Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and Scholastic respectively. Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry, CBS, and Paramount Pictures. All canon characters, plots, and situations are not owned by me, and I make no profit from this story.

My gratitude goes to my beta, amazing Insanity-Red, for all her help and feedback. She's a gem, and I can't thank her enough :) Feel free to find her under my "Favourite Authors" and check out her stories.

Chapter 25

July 10, 2258 – San Francisco, California, Earth

"We were able to track down the radiation trail to Sector 229, subsector 1429-1811," Alex Marcus said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on the desk. "A Klingon scout ship was found adrift. An away team was dispatched to investigate, but shortly after they beamed over the self-destruct was activated. And then they were attacked by three Klingons."

"Did the team make it out?" Chris Pike inquired, concerned.

"Barely. Check this out," said Marcus, picking up one of the PADDs neatly stacked on his desk and passing it over to Chris.

Chris took a moment to read and reread what he saw there, brow furrowing in confusion. "What's all this gibberish? 'Lark's true pepper. Round the turbulent dirt. All job appalled comets. Glass belt judge a bin to let it'. . ."

"That's what the Klingons were shouting, while they were attacking our officers."

"Was the universal translator used for this?"

Marcus scoffed. "I can show you what the universal translator spewed out – it's even worse."

Chris wasn't sure how much worse than this it could get, but he took Marcus' word for it.

"Our best xenolinguists, Lieutenant Uhura among them, worked on this for days," said Marcus, "and that's the best they could come up with. There's a few more pages of it, with different variations, just because one word in one language can mean ten different things in another – but it doesn't get any better."

Chris offered a nod, placing the PADD back on the desk, and Marcus continued, "The away team all reported that the Klingons seemed completely batshit crazy."

"Drugged? Space madness? A virus?"

"A virus can probably be ruled out. The away team was quarantined upon return and checked out fine. They're still under close observation, just in case, but so far so good. As for the other two possibilities – I guess we'll never know. There's something else."

Marcus handed him another PADD with a short video fragment that the away team had been able to record. It showed the dimly lit interior of the Klingon scout vessel, as well as a lifeless body of what looked like . . .

"Is that –?"

"A Romulan, yes," Marcus confirmed.

"This is bizarre. How did a Romulan end up there?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"And the ship's debris?"

"Analyzed thoroughly. They found five distinct DNA sequences in the debris field – three Klingon, one Romulan, and one . . . human."

Chris looked up sharply.

"We're still running it through our databases, but at this point I doubt we'd be able to find a match."

Chris rubbed his forehead. He asked, though he already had an inkling of what the answer would be, "Any impulse or warp echoes nearby?"

"Nothing," Marcus confirmed. "If there was a trail, it went cold long ago."

Chris went silent as he contemplated the situation, standing to pace as though moving his legs would make his brain follow suit. There was a lot about the whole thing that made no sense.

"I know what you must be thinking," said Marcus. "Things aren't adding up."

"Too right they aren't," Chris replied. "Why would the Klingons violate the Neutral Zone and risk starting a war in the process and then just go and . . . do what? Beam some bomb into a random building that happened to be hosting presentations for potential new recruits? If they really wanted to do damage, they would have just fired their disruptors and torpedoes from orbit. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining – but their actions on Dolvia VII were uncharacteristically . . . restrained for Klingons. Have you ever heard of them using tactics like that? I sure haven't.

"And then, if that wasn't enough, they just turned tail and ran – only to be found in Sector 229? Where is the honour in any of this?"

"Well, the Klingons' sense of honour isn't exactly the same as ours, is it?" reasoned Marcus. "It was likely meant to be an entirely covert mission – quick in and out. Taking damage from the Constellation wouldn't have been in the plan. It was a lucky shot on our part."

It had been an excellent job on the part of the Constellation's crew. Their sensors had detected intermittent gravimetric distortions off their starboard bow, and the captain, unsure of their nature, had ordered to raise their shields and go to Yellow Alert. When the Klingons had decloaked and fired upon them, the Constellation had been ready to fire back.

"And then there's the Romulan – on a Klingon ship," continued Chris. "According to the Intelligence reports, they hate each others' guts!"

"A dead Romulan, Chris. He was already dead – who knows for how long? There were only three life signs – all Klingon – aboard the vessel when it was found."

Chris continued pacing, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Why Dolvia VII? It's largely an agricultural colony, and any military presence is primarily defensive. There is, of course, a pretty large scientific community, but their main focus is botany and zoology.

"And let us not forget about the bomb itself, admiral. I've reviewed the reports. That strange component they used? It's a Thermal Isolitic Plasma Charge – a component commonly used in Nausicaan weaponry. Do you really think that the people as proud as Klingons would use a Nausicaan component in their bomb?"

There was, of course, a great deal they still didn't know about the Klingons, but it was known that they were a proud and violent warrior race, who valued honour more than they did their lives. The actions that these Klingons had supposedly taken did not conform to what they knew about them.

It would be wrong – not to mention foolish – to stereotype, but based on the Intelligence reports and his own experiences with the species, Chris knew that the Klingons typically didn't run. They fought, even if it meant certain death. To do otherwise would be dishonourable. Going out in a blaze of glory seemed to be what every Klingon dreamed of. What was that phrase that they shouted before charging into battle, or throwing themselves into some suicidal act?

Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam. Today is a good day to die.

Marcus crossed his arms. "You forget, Chris – these Klingons weren't in their right mind."

Chris sighed. "I don't know, admiral. I get the feeling that we're missing something here – something very important. I'm sure of it."

Marcus stared at Pike for a few moments before leaning forward in his seat. "That's why I invited you here, Chris. You've had more encounters with the Klingons over the course of your career than any other living Starfleet Captain."

Four. Starting with his very first starship assignment onboard the Apollo as a green cadet, Chris had encountered the Klingons four times – four times too many as far as he was concerned – and he'd survived each one of them thanks to his ability to think fast on his feet, a working knowledge of many seemingly unrelated things, good judgement, and fair bit of luck. He'd witnessed countless crewmates blasted out into the vacuum of space, entire sections of the ship destroyed along with their crew.

Marcus handed him a PADD. Chris gave him a questioning look, accepting the device and taking a seat once more.

"Your promotion papers," Marcus explained. "And before you outright refuse again, please, hear me out. With Matt Decker gone . . ."

It was all over the news, right up there with heroic actions of James T. Kirk: the story of Commodore Matthew Decker and Lieutenant Tsugumi Ogawa, killed saving the lives of five people when the explosion brought down an entire wall and ceiling in the meeting room they were in.

Marcus sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. After a few moments, he met Chris' eyes, looking as though he'd suddenly aged a decade.

When was the last time Marcus – no, Alex, had gotten a good night sleep? Chris thought, almost tired himself. When have any of us, for that matter?

Before Chris could voice his question, Alex continued, "Did you know that Matt was taking a short break to visit his son, who works in one of the research facilities of the colony? The building is located hundreds of miles away from the site of the attack. How he ended up there is beyond me."

The wrong place at the wrong time.

Alex gave his head a shake, seemingly to focus on the here and now. "Nogura recommended you specifically, Chris. He thinks you should take Matt's place in Starfleet Security, and I agree. I can't think of anyone who'd be better suited."

Chris disagreed. He could think of at least a few others who could step up to the role. Chris and Matt had been contemporaries, but they'd always differed greatly in their priorities as Starfleet officers. Decker, like Marcus, was more focused on defence and protection, while Chris saw himself primarily as an explorer.

Alex picked up a stylus and began to twirl it in his hands – a nervous habit that Chris was well familiar with.

"You know what this means, right? You'd be given field command of every ship in the sector that borders the Klingons when the war begins –"

"Wait," Chris interrupted, placing the PADD on the desk with more force than he intended to. "Wait a minute, sir. When the war begins? Don't you mean to say if?"

He noticed Alex's shoulders tense.

"It's inevitable, if you ask me," Alex said darkly, his gaze fixed on the stylus. "Every year, there are more and more run-ins with them; more and more of our people get killed."

Unable to sit still, Chris jumped to his feet and started pacing again, as a heavy, uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut. "A war is a very, very messy business. Death, destruction, disease, horror. That's what war is all about. That's what makes it a thing to be avoided!* It's not an inevitability that we should resign ourselves to."

Alex stood and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. "Don't you think I know that?" he snapped. "And so do the Federation Council and the President. They don't consider this situation lightly.

"Even though sometimes I feel like it'd be simpler to take the fleet straight to Qo'nos," he added, muttering.

Chris stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Alex's back. "You don't really mean that."

Alex slowly turned towards him, his expression twisting into a wry smile, the one that accompanied his usual dark jokes. But somehow Chris couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't exactly supposed to hear that, that it was something Alex hadn't meant to say out loud.

Alex sighed heavily and turned to stare out the window again, his arm coming up to brace himself against the glass. His knuckles slowly turned white as they clenched into a fist around his stylus.

"How many people do we have to lose to them, Chris?" he said finally. "How many of my friends have to die before . . ."

The stylus in his hand snapped in half, and a deafening silence settled in the room.

As far as Chris knew, Alex had encountered the Klingons face-to-face only once. It had been during the early years of his career in Starfleet, when he'd been the Chief Science Officer on the Olympus. The vessel was attacked during one of their 'milk runs' to Altair IV, at the edge of the Federation space. Nearly half of the crew had been lost that day, including the captain and the first officer, who'd died when the Bridge was destroyed. The rest (among them June Wallace – the woman who had later become Alex's wife) had only made it out alive thanks to the actions of Marcus, who'd been in Engineering at the time of the destruction of the Bridge. As the second officer, he'd assumed command and ordered for the ship to set course for the nearby gas giant, engaging the tractor beam in the process to drag the Klingons with them. The Klingons had overloaded their engines trying to pull away and were subsequently crushed by the gas giant.

A career with Starfleet wasn't without its rewards, but deliberately venturing into the unknown was akin to tempting fate. It was a harrowing life. You had no choice but to lean on people. Many crew members became friends, family.

And then many of them died.

Chris knew that every friend, every member of the big family that was Starfleet lost to the Klingons, only furthered Alex's growing personal animosity towards the species.

It could have been just the stress of everything that had happened in the recent months – Nero, Dolvia VII, the million and one things that someone of Alex's position was required to do in the aftermath, June's health and surgery – but Chris felt like his old friend wasn't quite himself as of late. Alex seemed to have lost some weight, his hair had a lot more gray in it, there were near-constant shadows beneath his eyes. While the Dolvia VII investigation continued and the politicians worked on resolving the situation with the Klingons through diplomatic channels, Alex seemed to grow more tired and grumpy.

Currently, the Klingons denied the Empire's involvement in the Dolvia VII incident, declaring that the scout ship in question had long been lost somewhere along the Romulan/Klingon border. As for the three Klingons that had been found aboard, they had apparently been discommendated, and words like biHnuch** and petaQ** were used to describe them.

Alex took a deep breath and slowly let it out before turning around to face Chris once more, a hopeful look on his face. "I'm aware that this isn't what you want, and you've declined your promotion once already. But we need you here, Chris. I need you."

Other reservations aside – was Chris even ready for the job? Admirals typically didn't fly, and there still was so much left to explore, so many first contacts to make. Commanding the flagship was his dream. It was why he'd refused a promotion and hadn't accepted any other assignments, however temporary, after the Yorktown and had chosen instead to teach at the Academy while the Enterprise had still been under construction.

Something his former Number One had once told him jumped to the forefront of his mind.

"I'm ready to move on," she'd said after the Yorktown had been decommissioned. "To start a family. To come home to have dinner with my husband. To think about something other than ships and duty rosters . . . Space is for the young, sir. And I'm not getting any younger."

Chris wasn't getting any younger either, but he also wasn't sure he was ready to move on just yet. He felt like he could go on for several more years, hopefully make a difference out there.

But he was needed here, on Earth. If Alex and the Admiralty believed that he was the best person for the position offered, who was he to argue with them all?

What was that Vulcan axiom? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. It would appear he had to put aside his personal desires and take the job – for the greater good.

Chris was no fool and knew that promotions in Starfleet could be very political. But this was Alex asking him – asking him, not ordering him. Surely, his longtime friend and mentor would not have any ulterior motives?

Chris nodded slowly, his mind made up. "Who are you giving the Enterprise to then?" he asked.

Alex broke into a genuine smile. "Well, I was hoping you'd help me choose your successor. Have someone in mind?"

July 23, 2258 – San Francisco, California, Earth

Harry, having just finished teaching his first class on hand-to-hand combat, walked towards the Sciences Building to pick up Hermione; they'd scheduled in some dueling and wandless magic practice. A brief rainstorm had left the pavement shiny and wet, and the sun was blinking through the clouds. He tipped his face towards the light, breathing in the fresh air, as he thought back to the last couple of weeks.

After the initial slew of emotions and a few choice words from Scotty and Leonard, followed by the bone-crushing hugs that had accompanied the revelation of Harry and Hermione's return, Pike and a couple of Starfleet admirals had called for a meeting with the two magic-users. The higher-ups had wanted to discuss where the two friends had been during their month-long disappearance – just as Nyota had predicted. Marcus in particular had been extremely interested in the wards set up around their flat and the lab. Harry and Hermione had told them only the bare minimum – searched for a way to get back home, created a magical portal, ended up on another planet with some powerful beings who know everything that happens everywhere, were told they couldn't go back.

Then came the question: 'Now what?'

Since they'd met Amerisis and got some answers, they didn't exactly need to go searching for her planet anymore, and Harry questioned their reason for staying with Starfleet. He knew that Hermione wanted to stay, if her numerous rambles about going into space, seeing the stars and nebulae up close and discovering many previously undiscovered things were any indication.

But Harry also knew that she'd leave Starfleet if that was what he wanted.

He remembered one of their conversations after they got back from Omri.

[Hermione took a deep breath, looking up from her book, and slowly let it out. "I wanted to apologize."

Harry threw her a confused look, setting his own book down.

"I realize now that when we made a decision to accept the invitation to study at the Academy, it was more my decision than yours, and I apologize if I was pushy about it –"

"No, don't," Harry interjected, raising a hand for emphasis. "You weren't pushy, and it made sense. You gave me a good reason why we should do it. Plus it helped us both stay busy and sane."

She gave him a grateful smile and reached across the table to grasp his hand, squeezing it briefly. "After everything that you've been through, the last thing I want is to push you into doing something you don't want. You deserve to make your own choices and finally have some control over your life."

"Control over my life?" Harry echoed. "Would I even know what to do with that?"

Although he said and meant it sarcastically, there was truth to his words.

Hermione crossed her arms, her face flushing slightly with anger. "That's the thing, Harry! You'd been through hell and back. You'd taken on and sacrificed more than anyone had the right to ask or expect. And yet, most people back home still thought that they could make choices for you when they had no right to!"

She took a cooling breath to calm herself. "You deserve to finally be happy. And if that means leaving Starfleet, then we can do that."

"But that's not what you want," countered Harry. "You want to go into space, you said so yourself – even despite the danger."

"No one's safety is ever guaranteed, Harry, no matter where they are. And yes, I do want to go into space. One day. But in any case, it's going to take time before that happens, and a lot can change before then. Besides, Starfleet isn't the only ticket into space."

Harry studied her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "I take it you've already done your research?"

"Why, naturally," she replied with fake-haughtiness. "Would you expect anything less of me?"

This was so typical of Hermione, so familiar and so much like home – almost like a lighthouse to a lost sailor in a stormy sea. Combined with the expression on her face, it made Harry laugh some more. She may no longer be the 'nightmare' that she had been in her early teens, with her nose in the air and overly bossy attitude, but her studiousness would likely never go away. Truthfully, Harry didn't want it to go away. After all, it had saved their lives more than once.

Hermione chuckled, influenced by his merriment, before turning serious again. "The point is, Harry, I just . . . want you to be happy. I've always wanted that for you, you know. Which is why I don't want you to choose something just because of me. I want you to really make sure that this is what you want as well."]

What did Harry want? Well, what he wanted was impossible to get, so he had to choose from what was available. And at the moment, Starfleet – despite the dangers and a couple of creepy admirals – seemed like a good option. If he was being completely honest with himself, a part of him was just as curious as Hermione about what those stars and nebulae looked like up close. In their home universe, that had not yet been a possibility. Plus, there was a good chance they'd find someone magical out there. They may not be like himself and Hermione (after all, Amerisis did say that there was no one exactly like them in this universe, whatever that meant), but they still might have some abilities; not to mention, some far-off planet might hold plants and animals that could serve as viable potion ingredients.

As it was, he and Hermione had (temporarily for now) taken up part-time jobs with Starfleet upon their return – Harry as an assistant instructor in hand-to-hand combat at the Academy, and Hermione at the hospital.

When they'd first found themselves in this new universe, they'd been provided with bare necessities, as well as given a certain amount of credits for their help with defeating Nero. Added to that was the commission they received for the potions they brewed for the Kobayashi Maru test. But more income never hurt anyone. More than that, their jobs kept them busy, especially since they'd pretty much completed the basic training before their 'disappearance' and didn't need to play catch-up anymore. They were now ready to officially begin their first year at the Academy . . .

Harry was so immersed in his thoughts, that he completely missed the petite blonde coming around the corner with a precariously-packed box in her arms.

They promptly crashed into each other.

PADDs went flying from the top of the box. Following his instincts, Harry quickly and discreetly cast a wandless, nonverbal cushioning charm to soften the impact.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized, crouching to pick up the fallen objects.

"Oh no, I should be the one apologizing," she said, setting the box down. "I was too busy thinking about my science project instead of paying attention to my surroundings – just like in that ancient story about the Dreaming Astronomer."

"Apparently, you aren't the only one," Harry replied was an easy smile, retrieving one of the PADDs from a puddle. "These things are waterproof, right?" he added sheepishly.

The blonde chuckled, retrieving another PADD from a puddle. "Certainly. I've lost count of how many times I've spilled my coffee on them." She paused, frowning, as she inspected every PADD. "They aren't unbreakable though. I would think that they would be at least a little bit damaged from that kind of fall."

Harry silently cursed his rash decision and watched the woman carefully, ready to take action in case of trouble.

But she merely shrugged her shoulders and said, smiling, "Oh, well. Better be thankful for small miracles, right?"

They both stood, and Harry handed her the PADDs. She gratefully accepted them.

He bent down to pick up the box. "Let me give you a hand with this. I'm headed for the Sciences Building, and you looked like you were headed there as well, right?"

She nodded. "As long as it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all."

They started down the pathway again in silence.

"So . . . er . . . your accent," began Harry, when the silence between them grew uncomfortable. "You're British?"

The blonde shook her head. "I was born in New York, but my father was stationed in London shortly after I was born – my parents raised me there . . . Well, my mother mostly . . . And you?"

"I was born in . . . London," he replied, looking straight ahead and trying to keep his expression neutral.

He hated lying, but he couldn't possibly tell a complete stranger that he was born in Godric's Hollow – a village that didn't even exist in this world. Besides, he and Hermione had been given fake backgrounds when they first got here. As far as everyone was concerned, Harry was born on the 31st of July, 2236 in London to a family of engineers who had been killed in an accident when Harry was little.

Hoping to avoid the conversation about his fake background and more lies, Harry asked the first thing that came to his mind, "So, am I right to assume that your father is with Starfleet then?"

"Yes, you are," she replied simply.

Everything in her composure indicated that the subject of her father wasn't the one she wanted to discuss.

Perhaps the relationship between them is strained?

Or she simply doesn't want people to make assumptions about her upon finding out who her father is. She just wants to be recognized as her own person, instead of as a daughter of her father.

If it was the latter, Harry could respect that. After all, he knew firsthand what it was like to be judged by the actions of the father he didn't even remember – Professor Snape's treatment of him being the worst of it. Even Sirius couldn't help but compare him to his dad. It had always been hard to avoid the association, and the expectations that came with it. People always seemed to think that simply because one came from the same gene pool as someone else, they had to be a carbon copy of them – both in personality and achievements.

"Are you new here?" she asked, changing the subject. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. Although, that's not really an indicator of anything. Apart from attending classes, I'm mostly holed up in the lab. So, unless we take the same classes – which, I'm pretty sure we don't . . . What's your speciality?"

"Well, I am actually new here, recently finished basic training. So I haven't chosen yet. What's yours?"

"Sciences, focusing on weapons systems. I just finished my first year."

Harry glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was quite beautiful, with a pair of crystal blue eyes framed by long lashes. Her long, blond hair was gathered into a ponytail that spilled over one of her shoulders. He had an easier time imagining her handling beakers and Florence flasks than in a weapons lab.

Don't stereotype, he told himself, feeling a bit foolish. Appearances were deceptive, indeed.

"So, why weapons systems?" he voiced curiously.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Partly because of my father and partly . . . curiosity, I suppose. It seems like such a boys' club here at the Academy. I want to crash it," she finished resolutely, her chin lifted slightly in pride, a mischievous spark in her eyes.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Well, with determination like yours, I'm sure you can."

She smiled widely. "Thanks. Do you have any preferences regarding your speciality?"

"Well, I was thinking of security. Although I found engineering to be rather interesting as well . . . I have a friend who's an engineer, and he's been teaching me things . . ."

Whenever they could, Harry and Scotty spent hours working on different devices, taking them apart and putting them back together – with and without magic – and implementing modifications to make them run more efficiently. Recently, they'd been working on a new type of subspace transmitter. A couple of years ago, Harry had disassembled a wizarding wireless device just to see how it worked. With Scotty's help, he wanted to see if it was possible to combine the Muggle technology with magical one in order to create something better. So far, all of their efforts failed, but neither Harry nor Scotty were the type to give up very easily.

The blonde gave him a look that Harry couldn't quite place.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. It's just that . . . Never mind, it's stupid. Some superstition."

She gave her head a slight shake, hugging the PADDs closer to her chest. She seemed to be slightly embarrassed.

"Superstition?" Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

She sighed. "I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but it's sort of considered a bad luck to be a redshirt . . ." She let out a small chuckle. "Told you it's stupid."

Harry nodded. "I've heard some stories and jokes about what it means to wear red. But the thing is, every division has its own important role on a starship. Just because Operations happen to wear red . . . It doesn't mean anything. If they were to wear green instead of red, then don't you think green would be considered an unlucky colour?"

"I suppose," she agreed.

"Besides, I'm not superstitious – and red's always been my colour," added Harry with a smile.

She returned the smile. "Well, you could always choose both – your speciality, I mean. Security and engineering. I mean, we all have to get some training in the field of engineering at the Academy anyway, so why not go a little farther and make it your sub-speciality?"

An academic year at Starfleet Academy was much tougher than in any other institution. Along with all the usual subjects of literature, history, physical sciences, there was a whole slew of other disciplines: xenobiology, xenoanthropology, galactic law and institutions, planetary ecologies, interplanetary economics. This went hand in hand with semantics, language structure, comparative galactic ethics, epistemology, xenopsychology, and so on. And on top of all that, Starfleet Academy had mandatory engineering courses. Its graduates, no matter what they decided to concentrate on, needed to understand technology; it was only practical, because the situations Starfleet officers faced might require a physician to pilot a shuttlecraft or a historian to operate a transporter. The standards were rigorous because lives were at stake. About a quarter of the first year cadets never made it to their second.

"I just might," Harry agreed. "Do you have a sub-speciality?"

The blonde nodded. "I do. Xenobiology. Genesis and evolution of alien species."

"That's . . . an interesting choice. Weapons systems and then genesis . . ."

She laughed. "Oh, I know what you must be thinking – one is destruction, and the other's creation. I've heard all the jokes. But I have this theory that destructive power of some weapons might create the conditions necessary for restarting life on dormant planets. Of course, my views are unorthodox and require a lot of research and experimentation, but I'll prove them one day . . ."

She rambled on in that vein – alien organisms and terraforming – before halting mid-sentence. "Sorry, I'm talking your ear off, aren't I?"

"Not at all," said Harry. "Over the years, I've gotten used to it and have grown to like it, actually. My best friend occasionally gets carried away, you see. Besides, I think it's cool when people are passionate about their field of study and what they do."

She gave him another small smile, and a bubble of quiet settled around them as they ascended the stairs to the Sciences Building.

"Er . . . you said you just finished your first year," said Harry as they walked towards the lift. "Shouldn't you be at the Training Station in space, piloting shuttles and stuff?"

"Yes, I'll be there in a few days. I had some . . . extenuating circumstances. My mother had a surgery, you see, so I asked for some time off to be with her."

"Is she alright?"

The blonde smiled. "She is, thank you. The surgery was a success, and she was back on her feet in no time."

She entered the key code and they walked into the lab. "Besides, I already know how to pilot a shuttle, so I'll only have to pass my tests."

Lights automatically flickered on, and she gestured for him to put the box down on one of the tables.

"Thank you so much for your help," she said sincerely.

"You're welcome."

"Oh, I just realized we've had an entire conversation, and we don't even know each other's names," she said with a laugh, placing the PADDs on a desk.

"I'm Carol." She thrust a hand forward. "Carol Wallace."

A/N. Please, hold your hippogriffs! Just 'cause a character suddenly shows up, doesn't mean she'll be automatically paired with Harry. Thank you.

*"Death, destruction, disease, horror. That's what war is all about. That's what makes it a thing to be avoided." – this is a quote from TOS S01E24 "A Taste of Armageddon."

**biHnuch – Klingon for "coward"

**petaQ – a Klingon insult. Most people are familiar with this one because it's repeated quite frequently throughout the series. Fun fact: the word sounds very similar to a derogatory term in Bashkir language. Coincidence?