That scream—pure terror laced with straight-up despair, crumbling into total meltdown, spiked with "no freaking way this is real" vibes—scared the ever-loving crap outta Dudley. Dude's ass slid right off the couch and ate linoleum, hard. The bag of chips in his arms exploded like confetti, the empty bag flipping upside-down and crowning him like the world's saddest party hat.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shot up from their chairs like someone lit a fire under 'em.
"What the hell are you doing in there?!" Vernon roared, veins popping.
Petunia grabbed his arm mid-bellow. "That didn't sound right, Vernon."
Her face was tight, eyes darting. She hustled to the bathroom door in three quick strides. The shower had gone silent; now all you could hear were these gut-wrenching little sobs. Vernon raised a meaty fist to pound the door, but Petunia yanked him back.
"Listen," she hissed.
Vernon cocked his head, straining. His jowly face went slack. Harry—that little trouble-magnet—never cried. Not once. Not when Dudley and his crew chased him like a dog through the cul-de-sac, not ever in front of them.
"Kid?" Vernon muttered, voice low. "What're you messing with in there?"
Nothing. The sobbing cut off like someone hit mute.
Petunia jerked her chin. I got this. Vernon shuffled back.
"Harry…" The name tasted foreign in her mouth. She hadn't said it soft like that since the roof incident—when the little freak somehow scaled the school and nearly gave her a heart attack. Ever since, she'd been ice. She hated the weirdness, yeah, but deep down? She was jealous as hell of her sister. Lily got the magic, the letters, the whole damn wizarding world. Petunia got squat.
But right now? Worry trumped everything. That scream rattled her bones. Harry was Lily's kid—her only kid. Petunia had taken him in knowing full well some masked psycho from that world might come knocking. Every time she barked at Harry, every chore, every locked cupboard—it was armor. Keep the weirdness buried, keep her family safe. Keep him safe.
"Harry, talk to me. What's wrong?"
Her hand closed around the doorknob. Downstairs bathroom never locked—too cheap to fix, and Vernon couldn't swing a hammer without smashing his thumb.
"Don't—DON'T COME IN!" Harry's voice cracked, panic raw.
Petunia's grip tightened. "I'm right here, just tell me."
Her tone was soft—scary soft. Something in his voice was… off. Muffled, yeah, but… higher?
"You hurt? Did you slip? Electrical—"
No answer. Just shaky breathing.
"Harry?"
Screw it. She twisted the knob and shoved the door open. A puff of steam rolled out—thin, stale. And then she saw.
SLAM. Door shut so fast it damn near took her arm off. She spun, eyes blazing, and smacked Dudley clean across the face as he craned to peek.
"The hell you looking at?!"
Dudley's lip wobbled, but one glare from Momma Bear and he swallowed his tears. When Petunia got that lioness look, you didn't whine—you ran. He and Vernon bolted upstairs like their asses were on fire, doors slamming soft as church mice.
"It's okay, Lil—Harry. I sent the boys upstairs. Just me now, hang on."
Petunia's voice cracked—actually cracked. She hadn't sounded that gentle since… God, forever. She took the stairs two at a time, barged into the bedroom.
"What the hell, Petunia?" Vernon whisper-yelled.
She ignored him, yanking open the closet, digging through mothballed boxes. On her way out: "Vernon. Now. Clear out the second bedroom. Dudley's toys go in his room. Move it."
"Wha—?"
"Do I gotta say it twice?"
"No ma'am!" Vernon saluted like a drunk soldier and scrambled.
Thirty seconds later, Petunia was back at the bathroom, arms full of soft flannel and denim. She knocked gentle. "Harry, it's just me. Got you some… clothes. They'll fit, promise. You're safe."
She eased the door open, stepped into the damp haze.
Harry was curled in the corner like a kicked puppy, soaked black hair longer than yesterday—d, shoulder-length, plastered to his cheeks and neck. Goosebumps raced across bare skin as the draft hit. He shivered hard.
Then he looked up.
Petunia froze. Those emerald eyes—Lily's eyes—glimmering with tears. If the hair was red instead of black, it'd be her sister staring back, seventeen and alive.
"L-Lily…" The name slipped out, hand trembling as it settled on his—her—head.
"If it was really you… God, that'd be something."
Tears rolled hot down Petunia's cheeks, splashing onto Harry's shoulder. Next thing he knew, bony arms crushed him close. Petunia sobbed like the world was ending—ugly, loud, real. Harry'd never seen her lose it, not once.
A sneeze—sharp, girly—snapped her out of it. She lurched up, nearly ate tile, caught herself on the wall. Harry reached to steady her, forgetting to cover up.
They locked eyes. Froze.
"Harry?" Petunia's voice was small. "Or… Harriet?"
Harry's face crumpled. The scream earlier? Yeah. Little Harry was gone. And in his place, two soft mounds rose under the dripping hair.
Gender-Swap Cookie~
That's what the label said. One bite flips the script. Want the old hardware back? Eat another. Simple.
And right then, wrapped in Petunia's arms—feeling her shake with sobs for a sister long dead—Harry got it. The price wasn't the change.
It was this. The heartbreak he'd just cracked wide open.