Harry's request almost made Theodore choke.
…Oh no. Don't tell me Harry's about to go full "proper English gentleman" via cross-dressing.
Would Dumbledore come after me for this?
Wait—Dumbledore's hardly spotless himself. Right. We're fine.
Still, the thought of Harry becoming a dedicated dress-up aficionado made Theodore's scalp tingle.
This isn't the Hogwarts vibe, mate!
"Harry, we're ages away from Potions. We don't need to, right now, do we…?
"You—you haven't become addicted to dressing up, have you?"
Harry flailed, face flushing scarlet as he coughed. "Of course not! Theodore—what are you even thinking!"
Under Theo's doubtful stare, Harry carefully pulled out an old photograph.
In it, a girl with his exact emerald eyes smiled at the camera, a Head Girl badge gleaming at her chest.
Harry held the photo like a treasure. "Seamus found this while polishing the trophy room. Theo, this is my mum when she was at school—she was Head Girl! That's an even bigger deal than a prefect."
In the picture, Lily Evans gave Harry a soft, knowing smile and blinked.
Harry took off his glasses and used his sleeve to wipe away the tears before they could drip onto the photograph. He looked up, pleading.
"Theo, when I've got makeup on and look in the mirror, it feels like I'm closer to Mum. Like she never left.
"Don't worry—just one week. I only need your help for a week."
Theo exhaled. "One week? That's fine."
Just a week of "Harry" wasn't going to warp the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
Then Harry brightened. "After a week I'll definitely be able to do it myself. I borrowed a stack of makeup books from upper-year girls!"
Theodore covered his face.
…Great. Spoke too soon.
"Stunned" also described Professor McGonagall's reaction in Transfiguration the next day when she saw Harry.
For one heartbeat, her memories scrambled—Lily, alive, standing there again.
Then she caught herself, and her face went iron-blue.
Merlin's beard—that's Harry Potter! At his age, how has he picked up this odd hobby? If I don't correct this immediately, how could I face Lily and James?
"Harry Potter," McGonagall said, crisp as a snapped wand, "what is this attire?
"Since when did I permit makeup in my classroom?
"Take it off. Now."
Harry blinked innocently, watery green eyes fluttering.
"But Professor, you never forbade makeup.
"And besides, most of this face and clothing are done with Transfiguration. Don't you always say we should apply what we learn?"
McGonagall's brows drew together—then Harry murmured, just loud enough:
"Also… at least I'm still the same species. If we're talking first-day demonstrations, what form did you arrive in again…?"
McGonagall's pupils constricted. "Harry Potter! Class is about to begin. Find a seat. Now."
Once he sat, guilt pricked at her.
Lily, James… I'm sorry. The boy's got an awkward bit of leverage on me. I can't fix this. Let another professor pull him back onto the 'proper path.'
Her distraction lingered all lesson—yet to her surprise, the Gryffindor first-years had clearly improved since last time. Even Neville teased a change out of his matchstick. That alone exceeded her expectations.
Most startling of all: Harry.
His Transfiguration was the closest to Hermione's of the lot, and his homework showed obvious extra care.
Plainly, to secure his right to attend in "Harry mode", Harry hadn't just studied cosmetics—he'd also raised his academic game, leaving no angle for a professor to ban him on grounds of "harming his studies."
By the bell, McGonagall still had no solution. She sighed inwardly and pinned her hopes on another class.
Herbology and History of Magic offered no resistance.
Professor Binns, long past caring about appearances (or much of anything), had seen every oddity under the sun—and under no clothes. In his early teaching years, wizards wore far stranger things. Silk stockings and heels for men had been standard. Harry's "retro" look even earned Gryffindor a rare +1.
Professor Sprout simply smiled, complimenting Harry's get-up as "quite pretty," a touch of nostalgia in her eyes. Lily Evans had been a Potions prodigy; they'd crossed paths often in the greenhouses to swap notes on plants and draughts. With Harry before her, it felt like Lily had returned for a moment. Kind-hearted Sprout understood more than she said—and said nothing against it.
By day's end, things had gone smoother than Harry expected.
"I thought we'd be docked a basketful of points today! What's the last class, again?"
"Theo" drawled, "Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Harry grinned. "Professor Quirrell stammers and shrinks from everything; he won't nitpick student outfits. And he's the one who wears that giant scarf and reeks of garlic. He'll understand."
Theo's mouth twitched. He struggled to picture Voldemort's mental state when Harry walked in.
In truth, when they entered the DADA classroom, both Quirrell and the passenger at the back of his head were reeling. Since last Friday, they'd now seen Harry Potter in a dress twice.
What is wrong with Hogwarts' education?
Old Bumblebee, what kind of Headmaster are you? You've had the boy for one week and turned him into… this?!
Voldemort finally snapped, roaring inside Quirrell's skull:
"I've had enough! Quirrell, stop telling those idiotic stories about witches and vampires—show some real skill. Teach Harry Potter proper Defence Against the Dark Arts, at once!"
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