Harry, fucking hell...

      In fact, Petunia had dreamed of having a daughter since early childhood. At six, it was the usual "My daughter and I will play with dolls, drink tea, and dress up together! Mom, just like you and me! I'll name her Linnet... or no, Rosaleen would be better! Mom, tell me, do you like the name Hazel?" And in fact, little has changed to this day, but the dreams remained dreams, and her dreams of idle chatter about new outfits with her daughter remained unattainable.       She never regretted and loved her family dearly: her brave and strong husband, her playful and mischievous son, and even that little jokester nephew. But she often felt lonely; in such male company, it was impossible to talk about anything personal, "girly," and only her friends, who time and again agreed to go for a walk with her, saved her.       In fact, Petunia had noticed more than once that her little nephew was different from her son: he didn't play with cars, wasn't interested in superheroes or pirates, like all the other boys his age. How he increasingly looked longingly at the girls weaving beautiful bracelets under the tree and how he stared at the jewelry in the shop windows...       But each time, she chided herself. He was just an ordinary boy, really, she imagined it all, and besides, she was crazy. But no sooner had Petunia forgotten these thoughts that were haunting her, a spark of hope glimmering in her eyes, than her nephew approached her quietly, hesitating, embarrassed. He was blushing furiously, looking at the floor and pursing his lips.       "Harry, honey, is something wrong?" she asked worriedly.       Harry let out a mournful sigh and began to speak:       "Auntie, we could... I mean, I saw it on a girl at school... Well, I'd like..." The boy was clearly nervous, shrinking ever tighter and speaking ever more quietly, and Petunia still couldn't make out what he wanted, so she gently touched his shoulder, forcing him to look her in the eye.       Harry took a deep breath and muttered as he exhaled:       "I saw a really pretty skirt on a classmate of mine. And I really wanted it... I know I'm a boy and Dudley says boys don't wear skirts, but I thought I could have it hanging in my closet. I just really, really like it! So could we...?" Petunia burst into laughter.       "Oh, my God, Harry, I'm so scared!" "She sat the child down on the sofa next to her and, patting his head, said,       "We can buy you the skirt you like, and you can even wear it."       "But I..." the boy blinked absently, staring at his aunt in confusion.       He was torn between a happy smile and a wary frown. Dudley had told him that boys shouldn't wear skirts many times, even back when Harry, watching some show on TV for the first time, declared that when he grew up, he too would wear such incredible outfits, referring to bright dresses and skirts. Then his brother only snorted and, as if he were a fool, explained almost syllable by syllable:       "Harry, you're a boy, what do you mean dresses and frills? Skirts? Those are for girls! Look at this," Dudley pointed to a spread of the newspaper, where the pages were adorned with boys' outfits: pants and sweaters with some absurd pictures of cars and planes.       But Harry didn't like that. He wasn't attracted to the dark colors that often overwhelmed any item Dudley considered "boyish enough," and he didn't like the style either: it seemed slapdash, no pretty puff sleeves, not even a cute collar—a round neckline, and that's all. And what's even more so about the print? It was terrifying! And that doesn't even mention the woefully ugly and dreary shoes...       Basically, he needed that skirt so badly! And he was ready to sacrifice his cleaning shift for a whole week! A week! Just to convince his aunt. But it turned out to be so simple, he couldn't believe it.       Auntie cut off his babbling with a gentle wave of her hand.       "We'll buy you a skirt, and anything else you want. Dudley talks without thinking, so don't believe everything you're told—wear whatever you want." Petunia genuinely hoped the boy would hear her, because listening to others was the worst thing one could do.       She thought for a moment before confidently declaring:       "Your birthday is coming up soon, so I suggest we go to the mall. We'll leave Vernon and Dudley somewhere near the slot machines and that's it. I'll show you skirts, blouses, and whatever else you want." Harry's eyes lit up, and a smile flickered across his face, refusing to go away, and then Petunia realized it was the right thing to do. No matter what others said, she wouldn't let Harry be bullied or boxed in.       Well, on the eve of his tenth birthday, Harry Potter was tossing and turning in his bed, still not wanting to fall asleep, in anticipation of the next day.