A/N: Chap 1 Review Responses are available in my forums. I also expanded a little more on my summary, which by my own admission is a little misleading since it was difficult to sum this fic up in one little blurb. THis and the next chapter will contain quite a bit of information.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter Two: The Witches

On Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, two strange women appeared in Little Whinging. Both wore business attire and appeared at first glance to be in their mid-forties, although on second glance it was more difficult to pin down their exact ages. Their black dresses were cut in the height of business fashion, albeit the fashion in 1952, and both wore rather large, unusual pointed black hats.

Mrs Pettis, who was watching the street at the time, could not have said exactly where the women came from. One moment they were not there, the next they were. However, her thoughts refused to dwell on the strange nature of their sudden appearance in the neighbourhood and she was seized by a profound urge to go do the sheets.

When Petunia Dursley opened the door after several insistent knocks, she cried out in terror and tried to slam it shut immediately. However, the door stopped mid-swing despite all the strength Petunia put in into it, and gradually it opened all the way again.

"Hello again, Petunia," one of the women said. "It has been many years."

"You haven't changed at all!" Petunia stuttered, covering her mouth with her hand. "It's been twenty-five years, and you haven't aged a day!"

"Don't be silly. Of course I've aged," Professor Minerva McGonagall said with dismissive sniff, "I just carry the years better than most. This is Mafalda Hopkirk of the Ministry of Magic. We are here to do Harry's physical examination in preparation for his attendance at Hogwarts."

"He's not going!" Petunia shouted.

"Of course he is, child," McGonagall said, again with a sniff—this time of disdain. "You never could understand, could you? It is not just for Harry's sake that he is going to attend Hogwarts —it is for your protection as well. Bad things happen to Muggles around untrained witch-born, Petunia Dursley, or have your forgotten your own experiences? If I remember correctly, your mother survived only because of my timely arrival."

"Get out!" It was less an order than it was a prayer—a prayer all of them there knew would not come to pass.

"Mr Harry Potter!" Minerva called out. "Please come here."

The door to the cupboard under the stairs rattled. Both women looked from Petunia to the cupboard, where they saw three latches on the outside of the door, and then back to Petunia. Petunia was about to refuse and again ask them to leave when, without warning, everything about McGonagall changed.

Where before stood an attractive woman of indeterminate age now stood an alien creature with brightly lit grey-blue eyes that seemed to shine like searchlights. Her face narrowed and grew harsher, and her skin looked pale and translucent, like a sheet of paper held over a fluorescent light. Petunia cried out and took a step back, fighting back tears of terror.

"Release him," McGonagall said again in a voice that carried the ice of the tundra in its tone. Shaking, Petunia fumbled with the locks holding closed the cupboard with shaking fingers before she undid them enough to allow the boy out.

Harry scrambled to his feet, instantly on alert because of his aunt's distress. He froze when he saw the two women, especially McGonagall, and stared much like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He did not see her translucent skin or gleaming eyes, he saw the maelstrom of fire in her chest that brought about a memory he didn't even realize he had.

"Mum," he breathed.

McGonagall froze, momentarily taken aback. "Nay, child," she said with the forced calm of a professional instructor, "Though I was honored to have her acquaintance for many years. My name is Minerva McGonagall. I was your mum's professor at her school. Come here, please."

He went, drawn like a moth to the flame. Petunia watched, flabbergasted, as Harry reached up without hesitation and placed a hand over McGonagall's left bosom. "You're real," he said, his face lighting up in a dazzled, astounded smile.

As much as she hated everyone in the room, Petunia could not help but gasp at her own dim memory—of her sister doing the same exact thing when she was eleven. McGonagall also seemed to be having the same memory as she took his hand gently from her bosom, more confused than upset.

"You should not touch women there, Mr Potter," McGonagall said, though not unkindly. "I believe it's safe to say, then, that you've never seen your own kind, have you?" she asked kindly.

Fighting back a sob, Harry said, "My kind?"

"Your kind," Mafalda Hopkirk said, speaking for the first time. Petunia this time was able to stifle her scream when she also changed, again with the oddly bright eyes, this time a shining brown. Her skin was not quite as translucent as McGonagall's, but was certainly paler than normal.

Harry let his hand fall from McGonagall and reached up to touch Hopkirk, only for her to intercept his hand. She simply patted it before letting it all back to his side. "As Professor McGonagall said, Mr Potter, you should not touch women there."

"Mafalda?" McGonagall asked the question in the name.

Hopkirk brandished her wand. Petunia watched in trembling silence as a blue aura surrounded the boy, only to begin to glow red. It was her guilty conscience as much as her memory that she recognized every spot of red as one of Harry's more serious injuries.

Hopkirk's face grew dim, while her eyes seemed to grow brighter. "This child has not been treated properly," she said. There was a dangerous echo in her voice, as if another spoke after her.

"The cupboard under the stairs was certainly an indication of such," McGonagall said. "How badly?"

"Chronic undernourishment and an array of injuries beyond what any child of his years should have. Not enough to say he was physically abused on a regular basis, but abuse did occur and most certainly his needs have been badly neglected."

"His magic?"

Rather than answer, Hopkirk frowned and flicked her wand. Harry, meanwhile, was staring at the woman with a puzzled frown. "Ma'am, what are you doing?"

"We're giving you a physical examination to see how you are, Mr Potter," McGonagall said. "We're using magic to do so."

"Magic?"

"Magic," Hopkirk said. "Something you seem to have more than your share of. Minerva, the boy is…quite strong, most especially given his circumstances. Those wards the Professor had to key us into must have been sustaining him, since with his chronic undernourishment he should be practically a Squib."

"They were wards of universal protection, more powerful than anything else we could do," McGonagall said. "They would have to be, to warrant his staying with such…people." Harry was only newly turned eleven, but he was old enough to understand that when McGonagall said that word while looking at Petunia, "people" was a profound insult.

"Well," Hopkirk said with a satisfied nod, "he's certainly fit enough magically. I dare say he'll be a hit with the witches. Personally I don't see him making it past his fifth year before he's poached."

Harry fought a blush—he did not understand what she was talking about, but he knew poaching was not a good thing.

McGonagall nodded before turning her full attention to Petunia. She held out one hand, and to Harry's delight and astonishment, a scroll simply appeared in her palm. Petunia jumped at the sight.

"Petunia Dursley, you will sign this scroll providing your permission for Harry Potter to attend Hogwarts." It was not a question, but rather a firmly stated fact.

"And if I don't?" Petunia asked.

"What a silly question," McGonagall said, her voice dropping and the blue of her eyes flashing to a cold, iron grey, once again channelling the tundra.

With trembling fingers, Petunia took the offered quill and began to sign before yelping in pain and surprise. She glared at the back of her hand, and then at McGonagall. "A blood quill," the professor explained with certain smugness. "Surely you remember your father signing for Harry's mother? Now finish signing, if you will."

With pursed lips and pale cheeks, Petunia finished signing the scroll. It disappeared with a pop while Petunia rubbed the back of her hand painfully.

"In one week's time, a colleague of mine shall be returning to gather Harry for an orientation for Muggleborn and raised students," McGonagall said. "At that time, I expect that he shall have been living for the past week in a proper bedroom, with a proper bed. I expect that he shall have been given three square meals a day. Further, I expect that he shall not bear any further harm, nor will he have been subjected to any undo physical hardship. If my expectations are not met, then I will not hesitate a moment to rip your very mind apart and rebuild it from scratch to serve no other purpose in life than to protect and cherish Harry Potter, even at the expense of your own family. For Lily's sake, if not for Harry's, I shall not have you mistreat this boy any further. Remember Dumbledore's letter and do as you are required, or face the consequence."

"I don't understand," Harry finally said. "What's going on?"

McGonagall turned her attention from Petunia to Harry, kneeling down with a smile. "Harry, you are a wizard, like your father before you. Your mother was a witch, just like I am. And on the first of September, you will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, just like your parents did. You will be among your own kind—children just like yourself. You will get to meet some, in fact, next weekend when I conduct your orientation. You're not alone, Harry. That much I promise."

"Not alone?" Harry asked. His voice cracked as he peered up at the witch, eyes shining brilliantly.

"Never again, child," McGonagall said. "Never again. I know you have questions, but I must ask you to hold onto those questions for one more week." She stood and looked coolly at Petunia. "See that my expectations are met, and upon Mr Potter's seventeenth birthday, all ills will be forgotten."

Suddenly, both women disappeared with pops of displaced air, making both Harry and Petunia jump in surprise. "Aunt Petunia, was my mum really…a witch?

Petunia screamed—an expression of rage and hopelessness that left Harry stunned. A moment later, Dudley came barrelling into the room. "What's all this, then?" he demanded. "What's the freak done, Mummy?"

"Dudley," Petunia said, grinding the words out as if they were the most difficult sounds she had ever made, "go upstairs and clean out your second bedroom. Do it now."

"What for?" Dudley demanded, turning red like his father did when upset.

"Because your cousin is going to have his own room," Petunia said.

"Like Dad will go for that," Dudley said belligerently.

"Do it, now," Petunia yelled.

"Dad will give the room back, you'll see!"

He ran upstairs in a huff, leaving a stunned Harry by his aunt.

"Get away from me," Petunia finally said. "You'll get your room, and you'll get your food, but don't think for a moment that you'll ever be a member of this family!"

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

The next Saturday, Harry sat on the edge of the second-hand bed with a cheap foam mattress he had slept in for the past week. He was dressed in a pair of worn but intact jeans and a jumper from the local thrift store, but did not mind at all. They were the first clothes he had owned in his memory that actually fit.

The room was all but barren, save for a hastily repaired desk and chair—again from the thrift shop—and a cheap bookshelf from the local ASDA that held his old school books and whatever books he was able to obtain whenever the local book store threw away the old, unsellable books to make room for new stock. Most did not have covers, but he did not care.

On the rickety stool that served as his nightstand sat an old Bagpuss clock, with the digital numbers set where the teeth of the pink and white cloth cat's mouth would have been. It reminded him of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, and gave Dudley a fright when he first saw it, which is why it now belonged to Harry. The time said it was nearly nine.

"Bagpuss, dear Bagpuss," Harry whispered, "Old fat furry cat-puss, wake up and look at this thing that I bring, wake up, be bright, be golden light. Bagpuss, oh hear what I sing. Please let them come. Please."

Almost the very moment the numbers switched from 8:59 to 9:00, a woman appeared in front of him with a pop of displaced air. It was not either of the women who came before—this woman was wide in build with a touch of grey to her curly hair, but it did not matter. She glowed inside like the other women, so very much more than other people did. He could see the pulse of her magic centred around her heart, glowing and flowing with a brilliant red-brown light. He was on his feet before he was even aware of it and reaching for that light, only to have her hand gently take his.

"I know it's tempting to touch me, child," the woman said kindly, "but you must learn not to do that. Those of us trained to work with you understand, but not all witches will appreciate you fondling their breasts, now, will they?"

It took a moment for him to truly understand what she was saying, but when he did he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"Pish, child. As I said, I handle first year Muggleborns every other year, so I've been trained to handle the need for touching. My name is Professor Spout, and I'll be taking you to your orientation. Are you ready?"

"Yes, ma'am. Er, I mean, Professor."

"Very good, lad," Sprout said with a wide smile. "Hold on now, what we are doing is called apparition. It is a form of magical transport, but can be uncomfortable the first time. On the count of three, then. One, two, three…"

The world warped and squeezed down to the width of a tube of toothpaste, before squeezing Harry through to another place, and he found himself in a different room facing several glowing children with normal adults and the professor who came a week ago—McGonagall.

"Ah, Mr Potter, very good," McGonagall said. To the other witch, she said with one arched brow, "Any problems, Pomona?"

"None at all, Minerva," Sprout said. "I dare say they met your expectations, if not a whit more than."

"Very good. Mr Potter, could you sit with the other students?"

Harry blinked, still trying to overcome not just the shock of travel, but the sight of children that looked just like he did. Well, not just like him. Four of the five facing him were girls—one with bushy hair and protruding front teeth, one with bright blonde hair that hung to her shoulders, one with dark hair like his, and a fourth girl with dark skin that spoke of a mixed parentage. The fifth was a tall, skinny boy with a mop of unruly brown hair. The girls wore nice dresses in bright, primary colors, while the boy wore black trousers and a pastel green button-down. However, what made Harry stand dumbstruck were the colors shifting and swirling around within them. The bushy-headed girl thrummed with a red, fiery light, as did the darker-skinned girl, only to a lesser extent. The tall, dark headed girl had a heavy, earthen brown to her core, while the blonde girl and the boy both seemed light and filled with clouds. Their eyes had the same back-lit effect his own did, though each to their own color. It was breathtakingly beautiful to Harry.

He could hear the adults talking, but he couldn't drag his eyes away from the kids in front of them. Their eyes had the same light in them his did, albeit like the colors within their eyes were different as well, mostly dark eyes except for the blonde girl with blue eyes. They were all staring back at him expectantly, and slowly he took a step forward.

"Hi," he said awkwardly.

"Hi!" the girl with bushy hair and electric brown eyes said brightly. "I'm Hermione Granger." She pointed to the chocolate-colored girl. "This is Deanna Thomas, and that's Justine Finch-Fletchley." The tall girl smiled shyly. "The blonde girl is Terri Boot, and…"

"Kevin Entwhistle," the boy said before Hermione could finish.

"Yes, well, hello," Hermione said. "And you're…"

"Harry Potter," Harry said.

Hermione smiled and held out her hand; behind her smile he could see the colors in her chest jump and bubble, and behind her eyes he saw a shadow. She was afraid he would not shake her hand.

Though it happened when he was young, he remembered the one time in his youth when a stranger took his hand and did not pull away. Smiling weakly, he reached up and took her hand in his, and the two froze as the air sparked around their hands.

Hermione's eyes widened to large ovals while her lips parted to form a soft "Oh". Justine stood quickly, concerned, until she too stood close to Harry. Her own eyes widened a little, and without hesitation she reached up and rubbed his arm.

"Wow," she said.

"I know," Hermione said.

For Harry's part, he could not even begin to describe the sensation of their touch. He continued holding Hermione's hand as what felt like an electric current ran between them, while Justine's touch caused tickling electric sparks on his other hand. Curious, the dark-skinned girl named Deanna came around Justine and rubbed his shoulder.

"That's nice," she said with a happy grin. "That's really nice."

Harry saw their colors bubbling again, but this time it appeared happier. Caught up in the shock of so much touch, he felt suddenly dizzy and happier than he could ever remember. He reached up and rubbed the ball of color in Hermione's chest, completely forgetting what Professor Sprout said.

Hermione did not mind—she closed her eyes and swayed, while under his touch the bubbling colors soothed and actually went from a bright, white-red to a calm pink. He turned to Justine and did the same, and her boiling earthen tones also calmed.

Suddenly new hands were on his shoulders—hands that did not spark or send electric warmth through him. The spell with the girls broke abruptly, and all of them jerked and opened their eyes in surprise at the sudden disconnect, only to see Professor McGonagall holding Harry's shoulders in her hands, leaning over his left to look to the girls.

"Mr Potter, what did I say?" she said. She spoke softly, but firmly. "It is not appropriate to touch girls there."

"Er, sorry, Professor," Harry said. He and the girls all blushed equally.

"Yes, well, please be more mindful. I'm afraid the parents were not entirely happy with you."

Harry looked over his shoulder at the glowering parents and sat down quickly. He barely noticed Hermione and Justine sit on either side.

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

Calliope and Edwin Granger arrived at the appointed meeting place in the outskirts of London shortly before 9 a.m. with their daughter in the back seat. Hermione sat looking about attentively with those disconcertingly bright, brown eyes of hers, her mouth a thin line of barely repressed excitement. "There it is!" she shouted, pointing and bouncing a little in her seat.

They could not see anything but an unremarkable row of three two-story buildings, dilapidated and without any signs. "Which one, dear?" Calliope asked.

"The middle one," Hermione said. "Can't you see the sign? The one that says 'Hogwarts orientation'?"

They looked where she was pointing, but could see nothing at all, most especially not any sign. Still, the directions in the invitation McGonagall handed them were clear enough. They parked in a small lot next to the row of buildings beside two other cars and climbed out.

Hermione took her mother's hand, causing the hair on Calliope's arms to rise slightly. The charge of her daughter's touch had always frightened Calliope, and concerned Edwin. They often discussed taking Hermione in for tests to find out what caused it, but for reasons neither could really pin down, they never did.

However, the moment they turned the corner, Calliope gasped. From the center building, as bright as day, she saw a large marquee with black lettering announcing the Hogwarts Student Orientation.

"Edwin, did you see that before?" she asked.

"See what?" her husband asked.

"The sign."

"What sign?"

She let go of Hermione's hand to point, but the moment she lost contact the sign disappeared. "Oh," she said chagrined. "It must be…magic, I suppose. Hermione, dear, come back please."

Impatience plastered the girl's smile into a grimace as she came back. "Muuuum," she said, thrumming with the need to get inside. "Let's go!"

"Hermione, your father and I can't see the sign unless you hold our hands."

Hermione froze, then her eyes widened and she clapped her hands in delight. "It must be magical, then!" she said. She grabbed their hands, and Calliope saw her husband's eyes light up in surprise as the sign appeared right in front of them.

Despite the dilapidated outward appearance of the buildings, the interior was nicely appointed with plush settees, couches and chairs situated around a large round book table. There was a clear space in front of the table, and against the far wall were a row of six padded folding chairs. Already they saw four children sitting on the chairs, with seven adults already present.

"Welcome, welcome," the tall form of Professor McGonagall said. "We are so pleased you could make it. Edwin and Calliope Granger, please meet…" She began to introduce them to the other adults. Calliope smiled and nodded at the appropriate times, but her eyes were on her daughter and the three other children facing her.

Seeing the eyes of the other children with that same strange, back-lighting made gooseflesh ripple down Calliope Granger's spine. It was a realization deep within her that Hermione was not unique; but more than that, she was a part of something Calliope could not be. The other children sat silently looking back, just as Hermione stared at them.

The second woman—witch, Calliope reminded herself—came and guided the Grangers to a sofa while Professor McGonagall guided Hermione to one of the chairs. Hermione sat, and as was her wont, immediately started talking to the other children. Usually what would happen next would be the children staring at her strangely, shuddering and then either turning their backs on her, or for the more aggressive ones, telling her pointedly to go away. After that would come the tears and depressed loneliness. They went through it every single year at school, until even Calliope wondered whether her daughter had amazing strength of character, or was just astoundingly stubborn that she continued to try.

Only, this time the children responded enthusiastically, smiling and shaking her hand and even laughing a little at the touch. "Ed, look," she whispered.

"I see," he assured her. He took her hand and the two sat down.

A moment later a third witch appeared with a pop that made the other adults in the room jump in surprise. On her arm clung a skinny, short boy with shaggy black hair and the most startling green eyes she'd ever seen. Even compared to the other strange children, he looked a little strange.

Calliope didn't listen to the odd exchange between the witches; instead she watched as her daughter greeted the boy. Like with the other children, the newcomer did not reject her like any normal child would. Instead, he took her hand and shook it.

And that's when Hermione's cheeks turned bright red and her lips parted. A moment later a second of the girls stood and started rubbing his shoulder as if he were a cat. She felt her husband's hand tighten on hers, though, when the boy just plain as day reached up and rubbed their daughter's chest!

"What is he doing?" Edwin barked out, unable to contain himself.

Remarkably, the students didn't even notice. The three witches turned to see what was happening just as the newcomer next rubbed the chest of the taller girl. "Justine!" the girl's expensively-dressed mother said, aghast.

The tall professor—Professor McGonagall—stepped to the boy while the other two—Hopkirk and Sprout, shared a long, knowing look. Hopkirk turned to look first at the woman in the mink fur coat and then Edwin, before smiling calmly. "What you are witnessing is not unusual for Muggleborn children," she explained. "Mr Potter most certainly did not mean anything inappropriate, nor did the girls when they returned his touch. Indeed, it has to do with their perception of themselves, their magic, and the world at large. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you are here today. As difficult as it may be to accept, we are not like you, and neither are your children."

Though delivered in a calm, measured voice, the words felt like blows to Calliope. She reared back even as the boy sat down between a still furiously blushing Hermione and the taller girl whose elegantly dressed mother called her Justine.

We are not like you. The words rang hatefully in Calliope's ears, while the undeniable truth of it sat looking at her with shining brown eyes.

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Author's Note: Very special thanks to Teufel1987, JR and Miles for beta reading. They were kind enough (and masochistic enough) to agree to beta read yet another of my fics.