A reminder: highly irregular updates

A warning: Heavier, somewhat serious content toward the end

A dedication: to PenStride and my mother (yes, my mother) – for mentioning August and it clearly being October

The standard disclaimer: I do not own HP or ST or any other already copyrighted material

Thank you: everyone who's chosen to review or follow the story!


7: Insights

When Harriet was done thoroughly overreacting, she fought to reign in her nausea and think around her pounding headache. 'Note to self: Blind, panic induced apparition? Hurts.' She'd known there was a reason she'd been staying away from it!

Eventually getting around the pain to review her notes, she decided she needed to tweak her priorities, and, just possibly, reconsider her diet (caffeine withdrawal clearly bore no relevance to her current situation). Right now she needed to get away. Somewhere secret, somewhere safe. And soon. Considering her headache and lack of knowledge of the surrounding area, the easiest way to accomplish that would be taking care of her lack of documentation first. Next, go over her backstory and trust she'd be able to make believable and consistent adjustments as necessary. Then, she'd quietly get out of the building - if she was still in the building.

She considered moving that last one higher up the list…

Looking around, a part of Harriet could only smile (grimace really) as she took in the water closet she'd apparated into. She thanked Circe and Merlin both for the wonderful convenience of landing her somewhere vaguely familiar and ever so convenient. She more than likely had someone else to thank but not everyone is comfortable being friends with a being universally feared. Circe and Merlin were great, if understandably unwilling, substitutes.

Besides, there were more comfortable and somewhat pressing issues to tackle. Like that ID.

Harriet riffled briefly through her satchel and pulled out the card, blatantly avoiding any thoughts of that aromatic, delicious, lingering, aphrodi~, right! Priorities! (coffee?) She shook her head sharply, and quickly regretted it (can we say headache?). The ID turned out to be pretty standard. The name STARFLEET in bold capital letters across the top, your obligatory awkward, borderline just-out-of-prison, 'you didn't say 3!' picture, name, what looked like a service number, that recurring logo from the front of the building, and the rank ENSIGN (nav~y).

She sighed at the amount of changes she would have to make. She just wasn't the 'Carl' type. And pretending to be a guy for long periods of time just required far too much effort. Of course, being Harrison had been fun and all but there were just some male traditions that would never make sense. She shuddered as a memory of a distinctly red hair flashed through her mind. Far, fa~r too much effort.

Not that it couldn't be useful to be ambiguous. Now there was a thought.

She started riffling through her bag again. Her elbow had just knocked her coffee cup (when had it even gotten there?) off the uppermost narrow shelf meant to keep the handiest things handy when she found what she was looking for. The two items she needed weren't particularly extraordinary. The first was just a plain muggle wallet. Incidentally, it was the very one she'd been trying to detach her keys from when she'd suddenly found herself in … "San Francisco."

The second item was a small, non descript black case, no more than six inches long with only an inch or so in depth or width. She opened it, moving her flying license to the back of the small deck of cards inside before quietly scanning her remaining choices. Would she be Harriet or Harry? Lily, Jamie, Evalina, or Evvana? She smiled, remembering the one (and only) time she'd tried to work Potter into a proper first name. Fun times.

Eventually, she settled on a name and slowly, carefully, began the process of transfiguring the ID and establishing some basic form of control over her magic. By the time she was done, she looked a little worse for wear but was satisfied. "Well at least it's better than psychic paper." 'Never knew when that stuff was going to work.' Certainly wouldn't work against someone as perceptive as Spock.


It took awhile but eventually she managed to convince the owner of the small shop she was in that she had in fact NOT stepped randomly out of her 'bathroom.' She clearly had. Which, sadly, meant her control was not really as impressive as she'd thought it was. Maybe it was time to go back to using a wand? She really needed to get away and take some time to figure it all out.

Generally speaking magic was roughly 70% strength of will, desire, and intent. Thus, the unintentional manifestations generated by children. However, just as children grow up to become complex adults, so does your magic. Nuances develop. Skill becomes required. Instincts are acquired and refined. Emotions, curiosity, needs, and ethics begin to encourage or restrain development.

Then, there are personal preferences. Remember your first cup of coffee? It was bitter, terrible, and just not a proper cup of tea, right? Well then you discovered late nights, patience trying dunderheads, hangovers, third shift, how wonderful it smells with your freshly baked flakey pastry – suddenly tea is something you drink because you're British and it's almost culturally inappropriate not to (especially when the rest of the world thinks you ought to). Coffee becomes essential to your way of life. More than that, it starts reflecting your personality, your moods. Black coffee? Blonde? Spicy? Bold? Do you need a fresh press or a pour over? Drinking by the pot or by the cup? Ever reached a point where it doesn't matter that the pot's been on the burner for an hour? Developed as soft spot for ship engineer's sludge?

Magic is about as diverse. Or something. Right. Point being, Harriet's magic had developed preferences. Sure, overwhelming experience had brought a level of skill entirely unexpected for one of her age

[Harriet: *cough* twenty! ...

Narrator: … ish

Harriet: … give or take a decade

Narrator: stare…or two or three score

Harriet: (silence)

Narrator: continuing]

in defensive magics, leadership, evasion, communicating with various species – hostile or otherwise – and her appreciation for law, wealth, and politics.

Nonetheless, it was her love of flying and all things Quidditch that sparked her initial side interest in muggle natural sciences and the war that got her dabbling in medicine and anatomy. As her environment began changing, and the skills required to blend in continued to evolve, she discovered her natural affinity for understanding naturally occurring compounds and figuring out how an organism worked. Sure, she didn't always know the names or the muggle, sigh, scientific terms for why, but that rarely mattered to a sick patient who couldn't afford to pay a proper doctor or to the desperate researcher seeking a cure. It was actually somewhat baffling how much some were willing to overlook something that appeared to defy logic and the natural laws of physics so long as they, or humanity, benefited.

All told, skilled witch doctors (ha!) were therefore always in demand. Harriet personally found knowing as much rather comforting. Along with the cuppa she'd also managed to convince the woman she'd kindly offered her after realizing how wretched her day had been. After all, she'd been lost after a long day's travel, snapped her favorite pair of heels, had a sudden separation with a Starfleet officer, been yelled at several times by angry men, and had caffeine withdrawal to top it off - all of which was true.

So, armed with a tourist's map of the city, a fresh homemade cup of brew, and a cheap umbrella (totally unnecessary), the dimension witch (no, not that one) took a deep breath, stepped out of the store, and Went Left.


Spock encountered Harriet no less than three months later, standing still in front of a set of glass panels in a large treatment room. Beyond the panels lay a smaller, sterile medical room for patients undergoing intensive care. He watched as she slowly raised a hand and placed it on the glass, forehead slowly coming to rest on the pane before her as she watched the lone occupant.

After her disappearance back in April, he found himself regularly reviewing their encounter. The building had been placed on red alert. Security teams had searched the entire building and the surrounding area for any trace of the female. Spock hadn't been particularly surprised they couldn't find any trace of her passing. He had, however, been rather intrigued that the security footage failed to record both her entrance into the building and her actions within. The more he reflected on the experience, he was increasingly certain it was connected to her ability to somehow manipulate perceptions.

The security personnel had been at a loss to explain why a search was called for someone they couldn't prove was ever in custody. Spock deftly pointed out that while his erstwhile drinking companion wasn't visible on the footage, the disappearance of the second cup of tea was. Not to mention the few audio files where he was very clearly speaking and being responded to.

A few personnel may or may not have gotten a kick out of hearing the Vulcan referred to as "Spocky Pocky," but Spock trusted that his continued professionalism would discourage its regular use. [The Eyebrow snorted, er, right, yeah, well, he tried anyway…]

Exactly fifty-two minutes later, with both a sense of scientific fascination and duty, he'd found himself back on his way to gather his gear for departure, only occasionally considering which conditions might make her receptive of direct questioning and study (naturally only of the perfectly acceptable scientific type). Such thinking, of course, was contingent on a second meeting. He'd acknowledged that the probability of that was considerably low.

Spock had also meditated at the first opportunity his new duties had afforded him.

Then again, the probability of encountering her at the medical command research facility had also been less than 1 percent. Tilting his head slightly, he discreetly considered her profile. She was quiet and, at least to Spock, it appeared she was deep in thought. Her attire had changed. Not the cut and number of pieces but her long overshirt had certainly been a pastel green previously. Currently, what he could see of it beneath her black robes, was a deeper green [Eyebrow: Didn't notice]. Her frame was still lithe, her skin marginally lighter as if she wasn't spending as much time in direct sunlight. Her hair was as haphazardly pulled back as before (a Terrran female fashion?). The stick, however, was now balancing just behind her right ear and the pair of raphanus sativus were no where to be found.

More importantly, why was she here?


Eventually, a Dr. Boyce noticed his presence from across the room. There were, after all, only so many Vulcans hanging around Starfleet. He would have known if he was expecting one.

"Ah, Mr. Spock, how can we help you?"

"Doctor." Spock inclined his head in recognition. "I was not aware civilians were allowed on these floors outside of visiting hours."

"Ah, yes, generally that is quite true. However, the family requested the input of an ... alternative specialist. Given the circumstances, we allowed it." Spock's only response was an intrigued eyebrow.

Turning back to Harriet, he took a calculated risk and approached her, stopping when he was a proper Vulcan distance away. Spock, patient Vulcan that he was, could derive no logical reason not to make use of the data his prior encounter had afforded and settled to wait for her to react to his presence.

Doctor Boyce, needless to say, was mildly confused. About to make an attempt at explaining why the so-called "specialist's" presence didn't explain or excuse Spock's presence, he was interrupted by her speaking for the first time in the hour and a half he'd watched her observing the patient.

"So much pain." The intensity of her otherwise quiet voice surprised both of them.

'The accent has changed. She's attempting to assimilate?' As she removed her head from the glass, Spock noted that she looked tired, older. She closed her eyes. 'An empathic ability then?'

"He is being treated for a rare disease. One which we unfortunately do not yet have a cure for." The good Doctor doubted she'd even understand if he went into specifics. "Poor boy most likely won't make it through the week." Something the family had surely informed her of.

Harriet's only response was to raise the other hand onto the glass. "He will be well cared for."

'Will be?' In the short time that the two had interacted, Spock had learned to pay close attention to her words. He got the impression she generally chose her words with care. "I am sure that the Doctors and staff are providing him with the most optimal treatment." The distant look in her eye remained.

"Many things only prolong the inevitable Mr. Spock. In the end, are those who die to be pitied? Is it right to prolong life only to prolong suffering?" Her voice was neutral, detached, yet her facial expression and posture would suggest otherwise. Spock got the distinct impression she wasn't talking about the boy.

Boyce was too busy becoming livid at her apparent callousness to particularly care. "He's 11!"

Harriet turned to look the doctor directly in the eye. Her penetrating gaze was disconcerting and strangely heavy. "Death welcomes those who would greet her as a friend Mr. Boyce." She turned back to stare at the child in the bed, shoulders slumped. "And there are few in any existence who she will not greet at least once. We would all do well to remember and accept that."

'She? Why speak of death like a living entity?'

Head tilted to the side, Harriet quietly asked a question that Spock implicitly knew was not directed at her audience: "How long is long enough?" The disquiet about her was beginning to settle into something else, something more that he couldn't place (and wasn't that frustrating).

Clearly incensed, Boyce took a confrontational step forward.

Spock's equally detached voice cut him off before he could say anything more. "Your question also suggests that a long and fruitful life would be equally pitiable."

Harriet started and looked quickly at Spock. Honestly, she hadn't realized she'd spoken out loud. She considered his painfully correct posture for a moment before returning to her observation of the patient.

"My people are, or were, perhaps, themselves long lived. Long life comes with long memory and deep seated notions, and sometimes… that causes more harm than good." She sighed, then squared her shoulders and turned properly to face the doctor and Spock. "He is a child, yes, and for that I am sorry that he will not live to truly enjoy all that that should entail. I humbly give you my apologies. I simply don't care to see children in pain."

Boyce was far from placated. Spock, recognizing that it may not be acceptable to continue debating the merits of that particular discussion, took the opportunity to learn more about this 'alternative specialist.'

"You say your people. You are suggesting that you and the doctor are not of the same species?"

She made a point to raise her eyebrow at his use of as a statement as a question. "You look like an elf. This would suggest that you are therefore an elf."

Boyce's otherwise stiff face twitched. He honestly didn't know what to make of the woman, much less of how she and the Vulcan were interacting.

"I believe the Lieutenant is attempting to inquire after your origins and qualifications." 'Something I'd sure as hell liked to know myself.'

Harriet's face was slowly closed off again, her thoughts noticeably drawn elsewhere.

"The unplottable lands of lochs, dreams, and flights of fantasy, at the intersection of magic and loss." She frowned, then turned her intense green eyes back to the pair. She was far from having no reasons to panic (especially since this new reality, wherever or whenever it was happening, was far too reactive to her emotions and subconscious thoughts). As such, she had no use for attracting the attention of the military (again). Realizing that was exactly what she was about, she decided she had returned the favor owed and that it was time for her to be on her way.

"Doctor, Mr. Spock, I'll not continue to trespass on your time any longer." Merlin, was being polite tedious. "I'll be on my way."

Spock, rather unsurprisingly, took the opportunity for what it was. "My presence is not required elsewhere. Allow me to accompany you."

Now Harriet very clearly remembered the last time Spock had accompanied her somewhere. She had no intention of allowing that neutral expression get the best of her a second time. Then again, it might be easier to get the whole thing over with. Besides, there was no guarantee she would have the opportunity to establish a potentially friendly connection with the military again.

Harriet smirked ever so slightly before gesturing for him to lead the way.

She may 'f sorta kinda missed lil' ol' Spocky poo.


Prompts: obscure references; 'friends with the monster that's under my bed'; more vocabulary you only use for English classes and uni papers; search for a disturbing but Harrietesque nickname for Spock (I could stand some suggestions!)

AN: As warned, heavier content. That being said, it's important to remember that Harriet's age at this point is unknown and the experiences she's gone through while keeping Death as a constant companion couldn't have always been sunshine and rainbows. Not to mention the whole child abuse/ child savior thing she had going for her during the first 17 years of her life. The next chapter should be lighter.

Also: looking for a beta willing to deal with irregular work. I tend to omit or add words on top of it all. So, yeah!

Thank you for your reviews.