OK, it's 8:21, I'm done with my Geometry homework, forgot my Forensics rough draft in my locker, and so...I'M GONNA UPDATE!

and the crowd goes wild! Or, they would, if they didn't all just faint from shock...

ANYway, I actually had to go back an re-read my last chapter to remember what happened! Now THAT'S bad!

ANYway, thank you SO much for the reviews, they really make my day!

A/N. OK, gonna get a little personal here. A lot of the things Chris is going to be revealing about his feelings are very personal. My Mom had seven children, four husbands, and was (is) a drug addicted alcoholic with mental problems. She lives only ten miles away, but I never see her. I live a resonably happy life with my Dad and grandma, though I won't lie, I would kill to have a mother like the 'real' Piper is. She doesn't want me, I got over that a long time ago, but like I said, a lot of the things Chris feels here are things I felt. Feel.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

Chris hardly slept at all that night. He lie awake in the dark, pondering, mulling over the premonition he'd had.

Yeah, he knew what it was. After all, he WAS a with, he practiced both Magic and Wicca, knew that a Witch could acquire new powers throughout her (or in his case, his,) life. He just...didn't expect to receive visions!

'Maybe Mom had premonitions,' he thought, smiling at the thought. He had three powers, not including seeing the future: he could move things with just a flick of the wrist, make things explode (Grandpa REALLY didn't like that one!) And instantly be anywhere in the blink of an eye, 'Orbing', as his old Whitelighter had called it. He wasn't a fan of that one. Handy, yes, though he always tended to be rather ill after orbing anywhere.

With four powers, it was likely that I got at least ONE from Mom! He reasoned. The thought that his mother had passed something like that to him made him fell nice, as though a part of her was still there with him!

Having only been a year old when Piper left him with Victor, Chris had no memories of her. Chris loved his Grandpa more than he loved anyone on Earth, and he let him know that. It was just...

He wanted to know what it felt like to come home from school, and have your Mother waiting there with a hug, dinner, and a cheery "How was your day?" Wanted to know how it felt to be nine years old with the flu, and have Mom stay home all day, taking care of you, holding you on her lap, wanting to make you feel better. Wondered what it was like to make a third-grade-class Mothers Day card for your mother, and not you great Aunt Lily in Minnesota, who you've never even met. How did it feel to see the looks on your mothers face when she bravely tried your first home-ec project, and, good or not, beamed proudly and told you they where excellent.

What was it like to spend Fathers Day with your father? To be able to play one-on-one with Dad? To be four, and wrestle on the floor with him?

Victor had always been there for Chris, and he always would be. He took care of Chris when he was sick, proudly displayed the mis happen clay cat he'd made in fourth grade, was there when he got home, but...

As much as Chris loved his grandpa, and as much as Chris thought of him as his Dad...

...he wasn't Chris's father,

He wasn't Mom.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

When he was twelve, Victor had told him the whole story. How his mother and aunts (he had Aunts! which probably meant Uncles. And cousins too!) Had left Chris with them for a week, and they hadn't come back. He challenged Grandpas assumptions, going into a months-long rant about how Magic could erase memories, block people from finding one another, could make it impossible to follow a map to their new home. Grasping at straws to find a rational reason for leaving him.

And it broke Victors heart.

He couldn't bring himself to burst Chris's bubble. How do you tell a twelve year old boy that his mother doesn't want him? You don't. You let him believe his own story, if that's what makes him happy.

And that had always been a big deal for Victor. If he could have helped it, Chris would never had been denied anything he wanted. Even when money was tight, he tyrned down overtime hours on weekends, so he could spend time with Chris. He never wanted Chris to be displeased with his upbringing, to start wondering how much better he'd have it if his parents were around.

Chris wondered constantly how it would be to live with his parents, though he never thouight he'd be HAPPIER, per say. Just maybe...fulfilled. Like there would suddenly be a gap filled, where he never knew one existed, like a missing puzzle piece.

And he'd found the piece.

That house, the sprawling Victorian...he could see it clear as day, as though he'd spent his entire life there, instead of a second and a half.

If he could find that house, he knew, just KNEW, he'd find his family.

And with that thought drifting in his mind, Chris finally fell asleep.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Yet Victor lay awake ling into the night. He knew nothing of Chris's vision of course, but he'd spent countless nights awake, worrying about Chris like any normal parent. He wanted Chris to be happy and healthy, and while they might be simple wants, they seemed to be impossible in Victors eyes.

He turned over on his bed, and looked at the photos sitting on his night stand, all of Chris. Chris was his pride and joy, always had been. He loved showing him off to his coworkers, bragging about him...

The oldest picture sat in a chipped black frame. It was a snapshot of Chris when he almost two. Victor had taken a whole role of film that week; Chris had just learned to walk. Victor had worried himself sick for months, since he seemed to be past the 'normal' age for learning. But Chris was stubborn, and apparently just preferd to be carried everywhere. But after he finally puilled himself up to the coffee table on one (surprising the living Hell out of Victor) he was immediately into everything. For months after, it was "Chris, don't touch that!" And "no, Chris! Come here!", with Victor always trailing behind his trouble making grandson.

But Chris had learned a very valuable skill at that age; how to weasel his way out of trouble. All he had to do when Grandpa was scolding him was look up at him with his crystal green eyes, offer up a sheepish grin, and Victor would just smile, shake his head and go, 'Those eyes are gonna get me in trouble one day, kid."

Grinning, he turned his attention to the next photo.

This one featured Christopher at the age of eight, though he was so runty, he looked about six. It was one Chris begged Victor to throw in the dumpster. He was bare of clothes but for his underwear, but was covered in a blanket of flour. And chocolate syrup. It had been Victors birthday, and Chris wanted to surprise him with a cake. But all that Chris new went into cake was flour, eggs, and chocolate. So he grabbed a cereal bowl, poured a bottled of Hershey straight in. The flour, however, was kept in a cabinet above the counter. So Chris, being crafty, grabbed his bowl by the brim, climbed up on the counter, and pried the lid of the tupperware that held the flour. He grabbed a handful, plopped it in his bowl, reached for another one...

And ended up knocking the entire canister down right on his head. Shell-shocked, he fell off the counter, his bowl soaring out of his hands, and landed with a "flump' on the kitchen carpet.

He wasn't hurt, just surprised. And when Victor came running into the kitchen, to see what was going on, he looked a real sight.

Victor had taken on look at the boy, and ran off laughing to find the camera. And run a bath.

The last picture was Victors favorite. Taken only a year ago, at a Forensics tournament. Chris had taken second, qualifying for a spot at State, and taking his highest placement of the year. And he looked ecstatic. He beamed proudly, grinning ear-to-ear as he displayed his medal. They gave out crappy medas at that town' about the size of a silver dollar, no pin on the back, but Chris didn't care. Only the top six placed in a tournament, and there had been over twenty in Chris's event.

Victor hadn't seen him smile like that in three god damned years.

He had scores of pictures tucked away in boxes and ziploc bags. He'd taken snapshots at every event. Every first day of school, every tournament, every lost tooth...

His mind more at ease now, Victor reached over, turned off the lamp, and went to sleep.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Chris could hear in his sleep. Well, his dream mind could. And right now, he heard a voice, a womans voice. It chilled him, as it always did when he dreamt. Going through the day in almost silence, then hearing voices of friends and enemies in his sleep.

Chris first thought was, Mom?

The voice kept reciting something, over and over...

"1329, Prescott Street."

1395...no, 1239m no...damn it, who was that?

Chris turned around, looking for that voice...

"1329, Prescott Street," came the voice again, and suddenly, with a dizzying whirl, Chris found himself in a house, with the strongest feeling of deja vu he'd ever had. Here where stained glass windows surrounding him, with white wicker furniture...

And a woman. And a man...

He didn't know the man, but the woman was instantly recognizable as Piper Halliwell.

Older than in his picture, her hair shorter and grayer, but her, nonetheless.

Chris smiled broadly, forgetting for a moment that it as a dream. All he could think about was her voice. He heard her voice...after hearing almost nothing in four years...

She smiled sadly up at him. The man on the couch now stood up, but didn't advance. He mearly looked at the boy with a look...a look of ...longing? Sandess? Regret?

Suddenly, Piper siezed his hand roughly, and traced on his palm with her fingures as she said, once more,

"1329, Prescott street. She'll be there. She needs you."

Chris looked down at his palm, where the words his mother had been repeateing where not written on his skin in sparkling blue...ink?

"Who's 'she? Will you be there? Why will she be angry?" a million questions raced through Chris's mind, but Piper just smiled and said once more, "She needs you."

Awaking with a start, Chris sat straight up in bed, sweat pouring off of him. He strained to hear her voice, to keep it with him...but he heard nothing. Always nothing.

He shook violently, dazed. His mind was screaming at him that it was a dream, go back to sleep. But something else was saying that address, over and over in his head...

He looked down at his palm, expecting to see nothing but his hand, but there it was, in shining blue letters,

1329, Prescott Street.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

I'm not pleased with this chapter. My muse is holding a grudge, or maybe he died of old age, since I havn't written here for a while. And it's short, I know. Good news? By the end of the chapter after next, Chris and Piper will meet!