When Theodore said he had a way to survive Potions without bleeding points, the dorm went silent—then exploded.
"Seriously?"
"Theo, tell us!"
"If this works, you don't fetch breakfast for a month—we'll bring it to you."
Theodore's smile turned foxlike. "You said it. I'll remember."
He laced his fingers behind his head. "You've heard the legends: Professor Snape is a basilisk with hair—except he's noticeably less vicious to girls. So if you don't want to be hissed into oblivion…"
He paused for effect.
"…turn into girls."
A hush. Even Neville stared.
"Theo… you all right, mate?"
"How exactly are we supposed to turn into girls?"
Theodore's grin sharpened. "Polyjuice Potion. Brew it right, add a hair, wear another face. We could borrow—"
"No." Three voices at once. Harry, Ron, and Neville shook their heads so hard their glasses nearly followed.
"That's mad," Harry said. "And if we turned up as a Ravenclaw girl? Snape would notice in five seconds and then we're really dead."
"Pity." Theodore clicked his tongue. "Plan B, then: make-up."
His gaze slid to Harry. "You, specifically."
Harry's ears turned the colour of Ron's jumper. "Absolutely not. People will never let me live it down. And why me?"
Theo spread his hands. "Survey the room."
Harry surveyed. Ron—tall, freckled, all elbows. Seamus—one miscast away from spontaneous combustion hair. Neville—sweet as pastry, built like a worried badger. The picture slammed into his mind and he flinched.
"…Right. Maybe not Neville."
"And," Theo said mildly, "you've got the bone structure. Those eyes."
Harry squinted at him. "If we're talking bone structure, wouldn't you in a dress cause a riot—?"
Theo flexed his wrists with terrible calm. "Sorry, didn't catch that."
Harry coughed. "Nothing. Brain misfired. But do we truly have to—"
"The Saviour of the Wizarding World," Theo intoned reverently, "now the Saviour of Our Dormitory. Sacrifice the few to save the many. Lend us your hemline, Harry."
Ron was already nodding. "Please!"
"We'll cover breakfast for a term," Seamus added.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Dinner. And laundry."
"Done," Ron said instantly.
That left one final problem: glamour work.
Theo tapped his wand against his palm. "Leave it to me."
Seven-Apertures Heart flipped through a thousand little tricks; the hours he'd skimmed How Witches Become Prettier and A Wizard's Discreet Indulgences reordered themselves into a plan. He even fetched the book Madam Malkin had slipped him—The Fashion Revolutions of the Wizarding World—with a whole chapter on retired Hogwarts robe cuts.
"That," Theo murmured, thumbing a plate of sketches, "explains why Snape still wears a thirty-year-old pattern. Altered and re-altered. Some things he can't let go of."
Lily, memory, the ache in old wool. A seed of an idea took root; if Snape treasured the past, perhaps there was a gift that could buy leniency—and more.
Meanwhile, Ron collected cosmetics from the girls in the common room with the solemnity of a quest. When he returned, Theo rolled up his sleeves.
Foundation to soften planes; a whisper of contour to slim the line; a warm flush to lift the cheek; a feather-light sweep to make those green eyes sing. Theo tucked, pinned, smoothed. Last: a wand-flick—Harry's robe shifted into a discontinued girls' cut from decades past: modest fall, clean lines, vintage collar.
Outside the door, Ron, Neville, and Seamus vibrated with unholy anticipation.
"The Chosen One… chosen for chiffon," Seamus breathed.
At last the door opened. Theo leaned on the frame. "All right. Come judge."
They filed in—and stopped dead.
On the rug stood a pale, slim first-year witch, soft and bookish, the kind that makes prefects instinctively offer to carry her books. Those emerald eyes could have launched a thousand lost house points.
Ron's mouth worked. "Merlin's… undershorts."
"Merlin's… puffed sleeves," Seamus gulped.
"Stampeding gorgons," Neville whispered.
Harry tugged the cuff, mortified. "Do I look like… a monster?"
Ron swallowed. "Harry… you look like Harriet."
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