Disclaimer: You know what, at this point, just assume that if I write anything sounding remotely scientific, it's all complete bullcrap. Don't study for tests with this. Also, I own nothing.
(A Transition, behold)
Catalyst
It had been a while since he had got out of the castle. Hogwarts was a wonderful place, but even the headmaster needed to get out and about now and again. And so, on the steps of the orphanage, life found Albus Dumbledore, looking quite dapper in a star speckled lime green robe, complete with a large striped purple hat, and carrying a parchment letter with a large red seal on it, addressed to a Thenabar Jaren. As he walked up the steps, Dumbledore wondered when the last time he had done this was. Perhaps it was back in '72? Or was it a couple years earlier? Either way, here he found himself again, delivering a letter to a young man, soon to be inducted into the ranks of Europe's finest young magical minds. Maybe it would be a brilliant Ravenclaw, or a noble Gryffindor. Well, no way to tell until he delivered the letter.
Dumbledore stepped up to the door and rapped on the knocker twice. After a moment, small, unremarkable man opened the door. "Yes?", he asked.
"I am am here with a letter for a Mr. Jaren," Dumbledore responded. Oh dear, the man looked a little uncertain. "He has been accepted into my school." Suddenly the man looked up. He almost appeared... relieved?
"Ah, Thenabar. Well he prefers to be called Abathur, but same difference. Yes, he's right up this way." With that, the man started walking back into the orphanage, motioning Dumbledore to follow him. "A brilliant child, no doubt. I'm not surprised you're looking to enroll him. A bit odd though, that one."
"Indeed? In what way?" Dumbledore inquired.
"Well, he tends to keep to himself, talks a bit oddly, other children even avoid him a bit," the man replied. "So what kind of school do you run anyway?"
"It's a private boarding school up in Scotland, you likely would not have heard of it," Dumbledore said, managing to evade the question.
"Ah, okay." Both men continued walking through the orphanage walls in silence. Eventually they reached "Here we are, Abathur should be right in there." The man paused for a second right outside the door. "You know, to be honest, I'll be kind of glad to see Abathur go for a while. Just get the feeling there's something a bit off about him, y'know? He just keeps looking at everyone like he wants to take 'em apart and see how they work. But hey, what do I know, I'm workin' in a bloody orphanage!" The man wandered off, leaving Dumbledore to his own devices, muttering under his breath about how he could've been a surgeon.
A little shaken, Dumbledore returned to his task. Facing the door, he composed himself, before knocking on the door in front of him. After a moment's pause, he heard a voice say, "Entrance, permitted." With that, Dumbledore turned the knob, and entered the room. It was a rather spartan living place, containing only the bare necessities, with only the merest hint of personal touch, or indeed, anyone living there at all. The one main exception to that, of course, was the yellow-eyed youth standing in the center of the room, examining Dumbledore carefully.
(Transition)
Abathur was unsure what to make of the odd, elderly, man standing in front of him. At first glance, he appeared to be a terran street performer, dressed colorfully and absurdly. Why such a being had decided to seek him out, he had no idea. The awkward silence was broken when the older man cleared his throat and began to speak.
"Mr. Jaren, I presume?" he asked.
"Abathur, preferred title. Recommend use." Abathur was tired of humans using the other names. You would think they would learn at this point. He barely remembered them, he didn't see why others made the effort at all.
"Mr. Abathur then. Tell me, have you ever had anything strange happen to you, something that can not be explained?" Dumbledore said a twinkle in his eye. It didn't last.
"No," Abathur said quickly. Dumbledore's twinkles ceased.
"Are you absolutely sure? Think back, it may not have been a large, thing, but has there been-,"
"No. No occurrences," Abathur responded quicker this time. This was getting far too close to lines of inquiries that he would rather avoid. Dumbledore merely looked at Abathur for a few seconds, then moved to speak again.
"A different question then. I've been told that you don't associate with other children much, that they avoid you. Would you care to explain why exactly that is?" The elderly terran asked.
A psychiatrist then. Abathur had heard of them, specialists assigned to problematic children. He had thought he had stayed inconspicuous enough to avoid them, but clearly he must have missed something. This required careful handling. "Expressed desire for isolation. Others, did not listen, used other methods. Proved more effective."
If anything, the seeming psychiatrist scrutinized him more closely. This was risky. Apparently these terrans were more versed than others in normality, and the lack thereof. "But does it not get lonely, being alone all the time? Do you not have friends, people to talk with?" The elder terran asked.
This was getting close to territory Abathur did not want to get into. A distraction was necessary. "Social behavior, irrelevant. State purpose." The terran did not miss the deflection, but continued nonetheless.
"Very well. Mr. Abathur. I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, and I am here to formally invite you to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry," The apparently not a psychiatrist said.
"Unfamiliar with disciplines. Content of courses?" Abathur inquired.
The headmaster looked confused for a second. "What that means, Mr. Abathur is that you are a wizard, capable of performing magic."
"Unsure of statement. Elaboration required." Abathur said. Rather than saying anything else, Dumbledore simply took out a stick.
"Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Mr. Abathur, would you stand back from your bed please? Thank you." And with that, Albus Dumbledore waved the stick through the air, muttered a few words, and suddenly Abathur's bed was a leopard.
Shock filled Abathur, he could do nothing but stare at the space that his bed had occupied and at Dumbledore, turning his head between the two, as if seeing both for the first time. Internally, Abathur was absolutely astonished and frustrated. As he replayed the earlier conversation through his head, some things became abundantly clear.
The terran standing before him was psionic. He ran a school for a number of psionic terrans. They practiced a branch of psionics that was so bizarre and so unheard of that it could shape matter as easily as Abathur shaped stomachs. Abathur had been invited to that school, to learn that branch of psionics. Abathur's current body was psionic. Most importantly, Abathur had had access to psionics for 11 years and had not noticed it. And finally, Abathur had to accept this invitation.
Abathur looked up at the headmaster. "Enrollment, agreeable. Time and location of education?"
(Transition)
Abathur's first impression of Diagon alley was that it was chaotic, poorly organized, excessively colorful, and quite possibly the most interesting place he had ever been. All around him, there were examples of how these humans had figured out unique ways to use psionics. On one end, psionic energy was focused and maintained in a terran cleaning implement apparently allowed flight. Various storefronts offered plants and animal sections, the likes and essence of which Abathur had never before witnessed. Other unique items with many other unique effects all over the place. Clothes that were animated, toys that changed from one form to another, as easy as water. Even his assigned guide to this place, a human, crossed with another, stronger species, Hagrid, he was called, was very interesting. Gathering his essence would be too difficult, but it was still interesting to observe.
For now, though, gathering the ingredients and materials he would be using was enough in his education. The few methods and results he had time to read about were excellent, variations of standard reactions and laws that Abathur had known but never thought of using in one particular manner, or in a combination that was unorthodox but highly effective. If he had known the terrans had such an extensive knowledge of psionics, or magic as they called it, Abathur would have made a study of them far sooner. It was unfortunate that this community was so well hidden, even from other humans, or that might well have occurred.
What was even better was that every terran here was had psionics. Hundreds of those with the potential to become absolutely great, all gathered in one place. It was the former evolution master's dream come true. Were the Swarm ever to visit Earth, this would most definitely be the first target. With the essence gathered around him, Abathur could make hundreds of Queen of Blades, possibly even more if he could discover how to grow them independently of the terrans. Or perhaps he could just leave the reproductive systems intact. There were certainly enough specimens for that to work.
Regardless, that was a project for another day. In the present, Hagrid was guiding him to a shop called Ollivander's. Apparently that was the main location to get a wand, the most important of the human psionics tools from what he had gleaned from his gargantuan guide. As the duo entered the store, Abathur couldn't help but notice the lack of lighting, rampant spiderwebs, and grey haired terran that had popped up right in front of his face. "Well, hello there," said terran stated.
"Ah, Ollivander. Got another one for ya'," Hagrid said, moving back to stand in the corner, leaving Abathur relatively isolated with the shopkeeper. "Names Thenabar Jaren, prefers Abathur."
"Jaren, you say?" Ollivander inquired. "Oh, oh my, it is you. Didn't think I'd see you again, not after your father... Well, let's just say he was far more right than I'd thought he'd be. I suppose you're here for your wand then, let's get you started, shall we? What's your wand hand?" With that a number of measuring tapes and rulers started floated around Abathur, taking measurements.
"What?" Abathur said, more than a bit confused.
Ollivander continued talking. "Your dominant hand. You know, I knew your parents, hard to forget them really, even with... nevermind that. Vivira died back in childbirth, bless her soul, but Faris, Faris gave you up to protect you. Brave man, that one." During his monologue, Ollivander had begun rummaging through the boxes, checking and putting back dozens of carved sticks. "Smarter than I gave him credit for. Here I thought he'd be fine, that he was just shirking responsibility, but now he's in the grave, and you stand before me."
Abathur was growing more and more confused by the second. The terran in front of him had known his genetic forebears, and they had had psionic capabilities? While interesting, he didn't see how it was particularly relevant. After all, they were dead, they lacked the capacity to make a difference. So why was the human continuing to discuss them?
Ollivander, meanwhile, oblivious to Abathur's growing confusion, continued to talk. "Ah, the right, is it? Very well. Anyway, good friends of mine the both of them, wish they were still here today. Oh, let's try this one! 11 inches, unicorn hair, fairly stiff, oak, nice for charms!" Ollivander thrust the wand into Abathur's right hand. Abathur merely looked at it, confused. Before he had the opportunity to examine it closer, Ollivander immediately plucked it out of his hands. "No, not that one. How about this one? 9 inches, dragon heartstring, ash, swishy, fairly balanced." Another wand was given to Abathur, to the same reaction, and immediate removal. This continued for some time, until one particular wand was pulled out.
"All right, try this one, acromantula silk, rowan, thirteen inches, quite flexible, very good for transfiguration," Ollivander said. This time when Abathur took the wand in his hands, there was an immediate difference. His power flowed through it, augmented by the seemingly mundane piece of wood. Ollivander stepped back as Abathur moved the wand around, seeing the sparks and patterns that flew from it.
"Very good. Wish to purchase," Abathur said.
"Of course, of course Mr. Jaren. That is your wand. It has chosen you. Take good care of it, and it will return the favor," Ollivander replied.
Later, as Abathur walked out of the shop with his new wand, Ollivander wondered where the yellow eyes had come from. As far as he knew, it ran in neither Faris's nor Vivira's family, so it was quite odd seeing it in their child. Perhaps it merely came from another branch of the family? Ollivander shrugged and returned to work. It didn't matter that much.
(Transition)
It was the day, September 1st, at King's Cross Station, in which he would begin his psionics education among the terrans. Abathur stood outside the main station, observing the various baseline terrans, going about their day, unaware of the machinations of their counterparts. Much the same way Abathur was, a scant few weeks ago. But now, he stood directly in front of the illusion that marked the barrier between the magical world and the mundane, ready to learn, to grow, and to adapt. To assimilate essence and knowledge the likes of which would have been previously inconceivable. All of that, right behind this portal.
Abathur took a step forward.
Changeling: While rarely deployed on the battlefield, changelings are nonetheless a very useful member of the swarm, functioning as spies or scouts. Although not the most skilled conversationalists, changelings can infiltrate enemies by changing shape, into forms such as marines, zerglings, or zealots. In this guise, they are often capable of sneaking into bases undetected, learning the secrets of the swarms foes, then feeding that info back to the main hive. Many terran plots and facilities have been sabotaged by a skilled infiltrator. While they possess little to no combat ability, changelings can still indirectly wreak havoc amongst all foes of the swarm.