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Chapter Text

“Summer has finally arrived!” Daniel Radcliffe announces as he puts the last of his bags into the back of Billy Bragg’s camper van. He then shields his eyes against the sky’s dazzling azure and the merry dance of the birds. “I don’t know about you, Billy, but I’ve got a feeling this camping trip will our turning point for 2025.”
Billy Bragg slides onto the driver’s seat and puts the keys into the ignition.
“I don’t know, Daniel. My inbox is still blowing up with threats. I don’t think the TERFs are going to leave us alone any time soon. They’re still obsessing over JK Rowling’s essay about my music, and—”
“Billy! I thought we agreed we aren’t going to worry about you-know-who. Isn’t that the purpose of this trip?”
“Easier said than done, Danny. We can’t even look at our phones without having some TERF scream at us. How are we going to use our satnavs without getting harassed?”
“We’ll use a map, like the old-fashioned way. You still remember how, right?”
“Err… yeah, sure.” Billy Bragg clears his throat uneasily. “Hop on, now. We’d better get going if we want to make it to Cornwall before it gets dark.”
And so they say no more about it and hit the road. That is, until they slowly realise that they should have arrived in Cornwall three hours ago.
“Errr, Billy? You haven’t got us lost, have you?” Daniel tentatively asks.
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then why are all the signs in Welsh?”
“Eh? That can’t be right.”
“Oh yeah?” Daniel points out the window. “Croeso i Caerdydd, Billy.”
“Oh, for the love of!” Billy Bragg pulls over with a slam of the brakes. His head hung low, he runs a hand through his hair. “This is beyond ridiculous. You-know-who is taking over our lives, Daniel. It’s time we do something about this.”
“Okay, but can we stretch our legs first? We’ve been in here for at least six hours.”
They walk around Cardiff in a lingering, ruminative silence. Everybody stops and stares at them in polite admiration whilst respectfully maintaining their distance, because — you know — Cardiff. They venture into the heart of the city. In the waning dusk, a building illuminates before them in a dazzling magenta. Upon closer inspection, they read the words ‘The Queer Emporium’.
“Hey, this place looks gayer than the rest of Cardiff.” Daniel Radcliffe says. “I bet they can help us.”
Luckily the place is not too busy. Awaiting them is a tall muscly shopkeeper with a lengthy beard full of flaming purple streaks. And so the two go in and explain their situation:
“I just don’t get it.” Daniel Radcliffe concludes. “All we did was accept trans people. Why are we getting punished for that?”
“Yes.” Billy Bragg agrees. “It’s as if JK Rowling and her hypocritical misogyny are trying to drag everyone way back into the past, back to the 1950s.”
A crafty little smirk spreads across the shopkeeper’s face.
“Hmm. That gives me an idea…” They stroke their beard, before swiping their keys and calling to their colleagues:
“You girls cover for me. I gotta get to the garage…”

Chapter Text

JK Rowling walks out of Lidl. Of course, this isn’t her usual choice of shop, but the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Cardiff left her so famished that she resorted to running inside and buying a meal deal from the first shop she saw.
Before she could tuck into her sandwich, though, she spots a shouty man across the road. He points his megaphone at the customers, shouting in a voice louder than his Lidl trainers:
“Fornicators! Burn in hell. Left-handers! Burn in hell. Queers! Burn in hell.”
Hellfire this, hellfire that.
Et cetera, et cetera.
Nobody bats an eyelid, because — you know — Cardiff, and all the university students joke that he is Lidl’s new mascot.
JK Rowling glares at the students, her nostrils flaring.
How dare they make fun of this man, who is doing such brilliant noble work? She thinks. How dare they demonise him for telling the TRUTH?
She crosses the road and approaches Lidl Mascot with her practised smile:
“Good day to you, sir. My name is Joanne and you have every reason to believe bad times are coming, all thanks to these pesky transgenders. Lucky for us, I received a mystery email this morning, inviting me to host a secret anti-trans meeting here in Cardiff, at The Queer Emporium. It says that I can have as many plus ones as I like. Won’t you come along?”
Lidl mascot throws his hands into the air.
“Hallelujah!” He cries. “At last someone in this city is making sense! I’d be delighted to be invited!”
Together they walk into the city centre, keeping their eyes peeled for The Queer Emporium, though this proves unnecessary when the building turns out to be illuminated in magenta, anything but subtle.
Inside, only one other person turns up to the meeting, an angry skinny lad with his hood up and his scowl on the floor, bringing the meeting to a grand total of three participants. JK Rowling is far from happy with this turnout. After a mighty huff, she grabs her notes and slides on her red reading glasses, lecturing the almost empty building:
“As everybody knows, trans ideology was invented in 1984. Try not to get confused with Orwell’s dystopic novel — which I have definitely read — but honestly, what’s the difference?”
She lets out a dry chuckle, which soon sours when nobody joins her laughter. She scowls at her audience and proceeds:
“Since that fateful year the world has gone to hell. Now more than ever, the fight continues for our right to say that the definition of a woman is—”
She is cut off when she sees Daniel Radcliffe and Billy Bragg watching her from outside the window, folding their arms with a frown. Accompanying them is a group of drag queens, their hands on their hips and ready for action.
“There they are.” Daniel Radcliffe points at the meeting. “All the transphobes in Cardiff.”
“Get that bus fired up, ladies.” Billy Bragg adds. “It’s showtime!”
One drag queen breaks out her fan and cries:
“Let’s go, girls!”
JK Rowling breaks into a sweat, but she hides her panic with her wrath, which spins out of control as the drag queens march into the building, blocking the transphobes’ exit with their fabulous skirts and feathers. The drag queens corner them, then drag them outside (pun intended), into a bus.
Before the transphobes could catch their breath, the bus sprouts legs and start to run, chanting:
Legs on a bus go stomp, stomp, stomp! Legs on a bus go stomp, stomp, stomp!
JK Rowling lunches for the backseats, hoisting herself to the window. Daniel Radcliffe and Billy Bragg grin and wave goodbye as they vanish into a dark void. Bombarded by the winds, JK Rowling rocks side to side, clinging to her seat. Outside the bus, pieces of every time period swirl past the windows. They leap over an army of ancient Romans, swerve past Queen Victoria’s carriage and speed past a crowd of hippies, into The Battle of Hastings.
The bus driver gets out her microphone and announces:
“Our next stop: the year 2005.”
“No!” JK Rowling shouts over the screeching chaos. “That’s the year autism was invented!”
The bus comes to a stop. One seat ejects, and the skinny hooded transphobe shoots into the sky, into the year 2005.
Without a second to waste, the bus plunges back into the timeless void. Shortly, the driver makes another announcement.
“Our next stop: the year 1975.”
“No!” JK Rowling shouts, stamping her foot. “That’s the year homosexuality was invented!”
The bus tilts and begins to shake. JK Rowling’s fingers sink into her seat, but it is too late for Lidl Mascot, who is hanging out of the bus, fingers clawing at window’s edge.
“No!” He sobs. “Give me The Battle of Hastings! Give me The Black Death! Please! Anything but the gays!”
The bus keeps shaking, until the Lidl mascot falls out of the window.
“Oof!” He grunts as he lands face-first into 1975.
Before JK Rowling could blink, the bus breaks into another sprint. The timeless void thrashes around her like a tornado, the wind growing as strong as her rapid breaths.
“Where are you taking me?” She shouts to the driver. “Or — rather — when are you taking me?”
She gets no response, and she succumbs to her panic: what if she ends up stuck in some dreadful apocalyptic future, in which the government is WOKE and the royals are all drag queens? A godforsaken place full of pronouns and gender-neutral toilets? She breaks into a sweat. That future would be just like living in the dystopic 1984 (which she has definitely read), but with more glitter!
She almost faints at the notion, but her panic fades when the bus stops and she looks out of the window, into the the crowds of prim and proper beige.
“Our next stop.” The bus driver announces. “The year 1955.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” JK Rowling places a hand on her chest and exhales. “Thank you so much, madam, I will not forget this, I—”
One of the bus’s legs reaches through the window and literally kicks her out, into 1955. When she gets to her feet, the bus is nowhere to be seen, but she is too elated to question this. Instead, she kisses the ground, then brushes herself off and skips merrily down the street, turning every head with her song:

“Home, home, no homos for me!
No trans people as far as the eye can see!
Never again must I hold in my pee!
At last I am free!”

Too giddy to notice everyone staring at her, she eventually gets tired and sits on a bench. Two minutes later, she is joined by a man, who sits with his legs as wide apart as possible. He yawns and places his arms behind his head, practically shoving his sweaty armpit into JK Rowling’s face.
JK Rowling glares at him, nostrils flaring, but keeps her composure as she clears her throat and says:
“Excuse me. Can you budge up, please? A starfish has better spacial awareness than you.”
The man wrinkles his nose at her, as though her audacity were a carcass.
“Tough day at work.” He grunts and spreads his legs wider, somehow taking up even more space.
“As if you’re the only one.” JK Rowling hisses. “I’ve had a hard day too, actually. Now budge!”
“Oh please.” The man scoffs. “You women know nothing about real work.”
JK Rowling clenches her fists, her scowl deepening.
“I beg your pardon?” She thunders. “Do you really mean to tell me that men were terrible before the 1980s? Before transgenders were invented?”
“Eh?”
“What is your problem?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you what my problem is.” The man gets to his feet, looking down at her with a grimace. “Here I was, wanting nothing more than an hour of freedom before trudging home to my insufferable wife, only to get squawked at by some naggy old hag.”
JK Rowling jumps to her feet, glaring down at the man.
“Guess what, mister? Women make up half the population, so of course you’re going to run into a naggy old hag like me. Get used to it!”
“Oh shut it, missy!”
“Missy?” JK Rowling chuckles. “I was an old hag a minute ago. Can you at least be consistent with your misogyny, please? Oh wait a minute — You can’t!”
The man stares at her like a slapped face, his eyes set ablaze.
“Now you’re getting hysterical.”
“Right! That is it!” JK Rowling grabs her phone and fires up her Twitter. “Name?”
“Umm…” The man steps back and recoils. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to complain about you on Twitter, then you’ll be sorry. Now hold still. I need to get a good picture.”
“What, with that thing?”
“Yes. Now stop moving and say cheese.”
The man takes another step backwards and stumbles over a bin, crashing into the ground.
“Look. Just have the bench. Eat it, for all I care. I’m out of here.”
He pushes himself to his feet and bolts.
“Witch!” He cries over his shoulder.
JK Rowling is quick to shout back at him:
“Just you wait! I’ll set my TERFs on you! They’ll tear you apart limb by limb like a pack of wolves, and…”
And then she realises. Her TERFs, her disciples, her beloved followers… they haven’t been born yet. She sits at the bench, staring vacantly into the crowds before her. Not a single person knows her name, nor have they read a word of Harry Potter. Now, the notion crushes her chest, she must write all seven books all over again.
With a sudden gust of strength, she sits up straight and holds her head high. If re-writing the entire Harry Potter series from scratch is what it will take for the world to love and listen to her again, then that is what she will do.
She looks at her painted, manicured nails, then stares at the shop window before her, the reflection of her face merging with the men’s clothing on the mannequins.
“Oh no…” She says as she realises what she must do.

Chapter Text

After many days working as a window cleaner and many nights toiling over her typewriter, JK Rowling finally finishes re-writing Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. When she sends her manuscript to the publishers, however, no joy meets this accomplishment, for she is too wrapped up in the stifling discomfort of her suit and tie, which feels as oppressive and panic-inducing as a noose around the neck.
The tightness in her chest only worsens as she gazes into the bin, in which her favourite dress, her makeup and lengthy chunks of her blonde hair are piled. Her hands are bare, after having sold all her jewellery and her handbag in exchange for a decent start in the new life thrown upon her.
“What a waste…” She sighs with a tear to her eye.
She takes a deep breath and composes herself before wandering to the bathroom mirror with her eyeliner — the last of her womanhood —at the ready.
A cold terror plunges into her stomach: nothing could have prepared her for the newly transformed man staring back at her. She does not dare remove her hat and reveal her course, callously cropped hair. Instead, she pushes down her distress and uses the eyeliner to draw a false moustache onto her face.
She gives herself a forced smile, telling herself that she is pleased with her efforts. Yet, just when she thought she was coping, somebody knocks upon her door.
“Robert Galbraith?” Calls a woman’s voice. “There’s a phone call for you!”
JK Rowling grits her teeth. That ghastly male name sets off a tremulous, repulsive shockwave which shakes her bones from head to toe. Tears spring from her eyes and stream down her cheeks.
“I’m coming!” She booms in her deepest voice as she wipes her face and smudges her moustache.
Quitting her flat, she takes the phone and brings it to her ear.
“Hello?” She says, wondering how much more strain her voice could take.
“Well good day to you, sir!” Chirps a bright young man. “Are you Robert Galbraith? The author of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“Yes…?” JK Rowling says, unable to place her emotions. Despite the man’s American accent, there is something eerily familiar about his voice. It brings an unexpected comfort to her senses. Somehow, some part of her believes that she has known him all her life.
“It sure is nice meeting you, Robert.” He continues. “My name is Mr Tipton, and I want to see Harry Potter at every bookstore in this country and across the pond. What do you say you and I meet up and make it happen?”
The mere suggestion almost makes JK Rowling shriek with delight.
“Yes! Yes, of course! When?”
“Hmm, let’s take a look…” Tipton’s pause makes JK Rowling’s heart squirm with impatience. “So it looks like I’ve got some time at four this afternoon, if you wouldn’t mind stepping into my office? I know it’s short notice, and I’m awful sorry about that, but—”
“I’ll be there!”
“Swell. I’ll be seeing you in an hour, Mr Galbraith. Bye bye for now.”
JK Rowling punches the air as she hangs up the phone. Without a moment to waste, she grabs her coat and dashes out the door, towards the publisher’s office. She does get lost along the way, because — you know — Cardiff, but she arrives at her destination just in time, breathless and exhilarated.
The secretary greets her with a sweet smile and directs her into Mr Tipton’s office. Shortly after settling down, the door opens behind her.
“Why hello there! You must be Robert Galbraith. Right on time, as well. Shall we get started?”
JK Rowling turns around, and that’s when she sees him: Billy Tipton (seriously, look him up).
“Oh my days…” JK Rowling’s jaw drops to the floor. “You’re… you’re Billy Tipton. The Billy Tipton!”
“Yes, sir-y! Here in the flesh.” Tipton chirps, extending his hand.
JK Rowling seizes his hand and shakes fervently, like a dog with a chew toy.
“Whoa! Steady on, fella…”
“Mr Tipton — goodness me — what a honour! I am your biggest fan. I listen to your music all the time, since as long as I can remember. I have all of your records. All of them!”
“Well shucks, Mr Galbraith, that is awful nice of you.”
“Please. Call me Robert.”
“For sure, Robert. Can I get you anything before we get started?”
“You can tell me this: what are you doing here in Cardiff? Surely they want you touring all over America?”
“Well that’s exactly it, Robert. I’m on hiatus. Jazz is great and all, and it’ll always be the love of my life, but I really needed a change. All that fame was really getting me down, you know? I just couldn’t get any peace and quiet anymore back in the states. But here? Everybody admires my work, sure, but even as a celebrity they respect my boundaries, because — you know — Cardiff.” Tipton pours himself a pint of coffee before sitting down. “Now enough about me. I wanna talk more Hogwarts and how we’re gonna get Harry Potter off the ground.”
JK Rowling chuckles at his pun.
“You really did read it?” She asks breathlessly.
“Sure did. Kept me up all night. I just couldn’t put the darn thing down. This is my twelfth cup of Joe today. I would get real mad at you, if your writing weren’t so good.”
JK Rowling could scarcely believe her ears. All the decades of glory which have showered her since the late ‘90s, all the splendid film adaptations blaring on the big screen, all the crowds of school children screaming her name… that all amounts to nothing compared to Billy Tipton’s approval.
However, her ecstasy wavers when a slight frown creeps onto Tipton’s brow.
“Now, Robert, I’m gonna have to beg your pardon and speak to you frankly for a spell.”
JK Rowling forces a thin, wavering smile.
“Yes…?”
Tipton steadily lines his fingers and looks her dead in the eye.
“Your moustache. It’s smudged.”
Panic smashes into her heart with the force of a donkey’s kick.
He knows! Her mind screams. He knows I’m a woman!
The notion is made all the more real as Tipton continues:
“You really should’ve took a long look in the mirror, pal.”
“But… but I couldn’t…”
“How come?”
“I just couldn’t!” JK Rowling snaps with tears in her eye. “It’s too painful, too horrible, far too horrible!”
Tipton sighs and considers, his scrutiny softened.
“I get it.” He says at last. “But you’re gonna have to take extra care, if you’re the type of guy I think you are. We can’t have you in any trouble, can we? Not unless we wanna let Harry down.”
JK Rowling does not hear him, for she is busy sinking into her seat with her eyes on the floor.
“Let me fix it.” Tipton says.
JK Rowling snaps back into reality.
“F…fix it?”
“Sure. We can get you a new moustache. So long as you promise to be more careful in the future.”
“Yes, of course…” JK Rowling’s relief is dizzying. “Why are you being good to me, Tipton?”
“Because. Guys like us should stick together. No other way through it.”
JK Rowling is unsure what he means. Not wishing to pursue the matter, she just smiles and nods.
“Excellent.” Tipton grabs his bag. “To the gents’ room.”

***
Later, JK Rowling clings onto her umbrella as she walks home through the rain, all broody, moody and wet. Normally, she would have taken cover and waited, and Tipton did offer exactly that. This time, though, all she could think about is freeing herself from the awful male clothing — not to mention that horrendous moustache Tipton drew — and so off into the rain soaked streets she goes.
I cannot stand another moment of being a man! Her mind rages the moment she bustles into her flat, into the bathroom.
She throws off her hat, slams her suit and tie to the ground and, toothbrush in hand, she vigorously scrubs her moustache for a solid ten minutes, only to have the wretched thing remain perfectly intact, not a molecule out of place.
Fuelled with rage and despair, she scrubs away with a flannel, a pot scrubber, a toilet brush. After an hour, she collapses in fury and exhaustion. She succumbs to her gender dysphoria and ponders. It seems gender dysphoria is not a button one can simply switch off.
It seems gender dysphoria cannot be sorted with a simple drop of the hat… (get it?)

Chapter Text

Having re-written all seven books in the Harry Potter series, JK Rowling sits back and smiles, though any sense of joy and accomplishment is remote and distant. It is as though positive emotion is reduced to a distant memory, as though her former self were severed like a horcrux, its pieces taunting her across the table. Her true self is so close yet so far. Gender dysphoria really is proving itself far worse than any curse, worse than any soul-sucking fiend in the wizarding world.
She sits back and closes her eyes, attempting to adjust to her new normal. Except this is all far from normal, no matter what she tells herself, no matter how many different suits or ties she tries on, and no amount of time will change that. After many months living as a man, she fears she loses another piece of herself by the day, for there can be no peace between her mind and body.
Such fears follow her like dementors as she ventures outside and meets Tipton by the bank.
“It’s been done.” She says, her voice distant and weedy, as though coming from an invisible wireless.
“The seventh book? Already? Wowie. Congrats, my man!” Tipton gave her a hearty clap to the shoulder. “This needs celebrating. A boring old bank ain’t gonna cut it. How about you and I grab a pint down the pub after this?”
“Umm, I don’t know…” JK Rowling’s eyes dart about the street, searching for an excuse. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense! Having a drink with the author of Harry Potter? Just you wait, Robert: soon that’ll be everybody’s dream. So come on. What do you say?”
Robert.
The name sears her mind and charges down her spine.
Her gaze wanders to a distant bench, on which three young women sit. One sits in the middle, twiddling her mirror in anticipation as one friend ties up her hair whilst the other adorns her bun with flowers and jewels. Once her makeover is complete, the young woman gasps, smiling at her mirror in disbelief. She rises to her feet with a twirl, gliding along the pavement with the ease of a cloud on a bright summer’s day. She places her hands on her hips and puts on a voice, obviously doing an impression.
Her friends roar with laughter, clutching their bellies and throwing their heads to the evening sky. They hop to their feet and, arms linked, they make their way to a restaurant, the skirts of their dresses fluttering like the wings of fresh butterflies leaving the cocoon: free, vibrant and thirsty for life.
“Thanks for all the help.” The middle woman says, her anxiety creeping into her smile. “I still can’t believe it: me on a date! I wonder what he’ll be like…”
“He’d better be a gentleman.” Her friend replies. “Or else he’ll have me to answer to.”
“And me.” The third woman agrees. “Just remember: we’ll be right around the corner, just down Royal Arcade. We’ll get some of that fancy chocolate, in case he turns out to be a pig. So whatever happens it’s a win-win, really.”
JK Rowling’s heart melts, overwhelmed with the nostalgia of womanhood, of sisterhood, of a joy which she may never know again. The women gaze across the street and stare back at her, their faces souring.
“Eww, what’s he gawking at?”
“Creep.”
“Just ignore him.”
JK Rowling falls feint, as though the women’s rejection had knocked her further out of her world, if that were even possible…
“Hello? Earth to Robert?” Tipton clicks his fingers before her. “You okay there, pal?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, yes. The pub. Splendid idea.”
“Sweet. Can’t wait to introduce you to the boys.” Tipton says as they make their way into the bank. “Charlie’s a veteran. A real gentleman and a fighter. He’s never short on a good story. And Freddy? Good luck handling him — he once drank eight pints in less than three minutes! Yep, those two sure are a hoot.”
JK Rowling shudders, but she smiles through her cringe.
“Delightful.” She dismally replies.
Their appointment with the banker starts as a blur, for she is consumed by dread for the evening to come. An evening filled with loud, stupid, disgusting men. No doubt she’ll be expected to partake in their absurd drinking games, when all she truly wants is to crawl back into her flat and hide from the world forever.
The banker finishes the meeting, but JK Rowling is none the wiser. Not until she snaps back into reality when the banker utters the words ‘a transaction of money’.
“A WHAT action of money?” JK Rowling thunders, much to the confusion of the two men.
“Umm…” The banker scratches his head. “A transaction of money.”
“No!” JK Rowling retorts. “I didn’t come here for a TRANS action of money, and I certainly don’t want a CIS action of money either, because that would be an offensive slur. Just an ACTION of money, please.”
“Err… what?” The banker exchanges puzzled looks with Tipton. “We don’t do those.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because there’s no such thing.”
“What? Of course there is! What sort of bank do you call this?”
“Well. I’d very much like to see it in the dictionary.” The banker wryly comments.
“Good.” JK Rowling switches on her phone and begins scrolling through her photos. “Because I happen to have a screenshot of the definition, from when I was writing my last essay about Nationwide and why its stupid WOKE attitude needs to die. Now where is it…?”
She scrolls past dozens of files labelled ‘transvestigating’ and opens the folder titled ‘Anti-WOKE Resistance’, which is composed of hundreds of thousands of screenshots. This only worsens JK Rowling’s mood when she inevitably become in her past bigotry.
“I used the last of my power bank for this?” She mutters through gritted teeth.
“Power bank?” The banker raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like competition. Should I be worried?”
“Shh! How dare you interrupt me? So rude!” JK Rowling barks as she sinks deeper into the phone’s electric glow.
She stops dead, her clutched fingers as frozen as a corpse’s. Her heart wallops her chest as she stares at the background of the screenshot of a tweet. In the corner of the image, is Tipton’s face, paired with the title ‘No Ordinary Man: A Transgender Icon of the 1950s’.
JK Rowling’s jaw drops to the floor. All that can move are her eyes, which dart from Tipton, to the phone, then back to Tipton.
“Oh…” She drops the phone, sweat pouring down her face in torrents. “Oh no… no, no, no, no, NO! NOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOoooo!”
“Robert?” Tipton cries. “What in the world’s gotten into you?”
JK Rowling couldn’t answer, for her words are consumed by her panting.
“Woah. Steady on, fella.” Tipton reaches for her shoulder.
JK Rowling lets out a mighty shriek and lurches backwards, causing her to fall off her chair. She pushes herself off the ground and bolts to the bathroom, only to stop dead at the door.
Vomit is on the rise, but she couldn’t go into the men’s room — there might be a trans man in there! She turns to the neighbouring door, but she couldn’t possibly use the ladies’ room either — there might be a trans woman in there!
She has no choice but to vomit in the plant pot at the reception, to the immense dismay of all the staff, who stare at her with a wrinkled nose and a shudder. She lifts her face out of the leaves, where she finds the ignited glare of the banker.
“Get… out…” He says, voice shaking with rage and revulsion.
JK Rowling stumbles out the building, lunging for a banister to steady her balance. She closes her eyes and tilts her head to the sky, greedily inhaling the fresh air.
“Robert?” Tipton soon disturbs her peace. He runs outside and hands her the phone. “You dropped your gizmo. What happened back there? Did the tiny pocket machine melt your brains again? Which costume shop did you get it from anyhow?”
JK Rowling glares at him, her nostrils flaring, her rage pummelling her veins.
“You! I trusted you, Tipton… I… I used the same bathroom as you!”
“Err… yes? Many times.” Tipton’s tone remains casual, but concern creeps into his brow. “How come you’re looking at me like that, Robert? Why are you foaming at the mouth?”
JK Rowling clenches her fists, takes a deep breath and thrusts a finger at his face.
“YOU HAVEN’T BEEN INVENTED YET!” She screams.
“What?” Tipton cringes at the crowds staring at them. “I don’t get it.”
“You… you stay away from me, Billy! Or whatever your real name is!”
JK Rowling’s fury wipes away her fatigue with one violent swoop. Thus, she regains her balance and bolts down Royal Arcade, through Cardiff Castle, sprinting across the heart of the city, pushing her legs until she collapses in exhaustion.
She grasps for a lamp post and hauls herself to her feet. It is only after she assures herself of Tipton’s absence, could she relax and catch her breath. Her chest is heavy with a bone-splitting ache and her knees wobble with fatigue. As sweat soaks her clothes, she forgets any notion of walking home and wanders to a bus stop.
Upon her arrival, the sight awaiting her is enough to revive her panic tenfold: before her, in black and white, the words ‘public transport’ are advertised.
“Public WHAT port?” She whispers to herself.
Her head is spinning. First the trans action of money… and now this?
Slowly, she realises what is happening.
Trans people have taken over the 2020s, then the 1980s and now…
She gasps aloud.
“Trans ideology is invading the 1950s!” She cries to herself. “Of course! Billy Tipton is a time traveller! Why else would there be transness in 1955?”
She succumbs to hopelessness, then panic. Tipton must be sent on a mission to brainwash everyone and hijack human history and take over the world. She must stop him, but how?
Her answer comes to her through the megaphone across the street.
“Fornicators! Burn in hell. Left handers! Burn in hell. Queers! Burn in hell.”
Hellfire this, hellfire that.
Et cetera, et cetera.
JK Rowling holds her breath and racks her brains. She’s heard that voice before, she’s sure of it. But from where? Or, rather, from when?
She lifts her gaze above the bustling crowd, her panic clearing in the blink of an eye.
“Lidl Mascot!” She cries as she hurries across the street.
The familiar face ignites at once a spark of hope: if Lidl Mascot could have somehow escaped the 1970s in order to join her in the 1950s, then perhaps there is a way they could flee this godforsaken era and return home to the 2020s.
When she gets close enough to see that this man’s eyes are blue instead of brown, her hope falters. This couldn’t be Lidl Mascot. The sudden appearance of freckles and the absence of Lidl trainers makes that all too apparent.
Of course! She realises. This must be Lidl Mascot’s grandfather. The spitting image of his grandson. A true generation Xerox! I suppose he’ll have to do.
“Good day to you, sir.” She dons on her practised smile. “I am… an old family friend and you have every reason to believe bad times are coming. I fear our respectful community is being plagued upon by time travelling transgenders from the future. That is why I, Robert Galbraith, am setting up a transvestigators club right here in Cardiff. How would you like to be my first member?”
“Hallelujah!” Lidl Mascot’s grandfather cries, his hands in the air. “At last someone in this city is making sense! I’d be delighted to be invited!”

Chapter Text

JK Rowling taps her foot and crossly fusses with her watch. The Transvestigators Club meet-up begun fifteen minutes ago and only two people have shown up: Lidl Mascot’s grandfather and a young red-haired woman with a bored and sombre look upon her face.
“Where are all the welsh cakes?” She asks.
“Excuse me?” JK Rowling throws another heated glance out her window.
“The welsh cakes.” The young woman continues. “The sign outside said there’ll be free tea and welsh cakes. That’s the only reason why I turned up to this meeting. What exactly are transvestigators anyway?”
JK Rowling growls and dumps the welsh cakes on the woman’s lap. Having decided to get rid of her idiotic audience as quickly as possible, she switches off the lights and fires up her projector.
“Marilyn Monroe.” She commences, presenting the famous air vent slide. “Or should I say Marilyn MANroe? See how HE’s holding down HIS dress? Clearly HE’s hiding something. Can you honestly say it’s a coincidence that, in all three of Monroe’s marriages, the surname remains the same? No! That only happens to men! And Liz Taylor? More like Liz MALEor. And our so-called queen Elizabeth Windsor? Elizabeth MISTER. Man, man, man! They’re all MEN! And what do all these MEN have in common? They’re all too feminine! Clearly this is overcompensation. And whilst we’re on the topic of overcompensation.”
JK Rowling projects an image of several nuclear family models.
“Notice how in every one of these the man is very masculine and the woman is very feminine? Tell me, why is it that gender roles are prevalent here? Why are all the men desperate to be seen as ‘real men’? Why do they exude so much misogyny? Because they’re all WOMEN!”
“Yes…” Lidl Mascot’s grandfather ponders her words. “Every man I’ve met treats femininity like it’s the plague. They’re simply terrified of it… Oh good heavens, they’re trans! And look.”
He points at the nuclear family models.
“They’re transgendering their children with their pushy ideologies! And then they will transgender their children. No wonder the twenty-first century is doomed!”
Perplexed, the young redhead raises a hand.
“None of this makes any sense. Why on earth would a man pretend to be a woman? What’s in it for him?”
“I know!” Lidl Mascot’s grandfather cries. “They did it to get out of fighting in the last world war. I don’t see why else the Queen would have a jawline.”
“Yes.” JK Rowling says. “Excellent work, Lidl Mascot’s grandfather. I hereby promote you to teacher’s pet.”
This only deepens the young redhead’s confused frown.
“But that doesn’t explain the women pretending to be men…”
“Shush!” JK Rowling snaps. “There will be a Q&A after the slide show. Just. Wait.”
“Q&A?” The young woman laughs. “More like Q and more Q.”
Both heads jolt towards the young woman. The room falls deathly silent.
“Sounds like something a transgender would say…” JK Rowling says, eyes narrowed.
“Yes.” Lidl Mascot’s grandfather agrees. “Come to think of it, she does have man eyes with man energy…”
“Looks like HE forgot to put HIS make up on.”
“What?” The young woman rises to her feet and slowly backs away. “No, I just don’t like the way it feels. Besides, if I did wear it you’d just say I’m too feminine. Either way, I am not a man.”
“Guilty!” JK Rowling thrusts a finger at her. “That’s another thing transgenders say!”
“Oh dear lord…” The young woman grasps for the door. “I gotta get out of here.”
She hauls open the door, but her exit is impeded by a large policeman.
“Hello, hello, hello. What’s all this then?”
“Officer!” JK Rowling’s smile returns in a flash. “How nice you’ve taken an interest in my club. Won’t you please join us for a cup of tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The policeman removes his helmet and sinks into an armchair with a ginormous huff. “Busy day. I’m shattered, I am. I’ve been all around this neighbourhood warning everyone about this Transvestigators Club. We’ve been having complaints about them obsessing over everyone’s genitals. Watching them in the bathroom and so forth. I don’t suppose you’ve seen or heard anything of the kind, sir?”
The teacup and saucer wobble in JK Rowling’s grasp.
“Err… no…” She awkwardly clears her throat and hands him the tea. “Welsh cake, anybody?” She adds, eager to change the subject.
Before anyone could respond, somebody knocks upon the door.
“Robert?” Tipton calls. “I’ve found a bank that hasn’t kicked you out. It’s pretty far out, so I suggest we get going sooner rather than later.”
JK Rowling marches to the door and throws it open.
“Why hello there, Robert.” Tipton’s confusion slows his words. “Say, what’s with the copper over there?”
JK Rowling spins to the policeman, thrusting a finger at Tipton.
“That’s your real criminal, Officer! Billy Tipton is a time travelling transgender, and is on a mission to bring us all to ruin with the wicked ways of the twenty-first century!”
“What?” Tipton gawks at JK Rowling. “That’s crazy talk, Robert. I was born in 1914. I’m no time traveller.”
The policeman sips his tea and strokes his moustache pensively.
“I can see why that would be a terrible inconvenience, Mr Galbraith, but unfortunately time travel is not a crime.”
“What?” JK Rowling thunders. “But Officer! This is breaking the laws of space and time! How can it not be illegal?”
“Because it doesn’t exist, sir.”
“Yes it does! And I’m going to prove it!”
JK Rowling marches to a towering pile of worn note books and takes the one on the top, causing them to tumble and cover the floor with transvestigating records.
“Look!” She opens the notebook and shoves it under the policeman’s nose. “These past few days I’ve disguised myself as a cleaner and kept watch of the public toilets. If you look here, Officer, you’ll see plenty of examples of sit-down wees from the men’s room. And look! I’ve even found some ‘ladies’ hovering whilst they urinate. I caught them red handed!”
An explosive revulsion plunges into Tipton’s eyes.
“You… You watched these people take a whiz?” He breathes, voice shaking.
“Don’t say it like that!” JK Rowling chides. “You’re making it sound weird.”
“It is weird! It’s extremely weird! It’s as weird as weird gets!”
“Oh, be quiet!” JK Rowling stuffs her arms full of the other notebooks and hauls them to the policeman’s feet. “There’s plenty more where that came from, Officer. It was hard work, but I’ve tracked down every time travelling transgender in town.”
The policeman finishes his tea and shakes his head.
“Right. I think I’ve heard enough of this.” He rises to his feet and whips out a pair of handcuffs. “Robert Galbraith you are under arrest for the breach of privacy.”
“Wh-what?” JK Rowling stammers. “No! Please! You don’t understand!”
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something now which you later rely on in court.”
The policeman fastens the handcuffs around her wrists and drags her out of the room.
“Well you must be trans yourself, Officer!” JK Rowling pokes at his sagging jowls. “No jawline, I see. And is that a CURVE in your spine?”
Failing to get a response, she clenches her teeth and lunges for the doorway, her nails sinking into the wood as she cries into the flabbergasted room:
“Fine! I’d rather go to prison than respect your stupid pronouns anyway!”
Her grip slips, leaving each fingernail with a hunk of wood trapped underneath.
The policeman leads her down the stairs and into the police car with a grim silence, which persists long into the journey.
That is, until, they arrive and JK Rowling looks out the window to see ‘Men’s Prison’ written upon the sign. Her eyes widen with a terrible jolt to the heart. She had forgotten that she is still dressed as a man.
“Officer, no!” She cries. “I can’t go there. You have to send me to the women’s prison instead!”
“Ha!” The policeman barks. “You’d like that, wouldn't you Mr Galbraith? As if I’d send a pervert like you over there!”
“But Officer! I am a woman! I’ve only been pretending to be a man so I can publish my books. I may as well come clean here and now. My real name is Joanne and I come from the future. Here I was, minding my own business in the year 2025, when some drag queens kidnapped me into the 1950s by putting me on a bus with legs! Can’t you see? The transgenders have ruined everything yet again! But I can change it, I can nip them in the bud, I can stop them from invading the future in the first place! We can re-write history, Officer. We can re-write our fates. What do you say?”
The policeman narrows his eyes, studying her in stupefied silence, before throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.
“I’ve heard some tall tales from the loony crooks I’ve arrested over the last forty years.” The policeman wipes the tears from his eyes. “But you take the cake, sir.”
“STOP MISGENDERING ME!” JK Rowling thunders, stamping her foot. “You will call me MADAM!”
“I don’t know what’s more far-fetched.” The policeman continues. “You being a time traveller or you being a woman.”
He gets out and takes JK Rowling by the arm, dragging her out the car.
“Now off you pop, sir.”
JK Rowling falls limp, her body and bones saturated with dread.
“No…” She trembles. “I can’t keep pretending to be a man. I can’t take another second of it. Please! I can change it. I…”
Her words congeal in her throat, as she steps into the prison and the horrid realisation looms over her.
She will have to be a man for the rest of her life.
“I can change it…”

Chapter Text

As the summer of 2025 comes into bloom, Daniel Radcliffe and Billy Bragg wave goodbye to the drag queens and drive away into the sunset, towards the prison. They venture out of Cardiff city centre, but thankfully they don’t get lost this time, as the TERFs are finally starting to leave them alone.
“I still can’t believe it…” Daniel Radcliffe stares at his hands. “Yesterday we sent JK Rowling to 1955… Do you think she’ll be ready to see us yet?”
“Well it wasn’t yesterday for her.” Billy Bragg points out.
“Oh. Right. Time travel really fries the brain.”
“Not as much as the TERFs, Danny.”
When they arrive, Daniel Radcliffe brings a huge bouquet of flowers out of the boot, a great hefty thing bursting with all shades of green and pink. Billy Bragg raises a disapproving eyebrow.
“Really, Daniel? Flowers? After all she’s put us through?”
“Have a heart, Billy.” Good old Danny replies. “She’s been imprisoned for seventy years. Don’t you think she’s learnt her lesson by now?”
Billy Bragg holds onto his grimace as he locks the car.
“We’ll see, shall we?”
And so they wander into the prison and soon find a large, cumbersome guard with his feet upon the reception desk. It takes him a good few minutes to look up from his crosswords and address the two men before him:
“Afternoon, gents. I take it you’re here for the visiting hours?”
“Yes.” Billy Bragg replies. “We’re looking for JK Rowling.”
The prison guard furrows his brow.
“You do realise this is a men’s prison, don’t you?”
“Let me handle this, Billy.” Daniel Radcliffe steps forward. “Is there a man named Robert Galbraith here? You might want to look far back in the records.”
“Mhm-hm. Just a second, sir…”
The prison guard sucks the cheese dust from his fingers and scrolls through his laptop. He comes to a sudden stop with wide eyes and a scratch on the head.
“You sure this is your guy?” He asks. “It says here he was arrested way back in the fifties.”
“Yep. That’s our guy.” Daniel Radcliffe confirms.
The prison guard stares at them some more, unsure whether they are joking. Then, too tired to question this, he gets up and grabs the keys.
“You make your way to the visiting room. I’ll go and fetch him.”
Without another word, the two make their way to the visiting room. Inside, Daniel Radcliffe stares down at the bouquet, twiddling the tips of the leaves. He and Billy Bragg make eye contact, but neither could engage in conversation. That is, until, Billy Bragg looks up and gasps.
“Oh good heavens…” He gulps. “That can’t be her, can it?”
Daniel Radcliffe looks in his direction and joins him in his horror-stricken stare. Before them, the prison guard approaches with a wheelbarrow, in which he carries a skeleton with a moustache. The prison guard clears away the vacant chairs before parking the moustached skeleton at the table and sauntering back to reception.
Daniel Radcliffe is the first to attempt speaking:
“Joanne? This that you? Do you remember us? Can you even hear us?”
The skeleton lifts its skull with a terrible clatter, which resonates across the entire room like a thousand tiny gunshots.
“H-Harry…?” Comes a thin husk of a woman’s voice, speaking through the waving tips of the cursed moustache. “Harry… Potter…?”
Billy Bragg sniggers and elbows Daniel Radcliffe on the ribs.
“Harry Potter and the Cursed Moustache. Right, Danny?”
Daniel Radcliffe throws him an unamused glance, before turning to JK Rowling.
“Joanne. It’s us. Daniel Radcliffe and Billy Bragg, remember? We’re not angry anymore. Please, talk to us.”
“Oh, Danny.” JK Rowling laments. “Nobody’s visited me since Tipton died in 1989… And the way they talked about him afterwards, the way they interrogated his grieving widow about his private parts, on the news! That was my friend they were talking about, my only friend, who forgave me after everything! I’ve never known anger like it. The world still seems a strange place without him…”
A weighty gloom consumes the table, leaving the three of them with stupefied voices. Billy Bragg clears his throat, shuffles in his seat and forces an uneasy smile.
“So how was the fifties?”
JK Rowling sighs and shakes her skull, as well as the rest of her bones.
“Don’t listen to those internet boomers. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Definitely overrated. Would not recommend.”
“But still.” Billy Bragg maintains his awkward smile. “You managed to make a decent trip out of it, right?”
“Trip?” JK Rowling thunders. “Trip? You sent me seventy years into the past, with no hope of returning to the present, and you speak of it as though it were a surprise weekend at the beach?”
“Now, now.” Daniel Radcliffe places a hand on Billy Bragg’s shoulder and gingerly pulls him back. “Let’s not get into an argument with Joanne. She’s had enough of those to last several lifetimes. Let’s keep things nice and light for her.”
JK Rowling turns her skull towards him, in spite of the strenuous effort, and lets out a gentle laugh.
“It’s been seventy years since I’ve heard my correct name and pronouns…” Her skull slumps backwards into a pensive state. “I finally get it… I know what it is to be stuck in the wrong body, in the wrong environment, in the wrong clothes… to be laughed at just for pursuing my true self… I finally understand what it is to be transgender… and believe me it’s no picnic!”
Daniel Radcliffe and Billy Bragg exchange gobsmacked looks, their jaws hanging low.
“Is… is she really apologising?” Billy Bragg asks.
“Yes.” JK Rowling answers. “I’ve been nothing but cruel to you two. All you wanted was to provide hope for an innocent minority group. I should have commended you, but instead I had you viciously harassed for no good reason. I’m so sorry.”
“Well.” Billy Bragg scratches his chin and considers. “I suppose that makes us even, then.”
“So you forgive me?”
“Yes, Joanne.” Billy Bragg smiles. “I forgive you.”
“I forgive you too, Joanne.” Daniel Radcliffe rises to his feet and arranges the bouquet of pink flowers inside her wheelbarrow, embedding her bones with roses. “Peace offering?”
“Oh, Daniel. They’re beautiful. Thank you! Thank you both!”
A tear seeps from her empty eye socket and rolls down her skull. Then, all of a sudden…
Poof!
A cloud erupts from the wheelbarrow, leaving behind a small pile of dust crowned by the moustache. All it takes is a slight breeze to whisk away the pile, and it takes flight into the setting sun, outside the barred window.
Inside the wheel barrow, lies only the abandoned facial hair.
At last, JK Rowling is free from her cursed moustache.

The End