Settle down with me and I'll be your safety (you'll be my lady).

prologue.

When Harry was seven years old, his teacher told his class to write about what they wanted to be when they grew up, then told them to take turns in standing up and sharing what they had written. One girl wanted to be a singer, another wanted to be a vet. One boy badly wanted to be Shrek- so badly that he coloured his entire arm green using a highlighter. It took a lot of soap and school time to wash that off, but it had made the students giggle.

Harry hadn't wanted to be any of these things. When it was his turn to stand, he did so on unstable legs and cleared his throat, before declaring:

"I want to be a girl."

--

"Make a wish, honey!" His mum says, camera angled at Harry's gleeful face. The room has been decorated with banners and bright blue balloons. In front of him is a red velvet cake, 'Happy 12th Birthday!' in blood icing across the top, circled by twelve white candles.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, ignoring the chatter surrounding him while he makes his wish, leaning forward. He then blows out all the candles.

"What did you wish for?" Gemma gushes, plate ready to be served in her dainty hands.

"He can't tell you silly, otherwise it wont come true." Anne winks at her son, who's smile has decreased since their terrible edition of 'Happy Birthday.' After all, Harry is the only talented singer in the family, or so he's told.

That night Harry falls asleep with his wish running through his mind.

'I wish I was a girl.'

--

It's the same every morning.

His eyelids open and he registers where he is. Every part of him, every fibre, nerve and muscle is fighting the feeling of dread, the realisation that he has to face another day.

Another day where he can't be who he really is.

He forces his body out of bed and trudges downstairs, making sure to avoid looking in any mirrors. He can't stand the sight of his own reflection.

"Harry, are you wearing my nightie?"

"I thought it might keep me cool," he says on a whim, praying they don't question him further. This was the closest he's let anyone see him in any clothes deemed 'un-masculine'. "It's boiling in here. Seriously mum, it's the middle of May, I don't think you need the heating anymore."

He thinks he played that one pretty well.

"You are such a weirdo." Gemma's eyes narrow with vague disgust.

He keeps a brave face (as if that hadn't felt like a stab in the heart) and laughs, sticking his tongue out. He chugs a glass of milk and pretends it's to clear the bad taste in his mouth and not to reduce the lump in his throat.

"Gemma!"

"He does! What type of sixteen year old boy sleeps in his mums nightie? He's a weirdo!" Gemma protests.

Anne and Des exchange looks. Harry pretends not to notice and concentrates on buttering a slice of toast.

--

Harry has been planning on telling his family for the past month. He just has no clue how to phrase it.

He remembers a time when he was younger, when he would play dress up with Gemma and ask his mom to put makeup on his face, when he felt happy. He overheard his parents talking about him when they thought he wasn't listening, hushed voices saying "it'll pass", "it's just a phase" and "he'll grow out of it." Almost as if they were talking about someone who wets the bed.

Harry stares into the mirror and staring right back at him is a tall, broad, handsome eighteen year old boy.

Not the petite, curvy, pretty girl he desperately wants to be.

Eighteen years of his life has passed. He's been living a lie for eighteen years and he knows it's time to come clean.

The thing is, she knows. She definitely knows.

He's not sure how. He doesn't have a diary he keeps to write his darkest secrets in and he doesn't make huge confessions after a glass of wine by the fire, nor has he ever told a single soul.

But it's there in her eyes every time she knows at him. The thing that's tearing him apart, though, is that he can't tell how she feels about it. Is she angry? Disappointed? Refusing to accept? A little proud?

There's only one way to find out, he supposes, as he steps into the living room where his mom and dad are sat watching the latest episode of 'Greys Anatomy'. The sound of the fire crackling and his heartbeat echo in the dim room.

It's now or never. No more suppressing his feelings.

"Honey, what are you doing up?"

"Um..." He has no idea what to say. He's played this moment through his mind time after time. It is remarkable how he's turned into a blubbering excuse of a person, with no reconciliation of anything.

"Spit it out, H, we don't have all night." His dad jokes. He won't be laughing in a minute, Harry can assure that.

He glances around the room. Photos of him and Gemma, him and his cousins, him and his grandparents, his and his parents are hung around the room. The boy in the pictures taunts him. He is no longer that boy. That boy is a shadow of the past.

"I think. No, I know, that I'm not in the right body."

"What are you trying to say?" Des asked, a look of confusion crossing his face. Anne has tears brimming in her eyes, clutching her husbands hand in her own.

"I'm a girl."

---

this is my first publish on wattpad and I'm so excited! I also have these stories on ao3, under harry_is_bliss. I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave a comment if you did :)