Author Note: This story is currently undergoing major edits. This, the first chapter, has already been edited, and I hope you enjoy the reboot. Since I started writing this seven years ago, I've finished my Bachelor's degree in Creative Writing and English, and I wanted to restart this project as a way to see how much I've grown as a writer.

This story began its life as an examination of how things could have been different, and Harry Potter could have been treated differently, had he been born a girl. That is still a major theme, but I also make an attempt to sew up plot holes, explore untouched possibilities, and add realism to the story that the original didn't have.

Petticoats were invented by the devil. Who, aside from Old Scratch himself, would devise a garment comprised of tiered netting that had to be bound by elastics mid-chest? The petticoat offered no favor to its wearer; it didn't cinch or support or hide unsightly belly fat. Its sole purpose was to lift the skirt into a bell shape at the cost of itchy armpits and the gallons of sweat collected by the chiffon.

The sun was out in Little Whinging, and the mercury gauge by the garden shed door had been resting at ninety degrees all afternoon. Such prevailing weather was a rarity, and Petunia Dursley couldn't pass the opportunity to hold a garden party for the neighborhood ladies. To call them friends would have been a stretch, since they didn't like each other, but they all came to sit in the sunshine and drink Petunia's expensive tea.

Petunia's niece, a girl called Whitney, had been stuffed into a doll's gown and so many petticoats that the bell of her skirt had been inverted, flaring at the hem like a tutu. The dress was pale pink, trimmed in white, and the petticoats alternated white, pink, and magenta. She looked like a designer cupcake from the posh bakery Petunia went whenever her son, Dudley, demanded a treat.

There were never any treats for Whitney.

The girl was a scrawny waif of ten with a smattering of freckles splashed across her nose. Her hair was long and strawberry blond. In the last year, her hair had begun to darken at its roots, and it would likely be auburn by the time she reached puberty. That morning, it had been pulled back and beset with enough pins to embarrass a hedgehog, which somehow held the hair off her shoulders by some arcane physics known only to certain women.

Petunia had also hot-ironed Whitney's bangs into a bouncy curtain to hide "that hideous scar in the middle of your forehead." Whitney rather liked the scar, though. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, and she had gotten it when her parents had died. She didn't own anything that had belonged to her parents, so she saw the scar as a symbol of the life she'd had before being taken in by her aunt and uncle.

And a symbol of the life she would have when she was able to leave.

Until that day, Whitney would have to stand outside, sensitive skin deep-frying in the afternoon sun, serving tea to her Aunt Petunia's terrible not-friends while they traded subtle insults costumed as compliments.

"Oh, Petunia. I love your rose trellis. The 'distressed paint' look is very modern."

Fake laugh.

"You're too kind. Don't you just love climbing roses? So elegant, not like enormous rosebushes that overwhelm a tasteful garden arrangement."

Blush. Forced smile.

"Oh, yes. For a garden this size, climbing roses are the only choice. So smart given the available space."

Clenched teeth. Red cheeks.

"Yes, I've found that making economical choices with my space has meant I don't have to compromise on the quality or cost of the seeds."

It was the meanness of it that Whitney didn't understand. Why—oh, why!—would people who did not like each other come together and pretend they did? What did these women gain by spending their free time on a lovely day swapping unpleasantries?

Whitney longed to run her hands along her midriff where the petticoats clung damply to her skin, to scratch under her arms where the elastic bunched, but she didn't move except to refill teacups when they ran low. She stood perfectly straight with her arms at her sides, little more than another ornament in her aunt's garden. She liked to pretend she was a palace guard in a red uniform and fuzzy, black hat, protecting something far more important than her aunt's outdoor china.

Whitney pictured herself lifting the teapot and smashing it into the glass garden table at which they all sat. That would break up the hateful coven of bickering, bitter harpies. She imagined glass flying everywhere amidst womanly shrieks. There would be no more garden parties after that, at least none to which Petunia's delinquent niece would be invited. No more sunburns. No more doll dresses. No more petticoats.

Then, she'd be locked in the cupboard under the stairs until she was eighteen. No more food, or sunlight of any kind.

She prayed for rain instead. Rain would end her suffering. Great, fat, cool drops of water drowning the roses and soaking every inch of the yard, her aunt, the garden ladies. Mud and mud and mud for days.

"Whitney!"

Whitney snapped out of her daydream and looked at her aunt. How many times had Petunia called her name? Plenty, by her expression.

Petunia spoke through her teeth. "Martha needs more tea."

Whitney surged forward toward the teapot—which was within reaching distance of Martha—and began to pour. "Sorry."

"Honestly, I don't know where her head is sometimes," Petunia said, trying to regain her grace with a half-laugh. The garden ladies laughed, too. They sounded like plastic birds, all striking the same rhythms and notes.

"I was thinking of rain."

The laughter died as Whitney spoke, and the garden ladies all looked at her. They looked at Petunia. Petunia looked at Whitney.

"What a delightful child," said one of the garden ladies, but what she meant was, 'What a delightful opportunity to embarrass Petunia after she implied my hedges were trimmed by immigrants.'

Whitney looked at the teapot still in her hands and reconsidered smashing it. How bad could life in a cupboard be, really?

"What frivolity! Who could possibly think of rain on such a beautiful day?"

Whitney blushed, but didn't look up. The other plastic birds took up the song; their laughter wasn't fake anymore.

"How silly!"

"Who taught her to be so fanciful?"

"Was it you, Petunia?"

"It certainly wasn't Vernon."

"Oh, imagine! Vernon the fantasist!"

"Be careful she doesn't infect Dudley, turn him into an idealist!"

Titter. Cluck. Warble. Chirp.

Drip.

Whitney thought she had imagined the wet droplet landing in her hair, but she felt another on her face. The garden ladies had stopped their mocking and were holding their hands out, confused. Had they all felt what Whitney had felt?

Petunia was the only one not checking for rain. She was glaring at Whitney, pale and angry. She stood up, but before she could say anything, they were already soaked to the bone.

As though the sky had been ripped open, rain began to fall in torrents on the garden party. The plastic birds started screeching, and running around, looking for sun-umbrellas that were decorative and useless. They scattered, fleeing through the garden gate to their respective birdhouses where no one could see their ruffled feathers and runny mascara. Aunt Petunia shrieked and ran for the cover of the backdoor awning.

The bobby pins gave up holding Whitney's rain-heavy hair. She stood in the middle of the garden like a wild fairy, holding her hands out in wonder, looking up into the sky through the water clinging to her eyelashes. There wasn't a cloud in sight.

It didn't rain like this in England! She wasn't sure it rained like this in the Rainforest.

Whitney started to laugh, but her delight was destroyed by an enormous hand which clamped around Whitney's arm and yanked her toward the house so hard she thought it would dislocate her shoulder. Her Uncle Vernon dragged her to the house, looking redder than she had ever seen him. Her brain cycled through everything she had done that day, but she couldn't think of anything she'd done that would have made him so angry with her. Unless…

The dress! It was new, and now it was ruined.

"It wasn't my fault! The rain started so quickly, I couldn't help getting wet. Aunt Petunia's got wet, too! I swear I wasn't playing in it!"

Vernon ignored her, hauling her through the back door. Aunt Petunia was huddled in the linoleum entryway, shivering like a wet cat, attempting to spread newspaper over the floor to protect it from the mud and water being tracked into the house.

"Vernon, the carpet!" Petunia cried as they passed, but he showed no sign that he could hear her past the furious blood pumping through his temples.

Whitney would be blamed for the carpet, too.

She twisted around in his grip so she could walk properly next to him. Her sleeve, pressed tightly under his palm, didn't twist so easily. A seam in her armpit tore, and she heard her Aunt Petunia hiss.

"Look what you've done! That was new!"

Whitney didn't have to see her aunt to know the reprimand was directed toward her and not her uncle, but it would do her no favors to say so.

"You're hurting me," she said instead.

Her uncle let go of her arm, but only to open the door to the cupboard under the stairs and shove her inside. Her shins knocked hard against her tiny bed.

"Ow! What did I do?"

Vernon slammed the door. Sawdust streamed onto her head from the ceiling, sticking to her wet hair and clothes.

"What did I do?"

Shh-click. The door to the cupboard was locked. Whitney slid to the floor on her knees, leaning against the door. She felt tears come to her eyes.

"What did I do?"

Thank you for reading and, as always, please review.

/-wujy