#trans!fred

Part 1: Open Wide

As Madam Pomfrey’s apprentice, you spend a lot of your free time helping out sick or injured students after classes or on the weekends. Madam Pomfrey insists that one of you be “on duty,” at all times, although she takes more than her fair share of the shifts, insisting that “you’re only young once,” and you need to get some fresh air and tend to your studies every once in a while.

One day, when you’re alone at the infirmary, Fred Weasley bursts through the door, cupping his face and grimacing. You stand up with a start, surprised at the sudden motion in the still room.

“Is Pomfrey in?” he asks, looking about. 

“No, it’s just me I’m afraid. But I’ll patch you up just fine. Let me have a look,” you say, gesturing for him to take a seat.

“I didn’t know you worked here all alone,” he says, his hand still holding his mouth, muffling his words.

“Madame Pomfrey’s been pleased with my performance lately, so I get to take a few shifts by myself,” you say proudly. “Mostly just bloody noses and stomach flu,” you say. “And people trying to skip class,” you say pointedly, thinking of the havoc Fred and George’s skiving snackboxes wreak around exam time. 

You try to gently move Fred’s hand so you can see what’s going on and he flinches back.

“Ow!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” you murmur as he lowers his hand to reveal a badly split and bruised lip.

“How did this happen?”

“Ran into a door. What do you think?”

“Okay, let me put it another way: who did this to you?” you say, preparing a pad with alcohol to clean the injury.

“Malfoy,” he says, sighing. “And about half of his little pureblood Slytherin clique,” he adds, as if to make it clear he wasn’t bested by just one scrawny asshole.

“Well, someone needs to give that little git what’s coming to him,” you say, laughing. “Don’t tell anyone I said that on the clock.” You dab at his lip and he winces. 

“Hope I don’t go out to find Crab and Goyle bleeding out on the quad,” you add, then use a quick episkey spell to heal the lip.

“How’s that?” you ask.

“Still hurts a bit,” he says, running his fingers questioningly across the soft skin of his newly healed lower lip.

“Open your mouth,” you command, pulling on gloves and sticking a finger inside his lip to pull it back so you can have a closer look at the inside of his mouth. You lean in, his breath hot on your face. Everything looks good on the top, but when you pull back his bottom lip you realize the problem right away.

“Well, the good news is, no more blood and gore,” you say, stepping back and pulling the gloves off.

“The bad news?” he asks expectantly. You pull a mirror from the medicine cupboard and hand it to him.

“You’ve chipped that bottom tooth pretty good. Not much I can do to mend it unless you can get hold of the other half,” you say. “Here’s a tonic that should help with the pain. If you take a teaspoon every day for two weeks, it shouldn’t hurt anymore.”

He studies himself in the hand mirror, baring his teeth to show the badly broken one on the bottom. The light filtering through the high windows falls on his face, and you study his newly mended lips, noticing how pink and full they seem. He smiles experimentally into the mirror, open-mouthed, then closed, then open again. He shrugs.

“Looks a bit roguish, don’t you think? Adds an air of ‘devilishly handsome,’ right?” he asks, smiling cheekily. You smile, the apples of your cheeks full. You gesture for him to turn towards you and take a long look.

“Smile,” you say, as if about to take a picture. He obliges easily and gives you a wide grin, and you study him directly, taking his chin in your hand to inspect.

“What do you think, then? Sort of a fun new look, huh?”

“Sure, if you like bad boys,” you say.

“You don’t?” he says suggestively, looking at you sideways.

“Get out of here, Fred Weasley. And don’t let me see you back next week missing a molar,” you joke as he stands to leave.

“That sounds like a dare,” he says cheerfully, pocketing the tonic bottle. You take a deep breath as you watch him leave, secretly hoping to see him again soon. 

It’s a dreary Tuesday in late winter. The snow is melting into sludge, and everything is grey and muddy. You drag your feet as you trudge along behind your friends, yawning. You’re already about 5 minutes late to potions, and you’re in no rush to get there and be yelled at. 

“You know what would make this day about a thousand times better?” Lee says resolutely, stopping in his tracks so abruptly that you almost run into him. 

“Drugs?” Fred quips.

“Sex?” you add.

“Skipping class?” George says, raising his eyebrows.

“You read my mind, Georgie.”

“And doing what? It’s shit outside,” you say tiredly.

“I heard about this place from Angelina, it’s like a hot spring. You have to use gillyweed to get there, though. It’s in a cavern you can only get to from under the lake, by the cliffs.”

“The makeout cavern?” Fred asks.

“There’s a makeout cavern?” you ask incredulously.

“Sure is, maybe you’d know about it if you could snag a girlfriend,” Fred says, batting you playfully upside the head. You brush his hand away.

“Come off it Freddie, you’ve only been down there to chug beers with me and Oliver,” Lee snickers. “Anyway, what I was trying to say before you lot started up is that there’s a cave in down there by the cliffs that’s supposed to have all these great hot springs that you can get in. I’d bet there won’t be many people down there since everyone’s in class.”

“Everyone but us!” George says triumphantly. “Lead the way, Mr. Jordan,” he adds, bowing low in Lee’s direction. You tug at your skirt nervously.

“I don’t have my swimsuit!” Fred says quickly. You sigh. Perfect excuse.

“Me neither! Besides, it’s going to be so cold on the way down there, we’ll practically be hypothermic by the time we make it to the warm water.” George studies Fred empathetically, drawing a breath.

“We could go in our clothes,” he offers. 

“Or nothing at all,” Lee says mischievously. “Unless you’re afraid we’ll make fun of your little boy pricks,”

“No way!” you say. You shudder at the thought of stripping down in front of your friends. You’re close, but nobody sees you naked. That’s your rule. Being trans at Hogwarts is alright, especially since you’ve learned a lot of spells that help you pass, but you don’t want to come out to your friends by taking your cock out in front of them. Nope, no way. That sounds way too weird. 

“I’ll just stay here.” Fred says. 

“Me too. We’ve already got about 5 absences from potions, we’ll be in Dumbledore’s office if we get another one,” you add.

“Since when are you two scared of detention?” Lee asks, throwing his arms up in the air. “It’s dark under the water anyway. Don’t be prudes. We can takes our clothes in with dehydrating spells and put them back on when we get to the cave, how about that?” George suggests. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“And Angelina told me she and Katie and Alicia would be down there exploring today. Maybe we’ll run into them.” Lee says.

“You make a very compelling argument,” you say in resignation. Everyone knows you’ve had feelings for Katie Bell since you joined the quidditch team, and Fred is always drooling over Alicia. 

“Fine,” he says, sighing. The four of you begin walking to the water’s edge, where Lee and George begin disrobing. You step behind a tree and slowly start taking your shoes off, hoping that nobody will question why you’re lagging behind- you are the only girl in the group, after all, so it probably seems quite normal. You notice that Fred does the same, slinking away behind a large rock outcropping. 

You push your toes into the rocky sand, shivering. Lee and George are already in their pants.

“You lot go on, I’ll catch up!” you yell. “I’ve no desire to glance over and see your shriveled willies swinging about under there,” you say, pretending to gag.

“You sure know how to boost a man’s confidence,” Lee says, stepping out of his bright red pants and into the water. “Merlin! It’s fucking cold as shite!” he shouts, but George runs up behind him and tackles him into the water before he can hesitate any further. The two come up, gasping and whining at the cold water before disappearing down below. 

You pull your gillyweed out of your pocket and look at it in disgust. The stuff tastes absolutely horrible, and it’s thick and slimy going down. You strip to your panties, cast a drying spell over your clothes, and watch for Fred to follow the other two into the water. You wait at least five minutes before calling out.

“Freddie! You alright?” No reply comes. You tug your shirt back on and step out from behind the tree. “Fred! Come on, I’m freezing my ass off out here!” You hear him reply so quietly that it’s almost incoherent. “What?”

“I’m not coming!” he says, louder this time. You walk a few steps closer, cautiously pulling your skirt on as you make your way in his direction.

“Why not? Are you alright?” His voice is high and soft, as if he’s choked up about something.

“No reason,” he says, sniffling. 

“Are you crying, dude?”

“No!” 

“Then why do you sound like that?”

“No reason!” he says, his voice cracking.

“Can I come over there?” You ask. He doesn’t reply, but you hear his labored breathing as he tries to hold in a sob, so you decide to peek around the rock. What you see is this: Fred, normally much taller than you, now huddled on the ground, trousers off, his hands wrapped tightly around his knees. He looks up at you in embarrassment. 

“You look a bit, erm, anxious?”

“Oh, do you think so?” he says sarcastically.

“Look, I’m embarrassed too, but I’m sure it’s not that small. Nobody’s gonna look, anyway,” you say, half joking, half sincere, probing for a laugh. You’ve never seen Fred cry, and you’re not sure what to do. He snorts and stands up, revealing that he’s wearing what looks like a tight sports bra. Your eyes narrow then widen in recognition. A binder, he’s wearing a binder. You burst out in laughter, doubling over, tears welling up in your eyes. All these years you’ve thought you were alone, and one of your best friends was trans too. How stupid it’s been to be so shy! How silly!

“Well gee, Y/N, it’s not that funny!” he says, smiling uncomfortably. “I’m a wee bit sensitive about the whole gender thing, I figured you’d have gathered that from the whole years-long-secret situation.” You compose yourself, wiping your face. 

“No, no, no. I’m sorry, that’s not it at all, but it is really funny,” you say, consciously dropping your voice a few octaves. He eyes you suspiciously, furrowing his brow. 

“No way!”

“Yes way, dude! I’ve got a dick!”

“Yo!”

“Yo!” His eyes light up and you open your arms to hug him. “That is fucking funny, that is very fucking funny,” he admits, pulling you in for a deep hug. 

“So what do we do?” 

“Oh, I’ve got no fucking idea.”

“Let’s just leave and prank them by leaving them alone down there.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good prank.”

“No, but going down there in the nude doesn’t sound very good either.”

“Doesn’t George know?”

“‘Course he does, that doesn’t mean I want to walk around with my tits out in front of him!”

“Fair enough. Shall we go to Hogsmeade for a pint?”

“I think so. To celebrate!”

And so you gather your things and trot over to the village, where you chat by the fire all evening. You find out that Fred and George have devised all kinds of spells to help Fred pass, and that his parents, unlike yours, are quite supportive. Together, the two of you decide to start coming out to people, slowly. 

“People like us!” you say encouragingly.

“Yeah! We’re funny!”

“And hot!” you offer. 

“Yeah! Who could hate little old me for having big sexy boobies?”

“Right? And if they do, fuck em,”

 It was rare they ate dinner together. The mayor had certainly attempted to distance himself as far as he could from the kid. But tonight was one of those nights that it seemed no matter what happened, they were eating together.

 Looking across the table, Fred could see the little girl he had kidnapped years ago playing with a rubrick's cube instead of eating her dinner.

"Something on your mind, Brooke?"

She jumped a little at the sound of his voice, she had obviously been pretty spaced out, "Um, yeah. Can I get my hair cut?"

"Cut your hair? Brooke, your nanny just took you to get those split ends or whatever cut off, why do you need another?"

"I want my hair short. Like yours!"

"Like mine? You've never showed an interest in getting it short before."

"Well, I didn't really think of it before. But I'm thinking of it now and I think I'd like it better," she began fiddling with the rubrick's cube again, "And, I'd like it if you referred to me as your, uh, your son as well."

Fred stared at the kid in front of him, well this was certainly an unexpected turn of events. 

 Originally, actually becoming a father to the kid was not on his to do list, but nine years later it's too late to act like he doesn't care about the kid. If the kid wants to be his son, then so be it, he has a son.

"Uh dad?"

The mayor looked back up at the boy, "Yeah, I heard you."

The boy began messing with the rubrick's cube he had in his lap nervously, what was he scared of him or something? Why would he scare the kid he had raised for nearly nine years?

Putting down the newspaper in his hands, the mayor leaned forward in an attempt to show he was listening, "So...you're saying you're...uh, not...a girl anymore?"

The boy looked up at his dad, surprised, "I...I don't...I've never really been a girl. You could totally tell something was always wrong with me, right?"

He scoffed, "Yeah, you're obsessed with those darn traps, but certainly nothing else is wrong with you."

There was a moment of silent awkwardness between them. The boy still playing with the rubrick's cube more than eating his dinner.

The mayor cleared his throat, "Uh, so do you, have a name you want me to use instead of Brooke?"

His son beamed, "Yeah! Your name!"

The mayor looked the boy in the eyes, "My name?"

"Yeah, you're a great dad and mayor. And you even put up with my traps even though you hate them."

The mayor smiled softly, "Well, Fred. You're not a half bad son yourself. I have time between some meetings Friday after school, I can take you to get your haircut then, or if you'd rather, your nanny can take you tomorrow."

 “If you can really take me, I’ll wait until Friday. It’s just a days difference and I’d like you to be there.”