Advisory Warning: Be aware that the latter portion of this chapter contains disturbing and potentially triggering content, including depictions of sexual violence, intersex related issues, abuse and hints of a psychological break. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please take care of your mental and emotional well-being. If this material may be harmful for you, you are encouraged to skip this section or proceed with caution.
#??? POV#
#On the same day as the Family Prank War#
I awoke with startling bang, knees cramped and aching, a groan slipping from my lips. I shifted my pillow over my head, hoping it might muffle the noise.
It didn't.
They were just as loud and obnoxious as every other morning. For the last ten years.
"What would you like for breakfast, Dudley?" Aunt Petunia's voice rang from what I assumed was the kitchen. Loud and overly sweet, like syrup with a bite of vinegar.
"Chocolate pancakes! Lots of 'em, Mother!" Dudley's voice answered from upstairs, thunderous footsteps creaking the floorboards with every heavy step.
I threw my pillow across the room—or, more accurately, across the cramped space I was forced to call a "room." I saw it smack against the wall just past my feet, then fall awkwardly right back onto my mattress like even it didn't want to leave.
I groaned again and sat up, resigned. What would it take for a girl to get any sleep around here?
The answer: something short of a miracle.
Already accepting there was no hope of drifting off again, I reached around in the dark. My fingers finally found the frayed string, and with a tug, a soft light buzzed to life overhead. I squinted into the gloom as it flickered once, then steadied.
Turning, I blindly patted the small assortment of shelves behind me until my hand wrapped around my glasses and scrunchie. I slid the glasses on, blinking through the smudged lenses, then began to tie my long hair back. The strands resisted a little, as usual, but I got them up with minimal struggle.
With my hair up and vision clear, I took a long, slow look around.
The walls were the same. Bare. Yet filled with clutter. Only some of which were my belongings. It was Cramped. And Oppressive.
But something about today felt different. Something tugged at my chest. A shift. A pull in my bones like something was about to change. Whether that was good or bad?
Well… I guess we'd see.
Turning a bit, I grabbed the red apple I'd stolen from the kitchen a few days ago. Still glossy, still ripe. Breakfast.
I tossed the covers off with a sigh and took a bite, ignoring the warm, buttery scent of pancakes wafting through the floorboards. They'd never offer me any—hadn't in ten years. That smell was a cruel reminder of what I was never allowed to have.
I shifted through my small stack of belongings, grabbing my school gown, a fresh pair of E-sized brassiere, and knickers that fit tighter than a secret you weren't supposed to keep.
With the kind of practiced precision only desperation can teach, I pulled off my oversized shirt—one clearly meant for a boy twice my size—and peeled off my faded mini shorts—nothing else needed removing. I preferred some breathing room when it came to my body. It took under a minute, even in the tight space. You learn the dance when the room barely fits your limbs. Flexibility wasn't optional. It was survival.
I slipped into my uniform, tugging each piece into place. Neat. Straight. Presentable. Or at least close enough to fake it. Today would be no different.
I quickly folded and stashed away my sleepwear, swiped on some deodorant, grabbed my school bag, and twisted the knob beside me. Crawling out from under the cupboard I'd been forced to call a room.
And honestly? It was the closest thing to home I had here.
I quietly closed the tiny cupboard door behind me and stepped into the kitchen. Aunt Petunia didn't acknowledge me—no words, no glance—but I saw the tight curl of her lip as she stirred the pan. She knew I was there.
I always made her face twist like that.
The stairs groaned under the weight of my cousin Dudley and Uncle Vernon as they made their way down, their thunderous arrival as obnoxious as ever. The moment Vernon laid eyes on me, I saw it—disapproval, disgust. Like just existing in his line of sight was an offense.
I gave the smallest wave I could muster, polite to a fault. "Harriet, go make yourself useful and fix me and Dudley's plates!" he barked, voice rough and loud.
I nodded, keeping my head down. "Yes, sir," I said softly.
Without another word, I grabbed the forks, knives, and plates, setting the table with silent efficiency. This was my life: the servant to my own blood. From the moment I could walk, they made it clear—I was never meant to be anything but their burden. They gave Dudley everything. An extra room. Toys. Parties. Praise.
Me? I got the cupboard.
They never celebrated my birthday. Never gave me a single gift for Christmas. Never told me they were proud. I was just... there. And if I were to think like them, well, why not squeeze what you can out of something you're forced to keep? Right?
I stood and watched them eat. Dudley mocked me between bites, and Vernon tossed more orders my way between bragging about some maybe-promotion I tuned out halfway through.
Eventually, finally, the routine ended. I grabbed my bag, slipped on my shoes, and walked out the front door, down the steps, and into the neighborhood.
The wind was cool. The sun was dull behind gray clouds. Just another normal day. Just more of the same.
What I didn't realize, as I made my way to school…
Was that my day—My week—My life—
Was about to get a whole lot worse.
…
I sat aimlessly through my first three classes, eyes drifting toward the chalkboard but never really seeing it. My thoughts, as always, wandered back to my parents.
Vernon always said they died in a car accident. But it was how he said it. After years of listening to his lies and enduring his contempt, I could tell—something about it didn't sit right. There was no grief in his voice. No detail. No respect. Just a sharp dismissal, like even talking about them was a chore.
Still, I held onto them in my heart, wherever they were. I didn't need the full truth to know one thing: I loved them. I always would.
The school bell rang, sharp and hollow. I gathered my things as the other students stood, talking and laughing in their little groups. No one looked directly at me—just sideways glances, whispering behind their hands like I didn't notice. But I did.
My maths teacher kept her head down, as she always did. Never a word about the bullying. Never a moment of concern. The rumors, the isolation—it wasn't new. I didn't expect her to say anything.
I ignored her, same as she ignored me, and walked out toward the school gym, my shoes echoing faintly against the worn-out linoleum.
As I passed the hallway, I let my fingers brush along the cold, cracked tile of the wall—one of those tiny motions you do when you're trying to remind yourself you're still here.
Dudley and I went to different schools. They drove him to his elite private academy every morning. Me? I walked. My school wasn't far, just a few blocks—but the difference between our worlds was more than just distance.
You'd think, with the Dursleys living in such a polished neighborhood, that my school would be decent. Safe. Clean.
You'd be wrong.
My school teetered on the edge of being condemned by modern standards. The ceilings leaked when it rained, the heaters barely worked in winter, and the budget cuts showed in every cracked tile and every faded poster on the walls. The gym smelled like sweat from a decade ago, and the lockers rattled even when shut.
It was barely a place to learn, let alone feel safe.
But it was my reality.
And for now, it was all I had.
As I entered the gym, the air hit me like a wall—thick, stale, and humid with the scent of decade-old sweat that seemed embedded in the walls. It was the same as always. Too familiar.
Boys and girls filed in together, laughing, whispering, gossiping like it was just another day. Like sharing a changing space was totally normal.
It wasn't.
The school used to have two changing rooms—one for the boys and one for the girls. But years ago, they'd turned the boys' into a restroom. Budget cuts came fast and hard, and the money for a new facility never arrived. So they stuck a single curtain down the middle of one room and called it good enough.
One curtain.
And an old gym coach who was supposed to supervise and make sure no one peeked. He tried. Kind of. But his focus faded more with every year, and honestly… I doubted he even saw most of what happened anymore.
I followed the others in, keeping my head low and my steps quiet—always making sure I stayed behind the group. Not because I was shy. But because I had to. Because if I didn't time it right—if I wasn't careful enough—they might see.
And if they saw…
Well, I didn't want to live through that. Ever!
But I had avoided that disaster for so long, I'd almost convinced myself I could keep dodging it forever. If there was one thing I could give my aunt credit for, it was her ability to keep a secret—even from her own husband. Not that she did it out of kindness. If there was any compassion in her, it was rationed out in crumbs, and I'd gotten barely a taste.
Still, it kept me safe. Or at least… unseen.
I walked calmly toward the girls' side of the changing room, forcing my face to stay blank, my pace casual. Behind the curtain, boys and girls laughed and talked like the whole setup wasn't insane—like this was normal.
Some of the bolder girls would stick their bare legs under the curtain just far enough for the boys to catch a glimpse. The boys would whistle—or gag in exaggerated disgust—before the girls pulled their legs back with mischievous giggles, all innocence when the coach finally glanced over, grumbling some half-hearted warning.
I paid it no mind.
I made my way to the same corner I always used—the one where a few old lockers leaned sideways, their hinges busted just enough to give me a sliver of privacy. I slipped behind them quietly. Almost ritualistically.
My hands moved fast, but not frantic. Not rushed. Just… efficient. Careful. I knew the rhythm by heart now.
I pulled off my school uniform one piece at a time, folding it neatly as if the order might offer comfort. Then I slipped on the gym clothes, tugging the elastic waistband of the shorts a little higher, adjusting until I felt… hidden. Or as hidden as I could get.
I tried not to look down.
Tried not to think about the tightness in my knickers, the way it reminded me—constantly—that I didn't fit into the body people expected. That I didn't fit… anywhere.
So I swallowed it down like always.
And pretended, like always.
As I picked up my bag and bundled clothes, I stepped away from my little safe crevice—the one place in this shark pit that felt remotely mine. I moved calmly toward my locker, slipping in between two girls adjusting their sports bras. Neither looked my way, and I preferred it that way. The less attention, the better.
Once we were all changed, the gym coach—Coach Halley, a woman with a voice like gravel and no patience for nonsense—blew her whistle and clapped her hands like we were some unmotivated herd of sheep.
"Alright, listen up!" she barked. "If you're new, pay attention. Just like every other day, when I call your name, you say, here! Got it?!"
This was one of the rare times I felt something weirdly close to unity with everyone around me. Boy, girl, tall, short, mean, quiet—we were all equally bored. Equally unimpressed.
"Yes, ma'am!" we all muttered at slightly offbeat times, a clumsy chorus. I could hear some people snicker quietly at her theatrics.
"Good," Coach Halley huffed. "Alright. Alphabetical order. We'll start with—"
And that was the moment I let myself zone out.
The names blurred into a dull drone. I stared past her, past the gym walls, past the flickering light overhead, letting the moment stretch long enough to forget where I was. Or maybe just who I was.
For just a second.
I wondered if anyone could tell.
If anyone had noticed the careful way I walked. The way I always kept my gym shorts just a little higher on the hips, a little more forward in the front. If anyone saw what I had spent years learning to hide. Something I didn't ask for, something I didn't even fully understand—just that it made me different in a way that made people cruel. And curious. And dangerous.
It had to stay still. Soft. Hidden.
Always.
In the morning, before I opened my eyes. During the day, as I sat still and silent. At night, when the world finally let me breathe. I lived every second keeping that secret buried beneath layers of silence and self-control.
And just as the familiar spiral of fear and what-ifs began to choke me, the coach's voice cut through it all like a slap across the face.
"Harriet Rose Potter! Are you here?!"
My stomach clenched. My eyes darted forward. All at once, the noise of the gym came rushing back—the shuffles of sneakers, the giggles, the heavy breath of still air. I swallowed hard.
"Here," I said, my voice barely a whisper—then louder, trying to sound more normal. "Here!"
Coach Halley gave a small grunt of acknowledgment and moved on.
The girls beside me didn't say a word. Didn't look. Maybe they hadn't noticed. Or maybe they had, and they just didn't care.
Either way... I was still standing.
For now.
…
Once the names were called, Coach had us run warm-up laps around the gym. Then came the usual: push-ups, sit-ups—anything to wake up muscles that most of us hadn't used since the last time we were forced to.
I didn't need my blood pumping, though. I was already on edge.
As we jogged, I subtly tugged my shorts higher on my waist, stretching them just enough to make sure nothing looked off. It had to be flat. Still. Invisible.
During push-ups, I angled my hips downward a bit more than the others—subtle, but necessary. During sit-ups, I kept my shirt tugged low, trying to keep any shifting fabric from revealing more than it should.
Every movement was a calculation.
Every breath, a silent prayer: Please. Not now. Not here.
Finally, after what felt like hours in my body's personal war zone, the coach blew her whistle.
"Alright," she called, voice echoing through the gym. "Rest of class is free time. Head outside, enjoy the sun. Move your legs, not your mouths!"
A few kids cheered. Most grumbled. I stayed quiet, adjusting my bra strap over my shoulder, not wanting my nipples to be exposed eithier. I couldn't help but think, if I could be born with bigger breasts than most girls my age. Then why was I born with this… thing. I shook myself out of my thoughts, as I made my way toward the back doors.
Outside meant open air. Space. A break from eyes, even if only slightly.
But it also meant anything could happen.
And lately, I'd learned that anything never seemed to mean anything good.
I walked outside.
The sun barely peeked through a patchy sky, clouds hanging like curtains—parted, but not welcoming. The air was thick, humid. The kind that clung to your skin and made your clothes feel too close, too heavy. The grass was uneven, freshly cut in patches and wild in others, like the school had given up halfway through.
I made my way to a bench tucked near the edge of the field and sat down, my fingers clutching the hem of my shirt like it was my lifeline. I played it off—pretended to fidget with it out of habit. But really, I was checking, adjusting, making sure everything underneath stayed hidden, stayed safe.
The sweat gathering on my skin, the weight of the humidity—it made me nervous. Moisture could betray me. So could fabric.
From the corner of my eye, I watched the other kids—boys and girls—gathering, picking teams for soccer. Laughing, shoving each other, calling out names. So casual. So careless. So free.
I couldn't help the thought that always crept up at times like these.
What if I wasn't born this way?
What if I hadn't been born with both? What if there wasn't this part of me that I constantly had to hide? Maybe—just maybe—I'd be out there playing too. Running, laughing, tripping in the mud with everyone else instead of hiding behind a fake fidget and tight fabric.
Sure, life at the Dursleys' was hell. That wouldn't change.
But maybe… maybe my life here—at least this part—could've been different.
Maybe I could've felt normal.
Just once.
But that was a fantasy.
This was reality. A reality built on facts. And the fact is—that was never going to happen. My life wasn't a hypothetical.
The fact is, I'm a freak. A mistake of nature. A deformed, faulty set of genes. And nothing was ever going to change that.
"Hey, new kid, show us what you got!" someone shouted across the field.
I looked up, shocked out of my spiraling thoughts.
One of the new students—tallish, lean, probably transferred in a week or so ago—stood awkwardly at the edge of the group. A few of the other boys were egging him on, shoving him a little, laughing as they passed the ball his way. His eyes flicked around like he wasn't sure if this was some kind of setup, like he was waiting for the punchline. His hands twitched at his sides before he took a small breath and stepped forward.
The ball rolled toward him, and his foot met it like muscle memory had finally taken over. He kicked it forward and started running, his body tense at first, his shoulders drawn in like he still wasn't sure he had the right to be doing this. But the second he got past the first defender, something changed. His movements smoothed out. The stiffness fell away. It was like his body remembered what it meant to be confident, even if his brain hadn't caught up yet.
Another kid ran at him, trying to block him off, but the new guy didn't even slow down. He leaned in, checked the guy with his shoulder, and flicked the ball around him in one fluid move. His footwork was sharp—too sharp for someone trying to stay unnoticed. It was like something inside him had snapped free. And the others noticed.
"Go, new kid, go!" someone shouted."Let's go! Don't stop!" another yelled, louder this time.
More voices joined in, cheering, clapping, laughing—not cruelly, but excited. The crowd shifted from watching with amusement to actually rooting for him. Like he'd just earned a place without even meaning to.
He pushed forward, passed another defender, and locked eyes with the goalie. There was a split second where everything seemed to hold still. Then he kicked. Hard. Clean. The ball soared right past the goalie's hands and slammed into the net.
Point.
The field erupted.
Cheers, shouts, whoops of celebration. A few kids ran up to slap his back, laughing, calling out things like "That was sick!" and "Dude, where'd you learn that?" The new kid looked stunned—like he hadn't expected it to work. Like part of him still wasn't convinced they were talking to him. But they were. They were.
And I just sat there. Watching from the sidelines.
The way his face lit up, the way people gathered around him like he was someone. Like he mattered. Like he belonged. It hurt in a way I couldn't even begin to explain. He had been here five minutes, and already they saw him. Heard him. Cheered for him.
Me? I'd been here my whole life, and I was still a shadow.
My chest ached—not with jealousy, but with something deeper. Something hollow. It wasn't that I wanted what he had. I just wanted to know what it felt like. Even once.
And then, as if my body couldn't stand to let me have even that thought—
It happened.
A slow, creeping pressure in my gym shorts. That awful tightness. I looked down to see a bulge. My stomach turned. I dropped my hands into my lap and tried to act casual, but the panic was already clawing at my throat. I crossed my legs. Shifted. Pressed my thighs together. Prayed no one was looking.
It wasn't desire. It wasn't attraction. It was stress. Shame. The raw, unbearable tension of being trapped in a body that didn't listen. Didn't care what I wanted.
Please. Not now. Not here.
I leaned forward slightly, arms tightening around my waist. I could hear the laughter still echoing from the field. The new kid beaming like he'd just been handed a crown. Everyone was still watching him.
And for once, I was grateful to be invisible.
As soon as the bulge faded and that extra appendage—this thing I wished I'd never been born with—was soft again, I let out a shaky breath. My muscles unclenched. I reached down and tugged at my gym shorts, stretching them out, trying to erase any sign it had ever happened.
I checked quickly, pressing my fingers against the front of the fabric. No stain. Then, more cautiously, I shifted my weight and checked underneath—I didn't feel wet— but just to be sure. Nothing under the coin purse, either. Thank god.
I stood from the bench, brushing my hands against my thighs like it would shake off the embarrassment that still clung to me. I walked slowly, not back toward the gym or the field, but toward the edge of the yard where an old tree cast a slice of shade. The sun was warm, but the air still felt thick, sticky with humidity and leftover tension.
I sat down under the tree, hugging one knee to my chest as I looked out at them in the distance. The kids on the field. The new boy, still surrounded by laughter and praise. The way they slapped him on the back, the way he smiled like he was finally seen.
I wondered if I would ever be celebrated like that. Appreciated like that. Loved like that.
But I already knew the answer.
No one—Not a man.Not a woman.Could ever love a freak like me.
Tears began to gather at the corners of my eyes. I blinked fast, tried to fight it, tried to will them away—but I couldn't. They came anyway.
Why couldn't I have just been a normal girl?
I buried my face in my arms, letting it out in soft, controlled sobs. Nothing loud. Nothing noticeable. Just quiet grief, leaking out like water from a crack too deep to patch.
The breeze picked up around me, gentle but constant. It tugged at my hair, lifting the loose curls into the air like they wanted to fly away—like maybe they could escape, even if I couldn't.
Crunch.
The sound of a footstep on dry grass. My whole body stiffened.
I wiped my face quickly, palms brushing away the tears in sharp, practiced motions. Checked my shirt. Adjusted my bra strap. Tugged the hem of my shorts just enough to make sure everything was where it should be. No wet spots. No bulge. No weakness.
By the time I looked up, my face was blank.
A figure was walking toward me—slow, casual. I recognized him immediately.
"Hey," the new guy said, tilting his head slightly. "What are you doing all the way over here?"
I hesitated. Looked away. My eyes stung a little, and I wasn't sure if I'd gotten all the redness out. I didn't answer him right away.
The new guy stood a few feet away, his shadow stretching just enough to graze the edge of mine. He waited, not pushing, not looking impatient—just standing there like… like he actually cared.
"I just needed some air," I finally muttered, my voice tight and small. "Crowds aren't really my thing."
He nodded slowly, glancing back toward the field. The sun had started dipping behind thin clouds, casting a soft, gold haze over everything. The breeze picked up again, fluttering at the hem of my shirt. It made the grass whisper and the trees sway, bending just slightly under the weight of the wind.
"Yeah," he said. "It gets loud out there. Everyone trying to one-up each other. You'd think we were playing for a trophy or something." He laughed, just a small sound, warm and real.
I didn't respond right away. I was too busy watching the others in the distance. They were starting to drift—some sitting on the bleachers, others pulling out their phones or tossing the ball lazily between smaller groups. I could hear bits and pieces of their conversations float in on the wind.
"Did you see that move?""Bro, I swear he used to play for a club.""I'm gonna ask if he wants to try out for the team."
Their voices blurred, distant but sharp enough to remind me that I didn't belong in that world.
"So," he said after a moment, "what's your name?"
My throat tightened. I hated saying it. Not because it was a bad name, but because I never knew how it landed.
"…Harriet," I said finally, keeping my eyes low.
"Harriet," he repeated, then gave a small smile. "I like that."
I glanced at him, uncertain. "What's yours?"
"Ezra."
Ezra. It suited him somehow—simple, soft-spoken, but steady.
He looked at me for a long second. Not in a weird way, not like he was trying to figure me out or judge me. Just… present.
"Hey," he said, kneeling down a little so we were eye-level. "You okay?"
That question.
I almost said yes. The lie was right there on the tip of my tongue, ready to be served like always.
But something in his tone made me pause. It wasn't forced or pitying. It was just—genuine.
"I don't know," I whispered. "But I think I am right now."
Ezra's smile widened, just a little, like that answer was good enough.
He stood back up and looked toward the field, then back at me. "You wanna kick the ball around? Just the two of us? No rules. No teams."
My stomach flipped. "I… I'm not good at soccer."
"That's perfect," he said with a grin. "Neither am I."
He held out a hand, and for a second I just stared at it, unsure. But then I took it.
I stood carefully, making sure my shorts sat just right, checking the waistband with a discreet tug and feeling for the press of the coin purse. Everything was still where it needed to be. Still flat. Still safe. I walked with tight steps, cautious and quiet, heart pounding—not from excitement, but fear. Fear of shifting. Of showing. Of being seen.
We moved to a quieter spot, away from the main group, where a forgotten ball sat near the fence. Ezra jogged over, picked it up, and rolled it toward me.
I stopped it with the side of my foot, glancing up at him.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded, more nervous than I wanted to admit.
We started slow. Passing it back and forth, small kicks, nothing intense. Ezra kept it light, never pressuring, never pushing me to run or chase. Just letting the rhythm happen naturally.
With each kick, I felt myself relax a little. The sky had turned soft and dusky, the clouds catching faint streaks of pink and orange. I could still hear the others laughing in the distance, but it was background noise now—faint and harmless.
I adjusted my stance often, always checking myself. I kept my legs closer together when I ran. I bent forward more when I kicked, letting my shirt fall loose. Every movement was a calculation. But Ezra didn't stare. He didn't even glance down. He just smiled every time the ball rolled his way and kicked it gently back.
"So, Harriet," he said after a few minutes, "you always hide out under trees, or is today special?"
I smirked. "Only when I need to disappear."
"Hmm. That's funny," he said, pausing to trap the ball under his foot. "Because I'm pretty sure you're the only person I've actually noticed today."
I blinked. My heart caught somewhere between my ribs.
"I mean it," he added, softer now. "You looked like… like you weren't pretending. Everyone else out here's trying so hard to be seen, they forget how to be real."
I didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever said something like that to me before. No one had ever made me feel like maybe being invisible wasn't the worst thing in the world.
We passed the ball a few more times, the sun sinking lower behind the clouds. My chest still felt tight, but it wasn't the same kind of tightness as before.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt… seen. Not exposed. Not judged. Just—seen.
And maybe, just maybe… I didn't feel completely alone anymore.
We kept passing the ball, slow and steady. The wind had settled into something soft, brushing against my skin like a breath. The distant sounds of the others were still there—laughter, shouting, the occasional squeak of sneakers—but here in our corner, it felt quiet. Private.
Ezra passed the ball to me and smiled again, softer this time.
"You know," he said, "you've got this look in your eyes. Like you're always watching the world instead of being in it."
I looked away, a little embarrassed. "Maybe I am."
"That's not a bad thing," he added quickly. "You see more that way. You feel more."
I gave a small shrug. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."
He didn't laugh or make a joke. He just stood there, shifting his weight, watching me like he actually understood what I meant. Then, gently, he asked, "Do you feel alone a lot?"
I nodded.
He passed the ball back. "You don't have to right now."
That's when something cracked. Just a little.
Not in a bad way. But in that way a dam gives—just enough for something warm to leak through. I looked at him, really looked. And he wasn't mocking me. He wasn't trying to fix me. He was just there.
I gave the ball a soft kick, and it curved toward him, just slightly off. He stepped in to catch it, but stumbled a bit. We both laughed.
When I looked at him again, he was already smiling.
"I'm glad I came over," he said.
Before I could say anything back—
"Ezra!"
A shout cut through the moment. We both turned to see a few of the kids from earlier walking toward us. Three boys, one girl. All wearing the same kind of swagger—the kind that made your stomach twist even before they opened their mouths.
"What are you doing way over here?" one of the boys called out. "Thought we lost you to the forest gremlin."
They all laughed.
My face flushed. Ezra looked back at me, visibly uncomfortable.
"She's weird, dude," the girl added, loud enough for it to sting. "Like, creepy quiet. You seriously hanging out with her?"
Ezra opened his mouth, hesitated, then turned halfway toward them. "She's just a friend," he said. "That's all."
A simple sentence. But somehow it still felt like a line being drawn in the dirt.
I didn't say anything. I didn't move. Just stood there, trying to keep my expression flat as the others reached him.
One of the boys clapped him on the back. "C'mon, you can hang out with your new fan club later."
They started pulling him away, already shifting the attention back to themselves, already laughing at something else.
Ezra looked over his shoulder one last time. Our eyes met.
"I'll see you around, Harriet," he said, quiet now. "I mean it."
And then he was gone.
Back with them. Back in their world.
And I was left standing under the dusky sky, the ball still resting at my feet, wondering if a moment like that would ever be mine to keep.
I stood there, frozen in place, long after they walked away. The breeze had picked up again, rustling through the leaves above me, sending a ripple through the grass. The ball sat at my feet, forgotten.
And then the thought hit me.
My stomach dropped.
My eyes darted down, my hands instantly going to the waistband of my gym shorts. I hadn't been paying attention. Not during that whole last part. Not when we laughed. Not when he looked at me like I mattered.
No—no, no, no.
I stepped back quickly, turning half away from the field and yanking my shirt down. My breath hitched as I felt along the front of my shorts, checking for any shift, any shape, anything that might've shown. My fingers trembled as I pressed against the fabric.
Still flat. Still soft. Still… hidden.
Thank god.
But the panic didn't fade right away. It never did. It clung to me like a shadow, cold and tight around my chest. What if I'd let my guard down? What if Ezra had noticed? What if the others had?
I pulled my arms around myself, shrinking inward, trying to press the anxiety back into my ribs where it belonged. The echo of their laughter still rang in my ears. The words. She's weird.Creepy quiet.
Freak.
My pulse thudded against the inside of my skull. I hated this body. Hated the way it tricked me into thinking I could be normal. For a few minutes, I'd let myself believe it. Let myself feel something good.
That's when the tears threatened again.
But this time… I didn't let them win.
I closed my eyes and took a long, slow breath. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again. And again. Until my shoulders loosened, and my heart stopped trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Ezra hadn't laughed at me. He hadn't looked at me like I was broken. He didn't ask questions. He didn't stare too long. And he didn't call me anything but my name.
He said I was real.
He said he was glad he came over.
And when they pulled him away, when he called me his friend—he looked back.
Not with pity. Not with disgust. With kindness.
Maybe… maybe I didn't mess it up.
Maybe I had actually made a friend.
And that possibility—just that small, fragile hope—was enough to let me sit down again. To pull my knees to my chest beneath the old tree and rest my chin against them.
The sun dipped lower, turning the clouds into soft gold and dusky rose.
For once, I didn't feel like I had to hide from the light.
If only I had known.
I sat there for a while longer, legs tucked close, just listening to the world. The breeze rustling through the trees. The distant sounds of sneakers scuffing against pavement. Laughter. Shouting. Whispers I couldn't make out.
It was all background noise now. Not loud enough to drown me, but not soft enough to forget.
For once, I didn't mind it.
Then, cutting through it all like a blade—
A loud, sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Gym class is over! Head back to the changing rooms and get to your next class!" Coach Halley's voice boomed across the field like a drill sergeant trying to control a pack of half-awake lions.
I flinched slightly at the volume, but I didn't move right away. I let the moment stretch for just a few more seconds—this tiny pocket of peace I'd found, brief as it was.
Then I stood, dusted the grass off my legs, checked my shorts one last time, and turned toward the locker rooms.
My heart was still beating fast, but not just from fear anymore.
Maybe, just maybe… I wouldn't have to face the rest of this life alone.
I watched as the rest of them moved toward the gym doors, laughing, shoving, still high off the game. Their lives looked so simple. So easy. Pleasant, even.
Not like mine.
But maybe—Maybe mine really could be like theirs.Maybe I wasn't so different after all.
I had a friend now.
That thought stayed with me, warm and strange, as we all gathered just outside the gym.
Like before, I waited until I was the last one coming in.
I stayed at the back of the group, head low, my footsteps quiet. No one noticed. No one ever did—not unless they were looking for a reason to.
As we reached the locker room, everyone automatically split to their side of the curtain—boys to one side, girls to the other. No one questioned it. No one looked back. Just another part of the day.
I made my way to the row of lockers, slipping through the aisle like a ghost. I grabbed my stuff—my worn-out uniform, my bag, my little bottle of deodorant with the cracked cap and half-faded lettering. Then I headed to my usual corner. The one where the lockers leaned just enough to give me a sliver of space, just enough to pretend I was alone. The one where the broken lockers leaned just enough to give me cover. My space. My spot. My illusion of privacy.
I glanced around once, just to be sure. Then I crouched down and began to change, hands moving with practiced speed.
Shirt first. Then shorts. Every motion quick, smooth, quiet. I didn't let my eyes drift. Didn't let my hands shake. I kept my breathing steady and my limbs tight as I adjusted my knickers and brassiere.
Because here… this was where mistakes happened. This was where slips turned into nightmares. Where mistakes became consequences. Where a wrinkle, a bulge, a slip of cloth could tear everything apart.
But I knew the routine. I knew how to vanish in plain sight. I knew how to hide. I knew how to survive. I knew how to vanish.
And today, I told myself… today, I had made it through.
If only I had known.
"Hey what's your name! We got a problem!"
I froze.
The voice came from behind me—soft, but sharp. Like it was meant to sound casual but carried something beneath it. Something cold.
I turned slowly, heart already pounding, breath stuck somewhere in my chest.
It was her.
The girl who'd dragged Ezra away.
She was standing there in nothing but her bra and panties, her arms loose at her sides, posture relaxed—too relaxed. Her eyes locked onto mine with the kind of stare that wasn't looking for an answer.
She already knew.
She was just waiting to see what I would do.
She looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was filth on the bottom of her shoe. Like I didn't even register as a person in the same room as her.
Dead to her.
I should've known then.
I should've known.
"Aren't you going to turn around and face me?" she asked, her voice laced with venom.
I didn't move.
My hands tightened around my shirt that was in my hand. My pulse thudded in my ears. I tried to keep my voice calm, to sound steady—even though everything inside me was unraveling, thread by thread.
"I'm changing," I said quietly, without looking at her. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" she repeated, like it was the most ridiculous thing I could've asked. "I want you to turn around and face me!"
Her footsteps closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Before I could even think, her hands were on my arms—tight, sharp fingers digging into my skin. And then—
She yanked me around.
I gasped.
Not because it hurt. Not physically.
But because this was my worst fear coming to life.
I stumbled as she twisted me toward her, the world spinning in a sickening blur. My hands went up towards my chest awkwardly as I blocked the sight of my bra, and then in a cold dark realization I realized I had already taken my shorts off. My body locked up in panic. I could feel the blood drain from my face, the sweat on my palms, the tight press of my coin purse still barely hidden beneath the fabric of my underwear.
Her eyes roamed over me like a scanner looking for faults.
And I knew—she was looking for something.
Not just to intimidate me.
But to expose me.
Her eyes went wide.
She'd found it.
She didn't say anything for a second—just stared. Her face twisted into something I couldn't even recognize. Shock. Disgust. Triumph.
Around us, the noise in the locker room began to shift. Movement. Whispers. Curious glances turning into full-on stares. Girls were starting to notice. Heads turned.
The only thing between me and the rest of the room… was her.
Then—like a rubber band snapping—
"What the hell are you?" she screamed, her voice sharp and echoing off the tiled walls.
My body froze.
My vision tunneled.
Before I could move, before I could even think, she grabbed me again—this time by my ankles—and yanked hard.
I hit the floor.
The cold, sharp slap of tile knocked the air from my lungs. My back arched in pain. My hands scrambled for the edge of the bench, for my shirt, for anything, but she was already reaching—pulling at my waistband, clawing to rip away what little I had left to hide.
"No—stop! Stop!" I cried out, voice cracking, but it didn't matter.
She was trying to undress me. Trying to pull my underwear down, to show everyone. To make sure they all saw. To leave me bare, exposed, humiliated.
They were watching.
All of them.
The crowd behind her was growing. Some were confused. Others were horrified. A few just stared in frozen silence.
And me?
I wasn't even sure I was still breathing.
I clutched at my waistband with one hand and reached for my shirt with the other, twisting, kicking, doing anything I could to stop her. But she was stronger. More determined. Her fingers clawed at my hips, her mouth twisted in rage.
This wasn't just bullying.
This was hate.
Pure, concentrated, disgusting hate.
And I had never felt more small. More helpless. More alone.
And then—like a rubber band stretched too far—it snapped.
With a single, vicious tug, she yanked my boxer panties down and off.
My breath hitched in my throat. Time stopped.
She stared—smirking, triumphant, eyes flashing with something twisted and cruel. Her face shifted from glee to disgust in a heartbeat, her upper lip curling as if just looking at me made her sick.
And then, with calculated, practiced motion, she reached up and, with two fingers and a flick of her wrist, tore my bra from my chest. As if I were just a costume she couldn't wait to tear away.
She didn't even look at me anymore.
She stepped back, fast, careful not to touch me more than she had to—as though I were contagious, like my body might stain her if she stayed too close.
And then… silence.
The kind that wraps around your ribs and squeezes.
She let them all see.
My breasts. My scars. My stomach. My hips. My thin waist. The signs of starvation and neglect. The thing I had spent my entire life hiding.
My penis.
My balls.
And my vagina.
She left me standing there with nothing.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Eyes. So many eyes. Staring. Gasping. Whispering.
The sound of feet shifting on the tile. Of someone stifling a laugh. Someone else whispering too loudly, "Oh my god—what is that?" Another voice said, "Is that real?" Another—"Is she even a girl?"
And another—"She has to be, can't you see the vagina?"
And even another—"You can, it's just hidden under her balls!"
I didn't hear them all. Not fully. They blurred together into a thick, choking fog.
I just stood there.
Naked.
Ruined.
Every inch of me exposed like a wound peeled open.
And in that moment, I wished the floor would swallow me whole.
My vision blurred. The tiles beneath my feet warped and stretched. Everything was spinning—voices bleeding into each other, all sharp edges and laughter and horror.
My body wasn't mine anymore. It was theirs.Their eyes.Their words.Their judgment.
They stripped me bare, and now they picked me apart, piece by piece, like I was an exhibit. A mistake on display.
I tried to move—tried to cover myself—but my limbs felt too heavy. My fingers were shaking too hard to hold anything. My chest felt like it was caving in. Every breath came shallow, ragged, useless.
I was disappearing.Not physically.But something inside me—something important—was vanishing.
"Hey what's going on over there girls?!" Somebody on the guys side of the curtain yelled out.
"Hey, what's going on over there, girls?!"
The voice rang louder this time, followed by the sound of shuffling sneakers and laughter. It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was anticipation. That awful, low excitement that came when boys thought something scandalous was happening.
"Did someone lose their towel or what?" another voice added, cracking up.
"Bet they're doing something hot. Let me see!"
A shadow moved behind the curtain. Then another. Some of them were getting closer.
The girls didn't stop it. None of them stepped in. A few were even laughing now—whispers bubbling up like poison. A couple had backed away from me, but not out of sympathy. They just didn't want to be associated. Like standing too close would somehow make them look bad, too.
My arms pulled tighter around my chest. My legs drew up. But I could feel it—the cold tile beneath me, the bare skin exposed to the open air, the damp weight of their stares pressing in.
I was still naked.
Still visible.
I wanted to disappear.
Someone on the boys' side whistled. "What's going on? You girls finally losing it over there?"
"Thought I heard someone scream."
Then a voice—too loud, too cruel:"Hey, is that Ezra's new girlfriend over there? Yo, tell him she's got more than he does!"
Laughter exploded behind the curtain.
I stopped breathing.
The tile beneath me blurred. Everything wobbled. My ears rang. My chest burned.
Ezra.
They knew.
They knew who I was now.
Not just the quiet girl. Not just the weird one. But the freak.
I heard another guy shout, "Let me see, man—move the curtain! Yo, move it!"
Footsteps. More laughter. A hand actually grabbed the curtain's edge.
And just as it started to shift—just as the veil between me and them threatened to fall away completely—
"BACK IT UP!"
Coach Halley's voice cracked like a whip through the air.
Silence slammed into the room like a fist.
Boots on tile. Fast. Furious. The curtain snapped back so violently it smacked against the wall.
"Are you out of your minds!?" she bellowed. "Everyone—step away!"
The boys behind the curtain scrambled. A few cursed under their breath. A couple even laughed again, but it sounded nervous now. Scared.
Coach Halley didn't waste a second. She turned to me.
She saw.
All of me.
Her face paled, just for a moment—eyes wide, lips parting like she couldn't believe what she was looking at. But then it shifted. Hardened. Fierce.
She yanked off her jacket and dropped to her knees beside me. She didn't ask. Didn't hesitate. She just draped it over me like a blanket and gently pulled it closed across my front.
Her voice softened. "It's okay. You're safe now."
But it wasn't.
Not yet.
Because I could still hear the laughter echoing in the back of my skull. Still feel the air on my bare skin. Still see the faces twisted with confusion and cruelty and disgust.
Still feel… broken.
The world blurred in and out.
Voices swam through static. Distant. Hollow. Like they were happening underwater.
I didn't remember standing. Didn't remember walking. I didn't remember pulling the jacket tighter around me or the feel of the towel someone wrapped over my lap. I barely remembered the hallway. Just flashes—white walls, fluorescent lights, the sound of a door opening.
Then silence.
The kind that wasn't comforting.The kind that felt too clean.
I was sitting now. On a vinyl bed in the nurse's office. The jacket still clung to my shoulders, but someone had given me a soft blanket, too. Pale blue. It smelled faintly like laundry detergent and antiseptic.
I didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just… sat there.
My arms were locked around my knees, pulled tight against my chest. My forehead rested just above them, eyes fixed on the same spot on the floor. A single crack in the tile. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
I watched it like it was the only thing holding me to the earth.
My body was still shaking. Small tremors. Faint, but constant. My fingers wouldn't unclench. My toes kept curling.
The nurse had said something earlier. Something kind, I think. I don't remember what. I didn't answer.
And then the tears came.
Quiet. Slow. Not the kind you can hear—just the steady, warm slide down both cheeks. I didn't sob. I didn't sniffle. I didn't make a sound. The crying was almost… mechanical. Like it was just what my body had decided to do on its own, now that there was no one left to stop it.
The room was cold. Or maybe I was just cold.
I wasn't sure anymore.
A soft knock at the door.
The nurse got up. Whispered something. Then the door opened wider.
I didn't lift my head.
I didn't have to.
I heard the voice. Sharp. Controlled. A little too loud for a quiet room.
"Where is she?"
Mrs. Petunia.
My aunt.
Her heels clicked against the tile like accusations. Her perfume—powdery and too sweet—hit my nose a second before her presence did.
She didn't say my name. She didn't rush to me. She didn't ask if I was okay.
She just stood there.
And I stayed where I was, curled up and shaking, tears still slipping down my face, as the reality of it all began to take shape around me.
This had happened.
Not a nightmare. Not a dream.
It happened.
And there was no going back.
…
The car ride home.
The first car ride home I'd ever had.
It was quiet. Tense. Awkward.
I didn't know if I was supposed to say something. I didn't want to. I couldn't find words even if I tried. The world outside the window blurred past, grey and sunless, like it couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or stay dry.
Everything still felt like a dream. A nightmare. I could barely remember the moments in between. All I really remembered was being handed my clothes—folded neatly, like that made it okay—and told to put them back on. My hands were still shaking as I pulled on the fabric, my limbs stiff and slow, like they didn't belong to me.
Someone gave me my school bag. I clutched it to my chest like a shield.
There were murmurs in the office—words passed between adults. Talk about punishment. About the "incident." But I wasn't part of the conversation. I was the subject. The thing that had happened.
I remember hearing that the girl might be suspended. Maybe. There was some talk about calling her parents. Maybe.
But then Petunia spoke up.
She stepped in. Smoothed her blouse. Smiled that awful, tight smile she used for saving face. And said it would be best if they just… warned them. Quietly. No reports. No notes home. Nothing in writing.
It would be a problem if anyone else found out.
And even worse—disastrous—if Uncle Vernon and Dudley did.
So they swept it under the rug.
Like dirt.Like me.
In the car, she gripped the steering wheel too tightly. Her knuckles white. Her jaw clenched. Her lips painted into a thin line. She didn't look at me. Didn't speak. Didn't even check if I'd buckled my seatbelt.
She just drove.
And in that car ride—our first car ride together—we both sat in that stiff silence, believing the same lie:
That at the very least, Vernon and Dudley wouldn't find out.
We thought the worst was over.
How wrong we were.
As the car came to a halt, we both stepped out quickly—too quickly, like staying in that shared silence a second longer might've made it real.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, the strap biting into the same spot on my collarbone where my bra had once been torn away. The bruise would bloom there by morning. Another mark to hide.
We walked to the front door in silence. Just the sound of shoes on concrete. Of a lock turning. Of breath being held.
Inside, everything looked the same.
Too normal.
The lights were off. The living room smelled faintly of leftover food and burnt oil. Nothing in the air hinted at what had happened hours before. Nothing suggested the world had split open and swallowed me whole.
Petunia shut the door behind us with a soft click.
She rubbed her face once—long fingers brushing over her mouth, her nose, her eyes—then turned toward me. Her voice was brittle, stretched tight like glass.
"Are you… are you okay?"
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't kind. It sounded like something she didn't want to say but felt she had to.
I opened my mouth, barely breathing in—
But I didn't get the chance to answer.
Because a voice came booming from the hallway.
"Petunia!" Vernon's voice. Loud. Sharp. Already angry. "What the bloody hell is this I hear from Marge about some freak show at the school?!"
My body locked.
I went cold.
Petunia paled.
She didn't have to say a word. I could see it in her face.
He knew.
He wasn't supposed to know.
But he knew.
And just like that…it was starting all over again.
Aunt Petunia looked at Vernon.
Her eyes flickered with something I almost never saw in her—fear. Real, human fear.
Then she looked at me.
And for just a second, her gaze changed. The sharpness dulled. The disgust faded. What replaced it wasn't warmth—but something else. Something closer to concern. Something closer to guilt.
"Go to your room," she said, voice still clipped, still cold. "Go to bed. And don't come out until morning if you know what's good for you."
It sounded like a warning. A threat. But her eyes… her eyes said it wasn't for her sake.
It was for mine.
I didn't ask questions. I didn't wait.
I ran.
My footsteps pounded the hall floor as I sprinted past the family photos that didn't include me. I dropped to my knees in front of the tiny door beneath the stairs. My door. My space. My prison. My home.
I yanked it open, ducked inside, and slammed it shut behind me with trembling hands.
The smell hit me first—stale dust, old wood, a faint trace of mold. It was always there, settled into the air like it belonged more than I did. I flicked the bare bulb above me. It buzzed to life, casting the small, coffin-like space in a pale yellow glow that made the peeling paint look sickly.
The walls were close. Too close. I couldn't even sit up fully without brushing the ceiling. I had to curl up.
So I did.
I collapsed on my bed throwing my bag at the wall. This time unlike this morning. It fell in the tiny space between the wall and my very small bed. I drew my knees right to my chest, and the tiny shelf above me shook with every movement and the pipes abover groaned like they felt it too.
And then it hit.
Not the noise from outside. Not Vernon's booming voice—not yet.
Just the weight.
Everything I'd held in. Everything I couldn't stop. The moment the door closed, it all crashed down on top of me like bricks on a glass heart.
The cold tile of the locker room. The ripping sound of fabric. The laughter. The shock. The hands on my body. My body—on display. Torn open. Laid bare. Like I wasn't human. Like I wasn't anything.
I pulled my arms around my legs tighter and pressed my face into them.
And I broke.
The sobs came without sound. No air. No breath. Just my body shaking and my throat tightening and the kind of crying that doesn't even feel like crying—it feels like drowning.
I bit my sleeve, hard, just to stay quiet.
I couldn't let them hear me.
I couldn't let him hear me.
I cried until my ribs ached and my throat burned. Cried until my skin felt too small for everything inside me. Cried until I didn't feel anything anymore—just a buzzing, humming emptiness in my chest and a dull throb behind my eyes.
And still… I waited.
Waited for the shouting.
For the footsteps on the stairs.
For the moment Vernon Dursley would remind me that things can always get worse.
And in that tiny, suffocating cupboard…
I waited for the next storm.
And then the storm came.
"Petunia, what was it that I heard?!" Vernon's voice thundered through the floorboards above me. "Was it true?!"
I froze again. As if I hadn't already been still. But this was something deeper—like my blood had turned to stone.
"Petunia, I was about to get that promotion! I was about to get that position! And then the boss—the boss, Petunia—gets a call from his daughter!"
Every word slammed through the walls like hammer blows.
"I didn't know what it was about until after the dinner when Marge called!"
I pressed my forehead harder against my knees.
"Tell me that the freak they're talking about isn't living in my house!"
There it was.
The word.
Freak.
My body flinched even though I'd heard it a thousand times before. But this time, it was different. This time, I was the story people told over dinner. The punchline whispered in private conversations. The name no one wanted to say out loud—except to shame.
The floor creaked above me. Heavy footsteps.
I could hear Petunia trying to say something, her voice faint and panicked. I couldn't make out the words.
It didn't matter.
He wasn't listening.
He never listened.
"You lied to me!" he shouted. "You hid this from me! This thing—you let it grow up in my house!"
The cupboard felt even smaller now. The air thinner. I pressed myself further into the corner, trying to disappear into the wall.
There was nowhere left to run.
I heard the table upstairs shake. A chair scrape hard against the floor. Something hit the wall—maybe his fist. Maybe worse.
Every second, the footsteps drew closer to the stairs.
And still, I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
I just bit my sleeve harder and tried not to cry again.
Because if he came down here…
If he opened that door…
I didn't know if I'd survive it.
He didn't come down.
He didn't rip the door open.Didn't drag me out.Didn't yell in my face or hit me or demand I explain myself.
He didn't do anything.
Instead, I heard the heavy stomp of his feet, the slam of a hand against the wall, and then—
The front door.
Bang.
It slammed shut so hard the walls of my cupboard shook.
And then silence.
Thick. Tense. Crushing.
Until the sound of crying drifted down from upstairs.
It was soft at first. Choked. Stifled. But it was there.
Petunia.
Crying.
I lay still, staring at the underside of the stairs as the pipes creaked and the dust danced in the yellow light above me. My body ached. My throat was raw. My chest felt too hollow and too full all at once.
I couldn't handle it anymore.
The crying. The quiet. The echoes of everything that had happened.
So I moved.
I reached for the edge of my shirt with numb fingers. Took off the school uniform—carefully, mechanically. My bra came off next. Then my knickers. I folded them without thinking and pushed them into the corner.
Then I pulled on the only things that felt even a little like comfort—my oversized shirt and my old mini shorts, threadbare and faded from so many washes. They didn't hide me. But they didn't expose me either. They were mine.
I crawled into the corner of my thin mattress, pulled the blanket up to my chin, and curled onto my side.
No prayers. No thoughts. No tears left.
Just sleep.
Sleep, because it was the only place left that I might still be invisible.
...
I awoke with a start, my body flinching violently out of the half-sleep I'd fallen into.
A hand was over my mouth.
Strong. Sweaty. Calloused.
"Don't say a word, freak," a voice hissed into my ear.
Vernon.
His breath was thick with the stench of beer and rage, and the moment I heard his voice—his real voice, not the one from the nightmare—I knew this wasn't a dream.
This was happening.
Before I could move, before I could even scream, he dragged me up by the arm—rough, fast, unforgiving. My shoulder wrenched, pain flashing down my side. I kicked out instinctively, but it didn't matter.
He pulled me out of the cupboard.
Out of my home.Out of the only place I ever felt remotely safe.
I couldn't even cry out. His hand stayed over my mouth, shoving my head forward, muffling my breath as he yanked the door to the kitchen open and hauled me through it.
No lights. Just the moonlight slicing through the window blinds in stripes.
Then—The back door.
He kicked it open with his foot, dragging me into the cool night air.
I stumbled. Grass beneath my bare feet. Wet. Cold.
I tried to scream, but it came out a muffled, broken whimper.
He didn't say anything else. He just pulled.
Past the garden. Past the trash bins.
To the shed.
My stomach dropped.
I started to fight harder, squirming, trying to dig my heels into the earth—but he was too strong. And drunk. And angry.
He yanked the shed door open with one arm and threw me inside.
I hit the dirt floor hard, knees slamming into something sharp. I couldn't see what it was—there was barely any light.
The smell of oil and rust and old wood filled the air, thick and suffocating.
He stepped fully into the shed.
The door clicked shut behind him.
That sound was louder than the bottle he'd thrown. Louder than the storm in my chest.
It was the sound of being trapped.
His breath came in heavy bursts, thick with beer and rage, fogging the cold night air around him.
"It's time," he said again, like a ritual. "It's time you pay."
His shadow loomed over me, taller than the walls, as if the shed itself was shrinking around us.
"I lost my job because of you," he hissed. "Because of you. Because of what you are."
His eyes, bloodshot and wild, landed on me with all the weight of hate. Not confusion. Not fear. Just hate.
Pure. Hot. Focused.
Without warning, he hurled the bottle in his hand. I flinched back, too slow. It exploded near my hip, shards flying, slicing through the air and into my thigh, my arm, the side of my cheek. I gasped—not even from the pain, but the sound. The violence of it.
Then came the sound I'd feared more than anything.
The metallic clang of his belt buckle being unfastened.
The slither of leather through denim loops.
And then—
Crack.
The first blow caught my shoulder. I yelped. Reflex. Pain lanced through my bones. I tried to twist away.
But there was nowhere to go.
Crack.
This time across my back. I curled up, arms over my head, trying to shield myself like a child in a thunderstorm.
Crack.
My ribs.
Crack.
My thigh.
He hit and hit, and I stopped being able to tell where the pain began and ended. My whole body screamed. The belt wrapped around limbs, struck bone, broke skin. I could feel blood slicking against my skin, trickling down beneath my shirt.
My shirt.
He hit me through it. It clung to me, soaked with sweat and fear and now blood. I hated that it wasn't protecting me.
He wasn't shouting anymore. He was muttering—slurred, hateful nonsense. Words that barely meant anything but still cut just as deep.
"Freak… freak… thing… parasite… mistake…"
He hit me again. And again.
I tried to crawl away, the dirt beneath my palms turning to mud from my own sweat. But I had nowhere to go. The shed was too small. The walls too close. My body too slow.
Then—I moved.
I don't know why.
I just tried.
I tried to get up. To run. To flee.
My bare foot shifted in the dirt, and I turned my shoulder—
But he kicked it.
Hard.
His boot connected with my knee, and I heard it snap.
I heard it.
The sound was sickening—wet and sharp and final.
Pain erupted up my leg, white-hot and wild. It was the kind of pain that made everything else disappear, the kind that made you forget how to breathe.
I screamed.
A real scream. Not a cry. Not a sob.
A scream that came from somewhere deep in my gut and exploded out of me.
It didn't matter.
He lunged forward and slapped his hand over my mouth, smothering the sound instantly.
"Shut up," he growled. "Shut the hell up."
My scream was still inside me, echoing against the inside of my skull.
He pinned me down.
The belt dropped with a soft thud beside us.
He didn't need it anymore.
He used his fists.
He used his knees.
He used the rage.
He beat me like I wasn't a person.
Like I wasn't real.
Each blow sent my head reeling. My shoulder. My stomach. My face. Over and over. I lost count after the sixth. Or maybe it was the tenth. My nose bled. My lip split. My ears rang.
The ground pressed into my back. My side. My hair. The dirt. The pain. The blood.
My body stopped responding.
My arms wouldn't move. My eyes wouldn't stay open.
I wanted it to end.
Please, I begged silently. Please just let it end.
But I didn't beg out loud.
Because I couldn't.
My voice was gone.
And then—like someone flipping a switch—my body gave out.
I collapsed into the dirt, limp.
I could still feel, but it was distant. Like my body was five feet away and someone else was inside it now.
And then, finally, mercifully—
I blacked out.
Not because I chose to.
But because there was nothing left.
…
I woke up in a hospital bed. Not with the soft hum of recovery, not with the warmth of safety—but with the raw, sterile sting of a world that had decided I didn't matter. The ceiling above me was that same sickly white, flickering under fluorescent lights too harsh to ignore, too sharp to forget. My body was stitched like a failed experiment, my limbs wrapped in gauze, pain blooming in quiet, precise pulses beneath every inch of skin. My body didn't feel like mine. It was heavy in places that shouldn't be, numb in others. I couldn't move without something screaming. Every part of me ached. Not a dull ache. Not even pain. Something deeper. Something primal. Bruises bloomed like wilted flowers across my skin. My ribs throbbed with every breath. My knee—God, my knee—pulsed with a pain that felt like punishment. My lip split down the middle like a wound that wanted to speak. My eye, swollen half shut. My body? It had been made into something else. As the sheets rasped against skin, Bruised. Battered. Broken in places even the doctors didn't realize could break.
And yet no one knew. Not the nurses with their hollow smiles, their practiced indifference and empty reassurances. Not the officer who peeked in once, who asked all the wrong questions, scribbling down meaningless notes while glancing more at his watch than my face. Not even the social worker who asked two questions that weren't really questions, jotted down three notes, and walked away. Not the second social worker who scribbled three meaningless lines before vanishing again like they all do.
No one knew it was Vernon. Only Aunt Petunia knew. And she made sure it stayed that way, made damn sure no one else ever would. She visited once. Her presence arrived before she did—the smell of perfume like powdered sugar and rot. Her heels clicked against the tile with a deliberate rhythm, each step clipped, precise, like she was walking into a business meeting instead of a hospital room. She stepped into the room like she'd walked into a dirty kitchen. Arms crossed. Back rigid. Her eyes never touched mine. She didn't bring flowers. Or food. Or comfort. No warmth. Just her. She didn't even bring shame. She stood stiffly at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over her handbag like it might shield her from what I was. As if it were a shield between me and her—her eyes never lifted higher than the corner of my blanket. She didn't even have the guts to look me in the eye.
"The doctors say you'll walk with a limp," she said flatly, the kind of tone reserved for weather forecasts and tax updates. "For the rest of your life." And then she turned and left. That was it. Like I was a patient with no name. Like I was a mess that had finally gotten too big to mop up. That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. No apology. Just the truth, left behind like broken glass. I lay in that sterile room for hours afterward, staring at the same blank, eggshell-white wall. A wall that didn't change. That didn't blink. That didn't look back. I didn't cry. Didn't move. Didn't think. Didn't even feel. I didn't do anything. Just… existed. In a body that wasn't mine anymore, in a world that had already decided I didn't belong. There was only emptiness. A hollow ache where feelings used to be. It didn't matter. Nothing did. I just stared at the wall. Unblinking. Merciless.
Two weeks after that, they let me go. Apparently, a shattered knee, fractured ribs, and skin stitched in too many places only needed fourteen days. They handed me a pair of crutches, gave me a list of instructions I didn't read, and told me to "ease back into school." To ease back into life As if school was safe. As if anything ever had been. As if I ever had one.
The school gates felt taller than they had before. Heavier. The moment I stepped back through the school gates, I could feel it. The silence. The eyes. The shift. I knew nothing had changed. Except me. I walked differently. I moved slower now, Crooked, dragging my left leg behind me like it carried the weight of everything I couldn't say, each step like it was screaming to be heard. My body leaned in ways it wasn't meant to—like it was still trying to protect itself. My hip tilted. My back hunched. My breath came shallow. My body bent differently. My steps uneven. Pain bloomed quietly behind my knee with every motion. Eyes followed me everywhere.
First curious. Then cruel. The stares came first. Then the whispers came next. The hushed kind that carried just enough venom to sting but not enough to get caught. Then finally—inevitably—the laughter.
They didn't care about the bruises. The bandages. The crutches. They didn't ask. The limp didn't matter. Neither did the weight I'd lost. They didn't care. They just needed a reason to laugh. And I gave them one. They didn't see a victim. They saw a target. A punchline. Limp freak. Fake girl. Monster. Hermaphrodite. It.
Ezra—my maybe-friend—the only light in the dark, the only kindness I'd ever known—who once looked at me like I mattered, looked right through me now. Like I was invisible. Didn't speak to me. Like he'd never seen me at all. Like being near me might infect him. And maybe it would. I heard later he'd been bullied for a couple of days while I was gone. For talking to me. Sitting near me. For looking at me like I was human. For speaking my name. He learned. Fast. He never spoke to me again. He didn't want to risk that again. Couldn't blame him. Maybe that was easier for him.
Dudley didn't miss a beat, didn't change. In fact, he came back stronger. Bolder. He got worse. If anything, he had more energy now. More help. His friends, parasites, vultures, apes, waited at the gates every day after school, waited for the bell to ring, and waited for the teachers to turn their backs. To make sure I limped home slower than usual. Ready to laugh, ready to push. They tripped me, snatched my bag, tossed it into the street, kicked my crutches out from under me when they thought no one was watching. Howled with laughter when I hobbled after it. Spit near my feet and dared me to flinch. They called it fun. They made a game of it. Who could hurt me fastest. Who could make me cry first. "Let's make the freak crawl." And I did.
But I never cried. I just bent down, picked up my bag, put one foot in front of the other, and kept walking. Or limped. Whatever it counted as now. Slowly. Quietly. Alone.
At home, it was worse. Vernon never spoke about the hospital. Not once. No apology. No eye contact. No guilt. Never acknowledged the damage. He didn't need to. The silence was enough—a sharp, lingering threat disguised as indifference. But I felt it. I knew. I always knew. Every glance. Every grunt. Every time he walked past me like I was a dead rat he didn't want to acknowledge. Some nights, when the house was too quiet and the liquor had run dry, I'd hear his heavy boots on the stairs. Hear the fridge slam. The drawer scrape open.
And then I'd feel it.
The cupboard door. Yanked open. His hand around my arm.
He'd drag me out again. He'd say nothing.
But his hands said everything.
Never like the shed. Never that bad.
But still bad enough, enough to remind me where I stood. Bruises in new places. Shoves that knocked the air out of my lungs. Slaps that stung more from the intent than the contact, that didn't leave marks when he was particularly angry. Enough to remind me I wasn't his family. Just a burden. A parasite. A shame he hadn't been able to throw out years ago. Pain lingered long after he'd stumbled off to bed, muttering about how "things like me" shouldn't exist.
He didn't need to go back to the shed. He'd already broken me once. Now he just needed to maintain it. Keep the shame alive. Keep the memory sharp. Because to him, I wasn't family. I wasn't even a person. I was a secret. A disgrace. A thing born wrong.
He hated me. Not because he feared me. Not because I was weak. But because I survived. Because I kept living.
A genetic cocktail that made people uncomfortable just to know I existed.
All because I was different. All because I was born with both. Breasts and cock. Vagina and balls. A mix of flesh and mistake. All because I came out of the womb intersex. That word used to destroy me, used to make my skin crawl, my stomach churn, used to burn like a brand.
Now, it was just… mine, carved into me, Etched into my skin. I wore it like a scar—visible or not, it didn't matter. It was a fact. The truth. A wound that had long since scabbed over but never quite healed. A truth too ugly for the world to accept. I wore it like bloodstained armor. Because what else was I going to do? I'd already been a ghost. A freak. A walking wound. But even ghosts can find something worth haunting for.
The world doesn't get to tell me I don't belong anymore. They failed.
From crawling across floors infested with rats and roaches, to eating scraps after everyone else had scraped their plates clean, to being a joke at school, from being a shadow at home, a ghost, a thing to hurt—I thought I had seen how low the world could go. I thought I had seen rock bottom.
But I hadn't. Not yet.
It could still get worse.
And a few months later… it did.
That's when I met him. Justin.
And everything I thought I knew began to shift.
He saved me.
He didn't sweep in with flowers and soft hands.
He saw me. For what I was. Not in spite of it. Because of it. And for the first time, someone didn't flinch.
When I let him in. When I let myself feel something that wasn't fear. Wasn't shame. Wasn't survival.
For the first time, someone looked at me—really looked—and didn't see a mistake.
He didn't see a freak. Or a fake. Or a burden.
He saw beauty. Strange. Sharp. Tangled beauty. He saw art.
He looked at me like I was worth something. Like my body—this jigsaw puzzle of too much and too little—was beautiful. Sacred. Desired.
And he wanted all of it.
Not just my softness or the shape of my hips or the way I walked.
He wanted me.
I let him touch me. I let him touch my skin. Not because I was ready. But because he made me feel like I existed.
He touched me like I was sacred. Like every scar was a verse.
I let him touch the places I had spent years hiding. I let him whisper my name like it was a spell. I let him kiss the shame right out of me.
I let him feel the curve of my breasts. The weight of my cock. The soft, slick flesh of the cunt hidden beneath. The way I moved. The way I was. He felt it all. Every. Last. Piece.
I gave him everything.
My body. My shame. My scars.
He kissed the parts of me I hated. Worshipped the things the world called wrong.
I moaned for him. Opened for him. Became his.
And I would never go back.
He touched me like he was starving.
Like I was the meal the gods denied him for lifetimes.
He didn't fuck me like I was fragile.
He didn't fuck me like I was broken.
He devoured me.
And I let him.
And when I broke apart under him—when I came, when I cummed with a sob and a scream—I wasn't ashamed.
In that moment—when I screamed his name and shattered beneath his hands—I didn't feel wrong.
I was alive for the first time.
It felt like breathing for the first time.
Like living.
I opened for him in ways I'd never opened for anyone. My body, my shame, my secrets—he had it all. And he didn't run.
He moaned my name like it was salvation. Kissed the slick, tender space between my legs like it was holy. Worshipped every inch of the body that the world spat on.
And finally slowly… terrifyingly… wonderfully…
I began to believe—maybe… I could be wanted.
With fascination. With hunger. With love.
And while I didn't know it then, I would return that love. A thousand times over.
With more than my body—though he would have that. All of it. Whatever he wanted.
With more than my voice, or my thoughts, or my silence.
With more than my soul. With more than my scars, or the pain I never spoke aloud.
I would return it with something deeper.
I loved him. More than I should have. More than was healthy. More than my body, or my voice, or my past had ever let me love anyone.
That was when the obsession began.
Because for the first time in my miserable life, someone truly loved me for me. Fake girl or not.
He didn't pity me. He didn't fix me. He adored me.
Breast. Dick. Balls. Vagina.
He didn't care. If anything, he loved me more for it. He adored me. Cherished me.
I felt wanted.
Loved.
And how could I let that go?
How could I live in a world without him?
How could I go back to emptiness after that? How could I survive knowing what it felt like to be seen?
To be adored?
He looked at me and didn't see sin.
He saw a home.
So I will be with him. I will have him. And I will not lose that. I will not let this world take him from me.
We will always be together.
He is mine.
His lips. His hands. His body. His name. His soul. His cock.
Mine.
Forever.
He chose me.
And I swore I would choose him, again and again, even if the world turned to ash.
And I'll tear apart anyone who tries to take that from me. No matter what it takes. I will bleed for him. Kill for him. Die for him. I would burn cities. Poison oceans. Rip open heaven and spit in God's face for him.
If I have to rip heaven in half and use God's bones as kindling to keep us warm—I will.
I don't care if it's unhealthy.
I don't care if it's madness.
I don't care if it makes me a monster.
I'd rather be a monster with love than a ghost without it.
Because he made me believe I was more than broken.
He made me real.
He made me whole.
He loved me.
For all of it.
The breasts. The dick. The balls. The slick, aching cunt. The voice that cracked. The hips that swayed. The heart that had been beaten into something feral.
And no one.
Nothing.
Will get in my way.
I will not be without him.
Ever.
Not for anyone.
Not for the Dursleys. Not for the school. Not for some limp-wristed social worker with a clipboard and a fake smile. Not for the girls who stripped me bare. Not for Ezra and his cowardice.
Not even for God.
I will be his.
He will be mine.
We will be together. Forever.
No one will get in me and my husband's way. In our family's way. Not even God.
Try to take him from me. From us.
Do try.
I fucking dare you.
Try!
…