This story was written for the First Round of the Seventh Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as the Seeker for The Tutshill Tornados.

Name of round: Snake Humour

My task this round is as follows

SEEKER: "The LumberJack Song". Best lyric? "I cut down trees, I wear high heels. Suspendies and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear Mama." Write about a transgender character.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created. It's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

Thanks to my team for betaing!

WARNING: Gender dysphoria, angst

A Room of One's Own

Words: 1,015

"I cut down trees, I wear high heels. Suspendies and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear Mama." ~ Monty Python

"George Weasley," Hermione said pointedly, "I cannot just make you Polyjuice Potion as and when you see fit. And no, I don't care that it's for a prank on Fred." She paused, narrowing her eyes at one-half of the Weasley twins in front of her. "Actually, I do care that it's for a prank. What makes you think I would help you with a prank? Especially against the likes of Fred Weasley, who would only retaliate against me. Or have you forgotten the time he tricked me into eating a Halitosis Hotdog after I brewed the Babbling Beverage Ron slipped him?"

"'Mione," George started, the pain in his voice catching her off guard, even if it didn't surprise her completely. There was a reason why she was called the brightest witch of her age. She was just waiting for George to take that final step and finally tell her. "It isn't–it isn't for a prank." He bit his lip to keep it from quivering, cursing himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him. His cheeks lit up a bright red that he was sure rivaled his trademark Weasley hair. "Please."

Hermione aimed a quizzical look at him. "You won't be using this potion on anyone else?" she asked, a question the two of them both knew the answer to.

"No," he said. He raised his right hand to his heart, a smirk now pulling up the corner of his lips. "I solemnly swear that this potion will be used on myself, and myself only." He winked at her, the cheeky attitude she was used to seeing covering up his earlier vulnerability. "Unless you'd like to help me pick a victim?"

Hermione swatted him on the arm. "Oh, stop it, you! I'll make your potion, but only because I've finished all of this week's assignments."

"All of this week's assignments?" He blanched. "It's Monday." It was no secret Hermione liked to work ahead, but even this seemed a little obsessive to the slightly-taller Weasley twin.

She waved at him dismissively. "I can have your potion ready by tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow?" The Polyjuice Potion was known for its difficulty. It took almost an entire month to brew, he knew–not that he had ever done it himself. Maybe he should learn?

She gave him a soft smile. "I only asked if it was for a prank to be safe. You're still you." She placed a hand over his. "I figured you'd come asking for some. The same diluted recipe?" she asked. He nodded silently. "You understand that it won't change you completely?"

George swallowed the lump in his throat. "I know, 'Mione."

Hermione smiled. "Then I will meet you in the second-floor girls' bathroom tomorrow night."

The next day, when George told his brother he couldn't meet with him to put a self-inflating Hawaiian island in the corridor outside the Great Hall, Fred assumed he was meeting with a girl. It hadn't been a firm plan, after all, just an idea they'd been toying around with.

"Oi, Georgey!" Fred called after him. "You'll tell me who this bird is, yeah?" He couldn't keep the hurt expression hidden from his own twin. "We don't keep things from each other," he reminded his brother. The light tone in his voice was convincing enough to pass off as a joke to a passerby, but George's heart clenched when he heard it.

"Yeah," he said sadly. "We don't keep things from each other." He turned back up the corridor towards the moving staircases.

Hermione wasn't waiting for him when he arrived in the dingy bathroom, she never was. Instead, she'd left the Polyjuice Potion on top of one of the sinks with a note written in her usual straight and even script.

I'm here when you want to talk. There are enough 12-hour doses of Polyjuice to last you the next 14 days (or whenever you decide to take them).

With the potion vials tucked safely in his robe, George went to the only place he could truly be alone, be himself. Be herself.

Once, twice, three times George walked past the deserted hallway on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, to find just what he needed.

He had asked the room to be alone, to give him a place he could be safe—a place he could be himself—and the room gave him a carbon copy of the Gryffindor Common Room. George walked into the room slowly, taking in every detail. A bundle of coats hung over one of the chairs, unfinished scrolls littered the study tables, a pair of slippers lay by one of the maroon couches.

He didn't realize he was crying until he sat in front of the fire, sinking into the cushions of the worn couch, still warm as if someone had been occupying it before him. He uncapped one of the vials in his hand and placed it to his lips. The effects of the potion were immediate. The diluted recipe didn't taste nearly as disgusting but still didn't go down easily. He welcomed his slight coughing reaction nonetheless. He didn't need to look at himself to know what had changed. Hermione was, after all, the Brightest Witch of her Age. She knew exactly what George needed, even though he had never told her. Maybe someday he would. Maybe someday he would be strong enough to do it.

His limbs shrank slightly, the muscles in them becoming slim and toned. His red hair lengthed into gentle waves until it hung down just past his shoulders. His hard pecs grew into soft, subtle breasts. He—she—felt comfortable for the first time in a long time.

Seated in the copy of the Gryffindor Common Room that the Room of Requirement had gifted him, George Weasley was blissfully and terrifyingly aware of one thing, although she had asked for it, she did not want to be alone anymore.