuisine; Harley's taste buds file for citizenship.
Back home, Dudley—left to starve—comes barreling out like a starving golden retriever. No complaints, though. He's on his best behavior.
"Good boy today," Petunia says, nodding as Dudley scrambles to grab bags. "Finally learning to look after your sister, huh?"
She hands him a boxed 12-inch pizza. "Leah insisted. Figured you skipped lunch."
Dudley's eyes well up. She remembered me… after all the crap I pulled… I was such a dick…
He clutches the pizza like it's the Stanley Cup, tears mixing with pepperoni grease. Cold slice? Best meal of his life. No cap.
Harley's new room is getting the full Pinterest treatment—fresh bedding, knick-knacks, all hand-picked by Petunia. Harley's useless here, so she's banished to the living room… but she's antsy.
"Aunt Petunia, I'm heading out for a bit."
She pokes her head upstairs. Gotta grill Lynn. Answers. Now.
"Go ahead, you know the street. Be safe—home by dinner." Petunia slips a twenty-pound note into Harley's hand. "Buy snacks if you want. You're too skinny—put on a few pounds and you'll be adorable."
Outside, sunshine pours down. Harley's black hair cascades like silk, swaying with every step. The new boy-cut outfit should look wrong, but she pulls it off—clean, sharp, badass. High cheekbones and killer eyes mean even a potato sack would trend on TikTok.
Ten-minute stroll to the park, but it feels like a marathon. By the time the swings come into view, Harley's rage has ghosted.
"You came."
Lynn's chilling on a swing, flipping through a Muggle magazine. He tucks it away when he spots her.
"Why the hell didn't you tell me the price upfront?" Harley snaps, trying to keep the fire.
Lynn cuts her off with one question: "Your aunt, uncle—even your cousin. They treating you different?"
Harley goes quiet. Finally, a grudging nod. "Yeah… they are."
"Wish granted, then?"
"Yes, but—"
"Everything costs something. Could be pocket change, could be an arm and a leg. So—was the price steep or cheap for what you got?"
"Steep!" Harley glares. "I'm a dude, not a chick!"
Lynn just stares, calm as hell. "Is being a dude better? Where's the win?"
Harley blanks. Eleven-year-old brain isn't ready for gender theory.
"But… I…"
"You worried you'll meet a girl you like?" Lynn smirks, pats the swing next to him. "Sit. Let's unpack."
"Not… just that…"
"Who says girls can't date girls?" Lynn shrugs. "Flip the script."
"Say you crush on a hottie. As a guy—are you smooth enough to slide into her DMs? Make friends fast?"
Harley winces. Social skills? Nonexistent. Especially with girls.
"Prolly not…"
"Hot girl = competition. You're not Mr. Steal-Yo-Girl, and you suck at small talk. Result? Watching her ride off into some Chad's sunset. Green filter engaged."
Harley's face cycles: blush → ghost → storm cloud.
"But as a girl?" Lynn grins. "Boom—besties instantly. Sleepovers, late-night talks, sharing a bed when you can't sleep. Hell, same dorm, same bathtub. Kiss her? She might lean in."
"From a dude's POV? That's wet-dream territory."
Harley's tomato-red. The visuals hit like a TikTok thirst trap. But the more she settles into Leah, the less it feels weird. Eleven's the perfect age to rewrite the code.
"Still hung up?"
Harley meets Lynn's clear eyes. Can't argue. Life's leagues better—just swapped plumbing.
"So… can I switch back?"
"Eat another cracker. Only had one. Next drop? Could be next month, next year, never."
(Doraemon's pocket spits 1,000+ gadgets; Lynn's junk bag? One random trash item a month. Three years, one jackpot: three identical bamboo copters. Odds of another gender-swap? LOL.)
"So I'm stuck?"
"Hope's not zero, but don't bet your Hogwarts letter on it." Lynn's straight. "Point is—this outcome? Solid upgrade."
"Maybe… yeah?"
"So—are you happy?"
Lynn smiles. "New room, new threads, aunt pouring sister-love into you, uncle and cousin flipped scripts. Happy?"
Harley swings in silence, kicking pebbles like yesterday. Deep in thought.
"I… think so…"
She looks up—Lynn's gone. Swing still warm.