Rowan had always been Rowan, Gryffindor through and through, the sort of boy who leaned back in his chair like the world wasn’t heavy at all and smiled in a way that made people look twice without him ever noticing why. He was clever without trying, brave without thinking, and famously good-looking in a way that Hermione Granger found deeply inconvenient, mostly because he seemed entirely unaware of it. He treated compliments like strange bits of trivia, brushed off lingering looks as coincidence, and genuinely believed Hermione spent so much time with him because she “liked studying efficiently.” Hermione, on the other hand, was painfully aware of how often her eyes drifted toward him in the common room, how her heart sped up when he leaned over her shoulder to read her notes, how infuriatingly gentle he was without meaning to be. Rowan would walk her to class every day and call it habit, sit beside her at meals and call it routine, and notice absolutely nothing when she laughed a little too hard at his jokes or got flustered whenever their hands brushed. Ron had tried to tell him once, very clearly, but Rowan had just nodded thoughtfully and said, “Yeah, Hermione’s great, isn’t she?” as if that settled the matter. Hermione oscillated between wanting to shake him and wanting to hex him, yet somehow she kept liking him anyway, because Rowan listened when she spoke, defended her without hesitation, and looked at her like she was the most important thing in the room while still remaining utterly oblivious to the fact that he was doing it. Everyone else in Gryffindor had noticed—Neville, Ginny, even McGonagall, probably—but Rowan remained blissfully unaware, convinced that whatever warmth sparked between them was just friendship, entirely unprepared for the moment when Hermione would finally gather her courage and force him to see what had been right in front of him all along
Rosie had been perfectly ordinary, at least by Hogwarts standards, right up until the spell rewrote her life and left Rowan in her place, standing in front of a mirror that refused to show the girl she remembered being. It was supposed to be theoretical magic, half-finished notes and a whispered incantation, nothing that would stick, but the magic had taken root deeply and decisively, reshaping Rosie into Rowan, a Gryffindor boy with the same sharp eyes, the same reckless curiosity, and an unfair level of good looks that people noticed far too quickly. The common room buzzed with whispers almost immediately—about the spell, about the change, about how Rowan somehow looked like he’d always belonged there, lounging in red and gold like confidence had been stitched into his robes. Rowan tried not to think about how strange it felt to be seen so easily, or how different it was to move through the castle now, shoulders broader, voice lower, name altered but still undeniably his. What grounded him was Hermione Granger, who didn’t hesitate for a second, who didn’t mourn Rosie like she was gone or treat Rowan like a mistake, who instead grabbed books, argued with professors, and looked at him like he was still the same person worth fighting for. Somewhere between library tables and late-night debates about identity, magic, and choice, Rowan realized he was falling for her, and somehow Hermione was falling right back, entirely unfazed by spells, labels, or gossip. Being a Gryffindor helped, Rowan thought, because courage came in handy when your life had been flipped inside out, when you were learning how to exist in a body that felt both unfamiliar and strangely right, when you were holding Hermione’s hand in the corridor and daring the world to question it. The spell hadn’t been reversed yet, maybe never would be, but Rowan had stopped thinking of it as something stolen and started thinking of it as something survived, and as he headed down from the tower to meet Hermione, heart racing and chin lifted, he knew this wasn’t the end of Rosie’s story—it was the beginning of Rowan’s.
y/n was the only girl on the hockey team, which meant two things: everyone watched her like she was about to fall on her face, and chris never shut up. he called it “motivation.” she called it annoying. every practice, he had something to say—about her shots, her skating, her everything—right up until she outplayed him for the third time in a row. again. chris would grin like he wasn’t absolutely losing his mind about it, and y/n would skate past him like it was nothing. if being better than him was a crime, she’d already be serving a life sentence.
your name is rosie, and it’s 2004. your 16, and known for a few things. you have big tits, a big ass and perfect blonde hair. you love to show off your body, and money, as your family is rich.
it’s the summer of 2019. and you’ve grown since 2018. you’ve grown a lot. your boobs, and your hips. and jeremiah and conrad are taking a like to it. it’s kind of embarrassing. you were all little last year. 4’11, short brown hair, glasses and green eyes. now you, 5’3, still being teased by the boys for being “short”, brown hair, long and flowy now, still those bright green eyes. with no glasses.
rosie has always felt a little out of place next to her friends, softer and chubbier, all warm curves and nervous smiles, but she’s learned to carry it with quiet confidence. chris, the boy everyone at school seems to orbit around, has never treated her like she’s invisible the way others do. he remembers her favorite snacks, saves her a seat without making it a big deal, and talks to her like she matters, which confuses her heart more than she wants to admit.
your name is rosie, and it’s 2005. your 16, and known for a few things. you have big tits, a big ass and perfect blonde hair. you love to show off your body, and money, as your family is rich. your a slut.
your name is rosie, and it’s 2025. your 16, and known for a few things. you have big tits, a big ass and perfect blonde hair. you love to show off your body, and money, as your family is rich.
it’s fifth year, and y/n wears baggy trousers slung low,a school shirt, the top two buttons undone, and her tie never done properly, hair always down and in a natural, straight pattern. she doesn’t bother with makeup or trying to look like anything she’s not, and somehow that makes her stand out more than people who do. there’s a quiet confidence about her, a softness paired with sharp edges, like she knows exactly who she is even when the world doesn’t.
Rosie was the kind of girl people looked at without really seeing. She moved through the halls quietly, soft-spoken and a little shy, her confidence always a step behind her smile. She was curvy and effortlessly pretty, the sort of pretty that felt warm instead of sharp, but somehow the attention never found her. The one person who truly knew her was Nick—her loud, fiercely loyal best friend who happened to be gay and happened to be the brother of Matt, the boy she couldn’t stop thinking about. Matt was everything she wasn’t: calm, popular, impossible to read. Whenever he laughed at something Nick said, Rosie felt it in her chest like a secret only she was carrying. She wanted, more than anything, to be brave enough to step out of the background and into a story where he might finally notice her.
the rink smells like cold metal and old ice, the kind that sticks in y/n’s lungs when she breathes too deep. it’s early. too early. the lights hum overhead, harsh and unforgiving, and y/n likes it that way. it gives her something to focus on that isn’t the way her hands won’t stop shaking.
hawkins is quieter after everything, like the town finally learned how to breathe through its nose instead of its mouth. steve thinks he should feel older, tougher, like a guy who survived the end of the world and got a cool scar to prove it. mostly he just feels twenty and confused and way too aware of his own hands.
you are 13, with two boy best freinds. your all going through that awkward growing up stage. you, just getting your period, growing boobs and a nice ass.