Massively AU!

Catgirl!Hermione and Metamorphmagus!Genderfluid!Harry

This is my most AU fanfic to date! The premise for this short story (told in three parts) is more or less "What if Harry Potter was more 'realistic' and more like the X-Men or Stephen King's Firestarter?"

A whole load of stuff is different. It's set in our current time (more or less) instead of the 1990's. There's no Trace - the Ministry and "Hogwarts" don't have god-like magic - no owls - i.e. no letters and no magically detecting where every magical child that's ever been born or has turned 11 is, that sort of thing. Magic isn't done with wands, etc...

Hermione's parents are wizards (it's not stated in the story, but, like Harry, her father is "Pureblood" and her mother is "Muggleborn").

Okay - I'm kind of cheating. Lol! :D

This is more or less an Original Story I wrote, based on the premises above, and I'm giving it a test-run here as a Harry Potter story, because - well - it was inspired in large part by Harry Potter after all. In the Original Story, the "Harry" and "Hermione" characters have different names. (Fifty Shades of Grey was originally a Twilight fanfic, so there's precedent for this sort of thing).

Anyway, my apologies to anyone who is waiting patiently for me to continue my other stories. I have been working on this and related Original Fiction. Now that I've got this out of my system, and my other Original material is off to a jolly good start, I'll be returning to my other fanfics with new chapters soon(-ish).

The Institute

The orange glow lit up the night and the neighbouring homes as the house burned, flames and black smoke billowing from the shattered windows of the top floor. Firefighters unspooled hoses from two red fire-engines while the captain spoke to neighbours at a safe distance from the blaze.

"…nicest couple you could think of," said a distressed balding man with glasses. "Got a little girl too… 'bout nine or ten, I think."

"All of the houses on this street have cellars," his teary wife called out, eyeing the flames inside the house through two of the windows on the ground floor as the captain darted back across the road.

"What'd they say? Anyone inside?" one of the firefighters asked the captain.

"Possibly! A husband and wife and a little girl." The captain glanced at the top floor and the bottom. "The top looks like a dead loss, but the structure still looks sound for the moment. If it's not too bad downstairs, see if you can find anyone—check the cellar too. I'll give you five minutes before we turn on the hoses, then get the hell out!"

Three firefighters entered through the front door. The captain and the rest of the crew waited, their faces neutral but tense, not willing to show their anxiety for the safety of their colleagues. When nobody came back out after six minutes and flames blew out a window on the bottom floor the captain cursed and lifted his radio, then looked relieved when it let out a burst of static.

"…couple more minutes," he heard one of his men saying, "…tryin' t'get into the cellar…heard someone yellin' for help…"

The captain ground his teeth, ignoring the sound of sirens as an ambulance and two police cars arrived on the scene. He left it to one of the crew to explain the situation to the new arrivals. Two minutes—three minutes—four minutes—the roof began to sag on the right side of the house and just as he was about to call his men back, one after the other they emerged from the front door, one of them carrying a bundle which had to be the little girl.

"Get those hoses on now!" the captain barked.

Powerful jets of water sprayed from the nozzles as if shot from a cannon as one of the firefighters carried the girl towards the paramedics who were rushing to meet him with a gurney.

"Hey, Cap, you gotta check this out," the sooty fireman shouted. "You're not gonna believe this."

The captain was as shocked as the paramedics when the fireman handed the sobbing girl to them, her bushy tail and fuzzy cat-shaped ears twitching.

~o0o~

Two glum looking figures—one taller and one shorter—stood on the pavement outside the granite walls of the Bowland Institute, peering up at the sign. A flurry of reddening maple leaves caught in a gust of wind blew over the wall and swirled around the pair.

"I don't like it! I don't want to live here! I want my mum!"

'I'm sorry love," the young social worker with a dark brown bob blinked back her tears; she hated this part of her job. "You know your mum and dad are gone—and given your, erm… condition…"

"It's not a condition!" the girl with the bushy cat tail and furry cat ears shouted. "I keep telling everyone—my mum and dad were Wizards, and I am too! I'm just stuck like this because my mum could turn into a cat and I got some of the cat genes but not all of them."

"I know, sweetie," said the social worker, "I know. But most people don't believe in magic."

"You do though," said the girl, starting to cry. "Why can't I stay with you?"

"If I could, I'd let you, but it's against the rules."

"The rules are horrible! I hate the rules!"

"Me too, love," said the social worker, and she meant it. "Me too! But they'll look after you properly here—they're used to children who are a bit different."

The girl's bushy tail flicked back and forth, and her lower lip quivered as tears trickled down her cheeks. She looked so forlorn; something broke inside the social worker's chest.

"Look, Hermione," she said quietly as she crouched down behind her vehicle, out of sight of the security cameras, and took the young catgirl's hands in her own, "I'm not supposed t'do this, and I could get into loads of trouble, but—you've got a photographic memory, right?"

The catgirl nodded, her messy golden-brown ringlets bouncing.

"Then remember this number," the social worker reached into her handbag and retrieved one of her cards and a pen, then quickly jotted down her phone number on the back and showed both sides of the card to Hermione. "Right, got that then?"

Hermione nodded again.

"Good! That's my home number on the back, and my work number on the front. If anyone gives you a hard time here or you're ever in trouble, give me a ring, alright—I'll come up 'ere and sort things out."

Hermione suddenly lurched forward and flung her arms around the social worker, giving her a rib-cracking hug.

"Oof!" The social worker returned Hermione's embrace and kissed the top of her curly head.

"Thanks Meg," Hermione sniffled, "I'll miss you! You're the only one who's been nice to me since Mum and Dad died."

Meg wasn't sure what to say. It almost seemed cruel to tell Hermione that she loved her; the most she could manage was to murmur, "You're the best, Hermione—I bet you'll make loads of nice friends here. Now come on, I'd better get you signed in before they come lookin' for us, alright."

"Okay," Hermione sighed. "I guess I'm ready then."

While Meg spoke into the grey intercom outside of the black wrought-iron gates Hermione warily eyed the security cameras. The gates opened with a creak and she gazed at everything dispassionately along the way as Meg led her by the hand up the wooded path to the institute. They emerged from the woods and spied the main building on the other side of verdant lawns, privet hedges, and vibrant flowerbeds—an immense seventeenth century manor house with ivy crawling up its red brick walls.

"Where are all the other children?" asked Hermione, frowning and glancing around as they approached the front door.

"It's about teatime—or maybe classes are in session—I expect they're inside."

"Oh, of course."

A tall, dour looking man with thinning grey hair who looked exactly the way Hermione had always imagined a butler ought to look was waiting for them at the front door. He barely said a word of greeting before leading them down a long corridor. Vast landscape paintings and tall portraits in ornate gilded frames hung from mahogany paneled walls, and a maroon Persian rug ran along the centre of the hall, resting on a spotless marble floor.

The "butler" silently directed Meg and Hermione through the door of an office at the end of the corridor.

"Ah, there they are," beamed a matronly bespectacled woman; her auburn hair was streaked with grey and tied back in a bun. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Do be a dear and send in Christine with some tea please. I'm sure these two must be famished after the long drive."

"Of course, Ma'am!" Mr. Fitzpatrick gave the woman who appeared to be the headmistress of the institute a stiff nod and departed.

"Are you Mrs. Trentworth?" asked Meg.

"Please, sit—make yourselves comfortable. You must be Ms. Baxter… and this must be Hermione Granger. I am indeed Madam Trentworth, the headmistress, and it is my great pleasure to welcome you both to the Bowland Institute."

Hermione took a seat in one of the ornately carved and cushioned mahogany armchairs, her furry ears twitching. She stared at the beaming woman sitting behind the highly polished mahogany desk as if she could see right through her. The tips of Hermione's cat-whiskers quivered and she remained silent.

Meg glanced at Hermione worriedly, then back at Madam Trentworth.

"Hermione's still in a bit of shock, really," she explained, "She only just lost her parents in a horrible fire a couple months ago after all—and things haven't been exactly easy for her since."

"Of course, of course," said Madam Trentworth, giving Hermione a sympathetic look which raised her hackles; it took every ounce of Hermione's will to keep her retractable claws from extending.

Fortunately, Christine—a maid in her mid-twenties with ash-brown hair—arrived in the nick of time pushing a gleaming silver trolley laden with a pot of tea, finger-sandwiches and chocolate covered digestives.

"Thank you, Christine," said the headmistress. "If you would be so kind as to return in half an hour to show Miss Granger to her dormitory."

"Yes Ma'am. Of course, Ma'am."

Hermione relaxed slightly when Christine shot her a much more genuine look of sympathy on her way out. She daintily picked up one of the tiny sandwiches and gave it a nibble. Cucumber—that was alright. Hermione munched the cucumber sandwiches and chocolate covered biscuits without a word, taking sips of tea every so often while Meg made small talk with Madam Trentworth and signed paperwork.

When it was all over, Meg gave Hermione another hug goodbye.

"Bye sweetie! Keep your chin up—it'll all work out eventually. You'll see," she said reassuringly.

Meg's expression spoke volumes. Hermione felt slightly better, knowing that she could really count on her if things didn't work out, and hugged Meg one last time.

"Bye Meg," she whispered in her ear. "I love you."

Meg bit her lip, her eyes glistening wetly as she hurried out of the office. Thankfully, Christine showed up on the dot, the moment Meg was gone. Hermione didn't think she could bear another minute in Madam Trentworth's office.

Her amber eyes took in everything as she followed Christine down the long hall and up two flights of stairs to the second floor. She finally plucked up the nerve to speak.

"Meg told me there were other… unusual children like me here. Is that true?"

"More or less—sort of, Miss," said Christine with an awkward expression.

"It's Hermione," she said, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Well," said Christine slowly, "there are a few with odd, er… traits or strange abilities—though you're the first I've seen 'oo actually looks a bit more different than usual—not that you look 'orrible or anything like that, mind you," she added quickly, "the opposite really—it's just that you're the first one 'oo's got more'n human parts…"

"That's because I'm probably the only Wizard who ever got stuck in mid-transformation when I was conceived," Hermione sighed.

"Er… okay?" said Christine, who clearly didn't have a clue what Hermione was on about; Hermione kicked herself mentally for mentioning "Wizards" and reminded herself that most Muggles didn't know about them.

"Anyway," Christine went on, "to be perfectly honest there's hardly any unusual kids here—most of the kids who board here are incorrigibles who didn't fit in at home or got the boot from their other schools for one reason or another. … Their parents send them here instead—we take the ones that nobody else will, really, and the institute also contracts with the state to take in orphans who have no real chance of being fostered or adopted because they're like you."

"Oh!"

Christine seemed to recognize her expression.

"There aren't too many horrid kids," she added quickly. "Most are just here for giving teachers or their parents a real hard time."

"How many more are there like me at the moment?" asked Hermione.

"Just two as far as I know—" Christine clammed up suddenly and came to a halt in front of a door painted robin-egg blue, as were all the other doors in the hallway. "Here you go then—Number thirty-two—you'll be sharin' with another girl, not too much older'n' you— 'bout twelve I should think. You're what, nine or ten?"

"Ten—almost eleven." Hermione's forehead crinkled with consternation. There was obviously something that Christine wanted to tell her but was too frightened to say.

"Right! Anyway, 'er name is Abigail" Christine continued. "She's nice enough I suppose… I shouldn't expect she'll give you a hard time about your tail."

Christine gave Hermione one last sympathetic smile then departed, leaving Hermione to settle in on her own.

With nothing to her name but a backpack containing a few clothes provided by Child Services and a few books provided by Meg, Hermione didn't bother to unpack. She glanced at the messy, unmade bed on one side of the dorm-room, taking note of the rumpled frilly nightgown sprawled atop the covers, and the likely used knickers and knee-high socks strewn across the floor beside it.

Then she peered at the other side of the room for a moment before flopping miserably on the unclaimed pristine bed with crisp bedcovers that looked like they had never been used. Hermione angrily flung her backpack at the polished pine dresser at the end of the bed. Part of her hoped the backpack would smash the mirror at the back of the dresser and shatter it into a million little shards of silvered glass. But the rational part of Hermione knew that expressing how broken she felt inside on her first day at the Institute would hardly endear her with the headmistress. There was something dark lurking behind Madam Trentworth's jovial smile and Hermione didn't want to wake it.

Tears leaked from the corners of Hermione's eyes, despite her best effort to control them. She furiously wiped them away with the heel of her palm. She was tired of crying. No amount of crying was going to bring Mum and Dad back to life or bring Meg back to take her away from this gilded prison. But the dam burst, and the next thing Hermione knew she was lying on her front, sobbing into her pillow, her bushy cat tail wagging back and forth.

Hermione barely registered the ringing bell and was still crying when the door opened shortly after. When she felt the side of her bed sag, Hermione halted in mid-sob and spied a girl with flaxen-hair, curly, not unlike her own but tied back into pigtails.

"Hello!" said the girl, peering at her with both concern and great interest.

"H-hello," Hermione returned, "Are—are you Abigail?"

The girl nodded, her curly pigtails bouncing.

"Yes. What's your name?"

"H-Hermione… Hermione Granger," she answered, her stomach tightening when Abigail eyed her flicking cat tail.

"Can I stroke it?"

"What?" Hermione had to admit that she was surprised, despite Christine's assertion.

"Your tail—it's very pretty—can I stroke it?"

"Er… You don't think I'm a freak?"

Abigail turned pink and let out a nervous giggle.

"Well, I'm sort of used to weirdos now, after being here for a year and a half—and I love cats."

"Oh!"

Being thought of as a freak was expected, but Hermione supposed that being a 'weirdo' wasn't quite as bad—especially if Abigail actually liked her cat traits.

"Erm—yes, alright then," said Hermione hesitantly.

"Thank you," Abigail beamed, reaching out with her hand.

Hermione wiped her wet cheeks and felt herself relaxing at the other girl's touch. As Abigail gingerly petted her tail Hermione began to feel at ease enough for Abigail's pleasant scent to register with her keen nose and took an almost instant liking to her. An odd tingling sensation shot through her. It wasn't entirely unlike the feeling she got whenever Mum had stroked her tail to comfort her before, but there was something different about it—she just wasn't sure what.

"Ooh! You purr as well!" Abigail squealed excitedly, "That's soooo cute!"

Hermione felt her cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. She hadn't realized she was purring.

"Erm—if you don't mind me asking," said Hermione, quickly changing the subject, "you don't really seem like you belong here. Christine told me the Institute was sort of like a… like a reform school I guess."

Abigail giggled.

"Oh, that! … Mum sent me here because I hated all of my nannies and tutors. They were all horrid—besides it was so boring being stuck at home all the time and just having boring cousins over to play every so often. … There's a few not so nice children here, and schoolwork is boring, but at least it's a bit more interesting than being at home when I'm not in lessons."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, not quite sure how to respond to that; she couldn't help feeling slightly amused.

"Well, I hope you don't find me too boring," she said when the moment passed. "I like to read and study a lot."

Abigail rolled her hazel eyes. "I can see I've got my work cut out for me then. Don't worry, I'll teach you how to loosen up a bit—give me half a tick to change out of my uniform and I'll show you around."

Hermione averted her eyes while Abigail unabashedly stripped down, chucking her clothes all over the floor and digging into her dresser for clean clothes. Once she had changed into a flowery dress and long white stockings, Abigail grabbed Hermione's hand and marched her around the institute for a grand tour.

"…and down that corridor are the boys' dormitories," Abigail was saying as they hurried past. "There's not too many kids here really—about a hundred I think—and a few of the teachers live down that corridor, but half of them don't live at the institute…"

The classrooms and the study hall were on the next floor down, and on the ground-floor were the dining hall, kitchen, staff-quarters and offices. A number of students—many of them still in uniform—were milling around and chatting, and they stared at her as she passed by. Hermione's stomach knotted, and she returned their looks with a frown, not willing to show them how anxious she felt.

Abigail glanced at her, looking a bit puzzled.

"Aren't you used to it, then?"

"Mum and Dad used some sort of invisibility spell on me which just hid my cat features, so I could go out in public and go to primary school," Hermione explained. "The first time anyone saw me like this was a few weeks ago when—when they…"

"I'm sorry," said Abigail. "I didn't think about that. Maybe I shouldn't have dragged you around—"

"It's alright," Hermione sighed. "It's better to get this out of the way now—they'd all see me tomorrow anyway."

When she followed Abigail outside, it looked more how she had expected it to look on the way in—boys (and a few girls) kicking a football across one of the lawns, and kids lounging on another lawn laughing and listening to small portable stereos, some reading books under trees, others traipsing around the flower beds, and a few younger ones who seemed to be playing hide and seek amongst the hedgerows.

It struck Hermione as odd not to see any kids with eyes and thumbs glued to mobiles until it hit her that they were probably banned at the Institute—it was more or less a reform school for rich kids after all.

"There are tennis courts and basketball courts on the other side of the school, too," said Abigail, "if you're interested in that sort of thing."

Hermione shook her head. "Not really. Sports isn't really my thing."

"Me neither," said Abigail, grinning. "What about swimming? They have a pool here too, but we're only allowed to use it on weekends if we've earned enough points."

"Swimming's alright," said Hermione. "How do you earn points then?"

"Good marks in class," Abigail sighed. "I suppose it's a good thing for me though—I probably wouldn't work as hard in lessons if I didn't like swimming…"

Abigail eyed some of the children with portable stereos longingly.

"I can't manage to earn enough points for my own stereo though," she added, "and access to a telly—forget it—that's loads more points. It's not like I don't try, actually. It's just that schoolwork is so—"

"—Boring?" Hermione suggested, her fuzzy cat ears flicking with amusement.

"Yeah," Abigail sighed again.

"Are you sure it's just because it's boring?" asked Hermione, biting her lip and peering at Abigail pensively.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Well," said Hermione slowly, "maybe you just have trouble concentrating for other reasons."

"You mean like ADHD?"

Hermione nodded.

"Mum had me checked after I shouted at my last tutor and scared her away," said Abigail, scowling. "But the doctors said there was nothing wrong with me. Mum made me see a load of therapists too, and then someone said I was just a delinquent and told her about this place."

"Oh." Hermione's whiskers quivered as she continued to eye Abigail.

"What are you thinking?" asked Abigail, catching Hermione's expression.

"I don't think you're a delinquent," said Hermione. "And I can usually tell when there's something off about people—a…achoo," she sneezed, the smell of tobacco stinging her sensitive nostrils.

Abigail pulled up short and stiffened, looking past Hermione.

"Come on," she muttered, taking Hermione's arm, "let's go the other way before—"

"Bugger me!" a boy behind Hermione exclaimed loudly, and a cloud of tobacco smoke wafted by. "What the hell is that?"

"Some sorta mutant freak," another boy sniggered. "But this one looks even more like an X-Men than the other two freaks—"

"She looks more like a Doctor Who reject, if you ask me," a girl giggled.

"Shut up!" yelled Abigail as Hermione spun around, her bushy tail wagging. "Don't be so mean!"

The two older boys sharing a cigarette chortled at Abigail, and the older girl looked down her nose at Hermione.

"Why?" said the taller boy with dashing, dark-brown hair, dropping the cigarette end and grinding it into the graveled path with the bottom of his trainer. "Is it your pet then, Abbie?"

Hermione gulped, her heart thumping hard against the wall of her chest, wishing for the hundredth time that she knew the spell that Mum and Dad had used to make her tail, ears, and whiskers invisible. She tried to back up as the shorter, stockier boy with sandy hair drew closer and grinned, but the prickly hedge blocked her path.

"No—don't—please," she moaned as he grabbed her tail and yanked it painfully.

"Leave her alone, Edgar!" shouted Abigail, punching him in the ribs.

"That tickled," he laughed, tugging Hermione's tail again and making her squeak. "Who's gonna make me, pipsqueak? You?"

"No—me!"

Hermione was startled to see another girl emerge from the other side of the hedge—a girl with untidy long black hair who looked no older than herself. The girl glowered at the boy named Edgar, her fists balled.

Edgar released Hermione's tail, a sneer curling his lip, and lunged at the black-haired girl who held her ground, arms up and ready to strike him.

"Leave it," snapped the taller boy, grabbing his friend's arm before he could punch her. "Don't be stupid."

"You should listen to Terrence, Edgar," said the black-haired girl coolly, "or I'll give you another black eye to match the last one I gave you."

"Piss off, Harry," snarled Edgar. "I know where you sleep."

The black-haired girl snorted and raised her eyebrows, giving Edgar a dangerous look.

"No need to get your knickers in a twist, Harry," said the boy named Terrence. "Just having a bit of a laugh."

Terrence dragged Edgar away and nodded curtly at the girl who had been smoking with them.

"Come on Susan, let's go," he said; then the three older students turned the corner at the end of the hedgerow and were gone.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, but her heart was still racing. She was embarrassed to find that she was trembling.

"Thanks Harry," said Abigail. "Sorry—I mean Harriet," she added quickly.

"It's alright, Abigail," Harriet's voice softened, "It's nice of you to try to remember, but it doesn't really matter—nobody else bothers to call me Harriet when I'm being a girl. I'm not even supposed t'be…"

"So, you alright then?" she asked suddenly, changing the subject and looking right at Hermione.

Hermione's forehead crinkled in bewilderment and she nodded, surprised as the girl's almost impossibly iridescent eyes shifted from glacier blue to bright green when her head turned and the light struck them from another angle.

"Y-yes, thank you! Er… Harriet? I'm Hermione—Hermione Granger."

"Yeah," Harriet sighed, having clearly picked up on Hermione's unspoken query, "Harry's a boy's name, but I prefer Harriet when I'm being a girl."

"Wait—so you're not a girl then?"

"I am right now—I was born a guy, but I can change into a girl whenever I feel like it. … I can make myself look like other people too if I really try—I dunno how, really—"

"Oh!" gasped Hermione, feeling a thrill of excitement shoot up her spine. "You're one of the other two Wizards here then."

"Huh?" Harriet glanced at Abigail who shrugged in return.

"You're a Wizard," said Hermione, "I'm one too. Didn't you know you were one? Didn't your parents ever tell you?"

"Erm…" Harriet's features flickered, and her cheeks turned pink.

Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in horror and filling with tears.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to be insensitive. I-I just lost my own parents a few weeks ago—"

"I never knew mine," Harriet interjected quietly, "I've been here for as long as I can remember. They told me that my parents died when I was one, and that my aunt and uncle didn't want me. … I guess nobody else wants me either—that's why I'm the only one who's been here so long."

"What do you mean?"

"Most of the other freaky kids like us get adopted eventually," said Harriet; she glanced at Hermione's flicking tail and ears and smiled sadly—almost longingly, "You probably will."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say, but she was suddenly overcome with a strong urge to hug Harriet. Instead, she asked her another question.

"Didn't the other children tell you about Wizards though? I can't be the only one who knew their parents."

"There haven't been that many of us, really. I've been here nine years, and you're only the fifth one I've met—maybe not everyone knew their parents or maybe they had, er… regular parents who didn't know they were Wizards. You could always ask Septimus I suppose, see if he knows—"

"Fat chance of that," Abigail snorted. "You should stay away from him, Hermione. He's really creepy and mean…"

"That's true," Harriet agreed. "It's not really his fault though. "His dad killed his mum when he was six and got chucked in prison. He's the only other one who has been here almost as long as me."

"That's awful!" Hermione gasped.

"I suppose," said Abigail begrudgingly. "If he wasn't so horrid, I might feel sorry for him."

"Septimus set a load of snakes on Abigail last year and she got bitten twice," Harriet explained. "That's his freaky thing—he can make things like snakes and spiders and frogs just appear out of thin air whenever he's angry."

"I wasn't trying to make him cross," said Abigail. "I mean—yeah, okay, maybe I was a bit rude, but all I did was ask Becky who the weirdo was my first week here—I didn't know he could hear me—he was a mile away…"

Harriet rolled her eyes.

"…okay, fine," Abigail huffed, "he was only the other side of the lawn from me, but that was like, ten metres away—how was I supposed to know that he has super-hearing?"

Footsteps on the graveled path captured the attention of all three girls and Harriet groaned. A young, severe looking woman with very short chestnut hair was striding down the pathway; she was wearing what appeared to be a security uniform: a crisp white shirt with black epaulettes and a gold patch on her chest, and a well ironed black skirt.

"Oi—what's all this then, Potter?" she barked. "I hear you've been causin' trouble again—threatening one o' the payin' students."

Harriet scowled, saying nothing.

"If you're talking about Edgar Theodore Stanfield the III, then he had it coming," said Abigail haughtily. "I'm a paying student too, Vivian, and he was molesting my friend—he should be arrested. … And he was smoking cigarettes too," she added for good measure.

"Yeah, right, Pincher," sneered Vivian, "like anyone's gonna back new money like you over a Stanfield. You wanna watch yourself—hangin' out with freaks like these two isn't doing yourself any favours—if you're not careful you'll lose movie night privileges."

Then Vivian turned her ire back on Harriet.

"And you," she snapped, "What'd Miss Hastings tell you about pretendin' to be a girl? You'll be cleanin' toilets for a week if I catch you at it again."

"I am a girl," Harriet hissed, reaching for her belt buckle "Want me to show you?"

"You wanna make that a month then? I'm sure the janitors'd like a break from toilet cleanin' for a month."

"So what else is new?" Harriet muttered angrily, dropping her hands.

Hermione watched in fascination as Harriet's hair shortened and her facial features altered, becoming slightly more angular. But other than her untidy black hair being short and her face being slightly more boyish, there really wasn't any other visible physical change of note. Considering he was only ten that wasn't surprising, but Harriet's eyes—Harry's eyes now, Hermione supposed—were still too pretty to be a boy's eyes really.

Vivian seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"I'm warnin' you—"

Harry stared mutinously at the security officer and reached for his belt, and this time he really did undo it and had his jeans down to the top of his thighs, exposing his briefs before Vivian yelled at him.

"Alright—alright! Zip it back up you little hooligan!" Then she turned around and marched off, muttering something about the "freaky little brat" under her breath.

"It's okay," said Harry once she had gone, "You can open your eyes now, Hermione."

Hermione peeked out from between her fingers before lowering her hand. Harry grinned at her ruefully.

"Sorry," he said. "Vivian's only been here a few weeks—she doesn't really know me very well yet, except for stuff she heard about me from the other Monitors and Miss Hastings—"

"Who?"

"She's the deputy headmistress," Abigail chimed in, "Miss Hastings is in charge of discipline."

"Oh!" Hermione frowned, her furry ears flicking as her bad feelings about the Institute returned in full force.

"It's not so awful here, really," said Abigail, quickly giving Hermione a hug. "You'll see."

"Speak for yourself," Harry grumbled, moodily kicking a pebble. "Now I'm stuck like this until things blow over unless I want to clean toilets."

Hermione gnawed her lower lip pensively. "Do you like being a girl more than being a boy then?"

"I'm alright with being a guy sometimes, actually," he sighed. "I just feel like I'm really a girl most of the time—I mean, I am really a girl most of the time; I just have to pretend I'm not when I'm inside the Institute or around teachers. So I just hang around outside as much as possible after classes, or in my dorm room at night—at least I don't have to share."

"Why don't we go and sit in the woods for a bit?" Abigail suggested. "You should be alright as long as nobody is else is around.

"Yeah, okay," Harry agreed, nodding.

"I don't get it," said Hermione as she and her two new friends strolled towards the wooded part of the grounds. "Why won't they let you be a girl if you'd rather be a girl? It seems a bit weird for them to be fussed about that sort of thing these days—I mean there are laws to protect trans people. I would think they would apply to you."

"I dunno really," Harry shrugged. "Miss Hastings just told me I'm not to—she seems to think I'm just having a laugh and trying to put one over on them I suppose—and Madam Trentworth backed her up."

The trio fell silent as they traipsed across another bit of lawn, past a statue and a pond surrounded by weeping willows, and into the woods. Hermione's mental gears whirred while they looked for a good spot, glad for the distraction of thinking about someone else's problems for a change.