A/N: Chapter two review responses are available in my forums. This chapter is a bit of an info-dump, but it was a necessary thing.

Chapter Three: Not Like You

"Mr and Mrs Granger, Mrs Finch-Fletchley, what you witnessed is a process we call Social Alignment," Professor McGonagall said, "and is a unique aspect of our work with students who are not raised among magical families. Muggleborn and the occasional Muggle-raised students are quite often overwhelmed not only by the realization that they are not alone, but also by the first physical contact they have with another magical being." McGonagall's lips quirked. "I believe all of you are familiar with a slight discomfort whenever you hold or touch your child? I have heard it described as a mild electric shock."

Even Calliope was forced to nod, as were the other parents.

"Although I'm sure all of you force your way through that first electric moment to the pleasant feeling that follows with prolonged contact with magical children, very, very few non-family members are willing to do that. What you feel is their magic attempting to form an emotional bond with you. Touch means a great deal to magical children—our magic informs and strengthens our emotions, and vice versa. That's why for those of you who persevere through that first discomfort, the feeling becomes pleasurable afterward.

"As a result of this quirk of magic, most Muggleborn children grow up with a type of social isolation that is hard for you as their parents to wholly appreciate. When that isolation ends, the children are often euphoric. Mr Potter was not attempting any inappropriate contact—in point of fact he did the same to me when he first saw me."

"So are all the boys at that school of yours going to go around groping girls?" Justine Finch-Fletchley's mother asked sharply.

"I dare say not!" McGonagall said. "The process lasts usually no more than a week or two before they recover their senses and return to normal modes of behavior. In addition, one of the aspects of Hogwarts life is to acclimatize all magical children to magical society as a whole. Consequently the school very strictly separates the sexes for most classes in their first three years."

"That's what I don't understand," Mrs Finch-Fletchley said. She wore a diamond ring worth as much as Calliope's auto. "Why do you have a separate society in the first place? Why the secrecy?"

Everyone jumped in their seats when all three witches suddenly changed before their eyes. Where before stood three perfectly ordinary women now stood three otherworldly creatures with gleaming eyes and pale skin like right out of a bad fantasy novel. McGonagall and Sprout looked almost translucent, as if lit from within, while Hopkirk merely appeared pale.

A moment later they returned to their normal appearance. "What you are looking at right now, when you see us as the same as yourselves, are called Veils. It is a magical glamour that hides our true appearance. We wear them among you because of the reaction you all just demonstrated. To you, witch-born are frightening. Right now the most telling aspects of your children's heritage are their eyes. But as they get older, their skin will begin to pale as their magical cores expand. The luminescence of a witch or wizard's skin is dependent upon their innate magical power and age. For instance, I am one hundred and twenty two. Professor Sprout is ninety-four. Young Mafalda here is only sixty. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore is two hundred and twenty eight. He was born in 1763, six years before Napoleon Bonaparte."

Calliope was fighting not to hyperventilate. "Will Hermione live…?"

"She might," McGonagall said. "Although we are immune from your diseases, there are magical diseases which we cannot cure. And just like you, our society occasionally suffers from conflict, prejudice and violence. But back to the original question of why we are separate—the truth is that your people have always feared and hated us. We not only look different, but we truly are different. In the ancient days of Rome it was not unusual for witch-born to be smashed against the stones of the Tiber River. In Germany witch born were hung in cradles at the top of the trees until they died of exposure, which I believe is the source of a popular Muggle nursery rhyme. The Christianization of Briton resulted in the execution of an estimated five thousand witch-born. While some adult wizards were able to interact in a limited fashion with the Muggle community, we have never been allowed to live freely until we banded together and forced the two worlds apart."

"Why don't you wear this Veil all the time, then?" Mr Fletchley, the husband of the immaculately dressed Mrs Finch-Fletchley, asked.

"Because it is, to be blunt, uncomfortable," McGonagall said. "And you should keep that in mind, because when you see your children over the winter holiday, they will know the Veil spell and will be expected to wear it whenever out of the home. In fact, the Veil is the only magic that they will be permitted to perform at home."

"I have a question," Daniel Entwhistle said in a very belligerent tone. "What if I don't believe in any of this, and don't want my son going to that blasted school of yours?"

"I'm glad you asked," McGonagall said with a smile that made Calliope somewhat nervous. "The question comes up at least once every year or so. Madam Hopkirk will answer as a representative of the Ministry of Magic."

The smaller, younger woman drew herself up and said an officious tone, "Attendance at Hogwarts is compulsory for all Muggleborn children. Failure to abide by the law will result in the magical child being taken into custody and placed with a foster magical family, and all memory of that child being removed from the offending parent. In essence, it would be as if your son never existed in your life."

Calliope tried to catch her breath at that chilling statement. Would they take Hermione away?

McGonagall viewed the adults with pursed lips. "I see you all realize just what that means. If it sounds drastic, it truly is. Now let me tell you a story to illustrate why. Some years ago, I had the honor to contact a student named Lily. She was a beautiful, powerful young witch, born into a normal family not so dissimilar to yours. She had a sister and two loving parents, but she was also what was known as an Aether, with a natural inclination to mind and soul magics, as well as fire. After I left from our first meeting, evidently the older sister took exception to Lily's status as a witch, and the two fought quite viciously. Their mother tried to break the conflict up when Lily, in a fit of very normal childish anger, unleashed accidental magic. Her sister suffered seven broken bones and burns over seventy percent of her body, as well as an aneurism in her brain due to the pain caused by her sister. Her mother was killed instantly."

Calliope found herself hyperventilating again.

"Fortunately," McGonagall continued, "I was still close by and was able to revive the mother and heal the sister, but even with the best healing magic Lily's mother never fully recovered. She had to use a cane for the rest of her life, and to this very day the sister blames Lily for their parent's early demise and the pain she suffered. It sounds terrible, and like something that could never happen to you, doesn't it?"

"A Muggleborn accidently killed her mother with magic just last year," Hopkirk said in a grim tone.

"Summer before that, three children—one magical and two non-magical step-siblings—all died in a burst of accidental magic," Professor Sprout said.

"We cannot stress enough to you, ladies and gentlemen, that untrained magic is deadly—both to you and to the child," McGonagall said. "For that reason, there is no negotiation; there is no refusal. ALL magical children are required to attend Hogwarts until at least the completion of their basic competency levels, called Ordinary Wizarding Levels, or O.W.L.s. Any attempt to interfere with the education of a magical child carries with it drastic consequences. If after the O.W.L.s a magical child wishes to leave Hogwarts or the magical world entirely, they may do so, but their magic will be permanently bound and their Veils permanently affixed, both of which are exceedingly painful, for the remainder of that witch's or wizard's life."

"If you're so different," Calliope asked despite her fear, "how can our children possibly be like you? I mean genetics do not work that way!"

"Genetically, you and I are not dissimilar," Hopkirk answered. "I am human in the sense your scientists would define me. However, where you are Homo Sapiens, we are a parallel branch called Homo Magi—the specific difference is that our bodies have a unique structure in the marrow of our bones that create energy which we call magic. In years to come, that name may change, but historically it has always been called such. This power gradually changes our bodies until, by after forty, we are no longer genetically compatible with to you. A wizard of eighty could not produce offspring with a Muggle woman, whereas a wizard of thirty could. Muggle-born children are the result of such unions."

Beside her, Edwin stiffened. "Could you clarify that point, please?" he asked, coldly.

"Actually I can, using you and your lovely wife as an example," Mafalda said with a soothing smile. "Mrs Granger, you are the second-generation offspring of a Squib named Susan Bartleby. Ms Bartleby was born with a disorder that prevented her from being able to access, even accidently, her magic. People with this condition are colloquially known as Squibs, and find it difficult to live in the Magical World. Most voluntarily take on a permanent Veil and choose to live in the Muggle world. Ms Bartleby married a handsome young man named Jacob Darling, who had a daughter named Margaret, who had you. You, Mr Granger, are in fact a great, great, great grandson of another Squib named Constance Stanton. Your daughter was born magical because both of you carried a magical gene, and any other girls you might have been able to produce would also be magical."

"Why only girls?"

"Statistics, Mr Granger," McGonagall said. "Mr Entwhistle here is an exception you very rarely see. His mother was an actual witch, while you, Mr Entwhistle, also carry the dormant gene."

"How could you know that?" Entwhistle said. "She left me almost as soon as Kevin was born!"

"We know because we can trace the magic much like your scientists can use genes to test paternity," the professor said.

"So do you know where Emily is?"

The three witches shared a knowing look. "Sadly, Mr Entwhistle," McGonagall said, "your wife was killed in the same conflict that cost Mr Potter here his parents. I know it is of little consolation, but she most likely left to protect you, and likely gave her life doing the same. Our world was in a state of terrible conflict ten years ago, and many suffered as a result."

Calliope looked across the room at the stricken man. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but I would like to know more about why my husband and I would only have girls."

"It is a function of fragility," the wide witch named Sprout said. "Male fetuses are extremely fragile to begin with, and magic is inherently unstable. Compounding this is the lack of stabilizing magic in your own body, and your inability to produce witch's milk, which is essential to baby wizards especially for the first three months of life. As a result, only one out of hundred Muggle-born wizard fetuses come to term, and of those, only one in a thousand survive their first three months, and usually then as a squib. When taking into account that our population is measured in thousands, you can imagine it simply doesn't happen. Mr Entwhistle, though raised by his Muggle father, was born of a witch, as was Mr Potter. Mr Entwhistle's mother did not leave until Kevin was at least six months, correct?"

Mr Entwhistle, shoulder's sagging, nodded.

"Even among magical families, there is a rather large gender disparity," Hopkirk continued. "There are generally two to three girls born for every boy, with some generations where that gap is widened further. This has had an impact on our society on many levels."

"We are, as a matter of necessity, polygynists—it is normal for a single wizard to have two or more wives," Hopkirk said. "For instance, I share a husband myself with a sister spouse. This aspect of our culture is driven by necessity, and has been as it is for over a thousand years. Our laws regarding marriage are crafted so as to ensure the protection and respect for all parties. In point of fact, our society is decidedly matriarchal. This is not a case of men controlling the system to appease baser instincts. To a certain extent the exact opposite is true."

"Witches carry a great deal of power in our society, more so than in yours," McGonagall said, picking up precisely where the younger witch stopped. "While individually wizards may be more powerful than witches, there are more of us. This has led to a level of equality in our society that has existed since the reign of Vortigern. Your daughters will have just as equal an opportunity to flourish and succeed as any wizard. But they may also find themselves in a plural marriage. Just remember that to us, such an arrangement is not immoral, but a good and necessary thing."

Calliope was shaking her head, while her husband leaned over and said, "That Potter boy looks like he's going to have a whole bloody harem, with our daughter in the lead."

Calliope looked and saw that, despite the professor's urging them not to touch, Hermione was holding the boy's right hand, while on his left, the girl named Justine was holding his other. All three were smiling with unfocused eyes, as if completely lost to their thoughts.

"Oh Hermione," she whispered sadly. "Have we already lost you?"

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

After a break of tea and biscuits, the parents gathered with their children and walked as a group to a room toward the back of the building, where they saw an unusually large fireplace.

"If I may have your attention," McGonagall said. "Thank you. Now, this morning we've discussed many aspects of magical life that your children, and through them yourselves, will be encountering. One of the most important aspects of magical life is our transportation methods. While it may sound somewhat stereotypical, we do in fact use flying brooms. However, that is not the preferred method of travel for most witches and wizards. Instead, most use either a method of teleportation known as Apparation, another method using magical devices called Portkeys, or the Floo network. In the absence of all those methods, we also have a public transport called the Knight Bus, though I would not recommend it."

She stepped back from the fireplace and flicked her wand. Instantly a large flame burst to life. A moment later she reached into a pouch along a roped belt at her waist and threw a handful blue powder into the flame while calling, "Diagon Alley!" It billowed green.

"While the flame is green, it will not burn or hurt anyone entering. Grangers and Thomas Family, would you please hold hands with Professor Sprout?"

"With me, now," the wide-bodied woman said as she and the two families linked hands. "On three, just walk toward the fireplace. It is wide enough for us all."

While the Grangers and Deanna's mother looked mortified at the thought of walking into fire, the two girls bounced with excitement. The rest watched in alarm and fascination as the six people walked toward the fire only to be enveloped by a billow of green before disappearing.

"Very good. Now, Entwhistles and Boots, please hold hands with Ms Hopkirk," McGonagall said. "Mr and Mrs Fletchley, Mr Potter, we will go together. Hold hands, now."

Harry took her left hand, while the Finch-Fletchley family hesitantly held each other's hands, and Mr Fletchley—a hard looking man of middle height—took her right hand.

"Well, are you ready?" The five of them stepped into the green fire, and instantly the whole world blurred into streaks of light. Harry heard voices speaking all around him so loud it made his ears throb. He spun and twisted in the air so fast his stomach heaved, and his brain throbbed with the pain of his passage.

An instant later he shot out of the fireplace like a rocket, screaming in alarm. He got a brief glimpse of wood and heard startled shouts before he slammed into something hard and painful. The sound of cracking wood accompanied the dull thud of his flesh striking it, and when at last he came to a stop, he rolled onto his side and vomited up everything he'd ever eaten.

"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall shouted.

Stunned and in pain, Harry heard his name picked up like an echo from other people. "That's Potter?" "Is it really him?" "I would have thought he'd have red hair."

"Mr Potter, are you quite alright?" McGonagall said.

Strong thin hands rolled him over. "Ow," he whispered. He then reached up and felt at his shattered glasses. "Oh no, my glasses!"

"Oculus Reparo," McGonagall said.

Harry saw a blur of yellow and suddenly his glasses were whole again. "Are you otherwise hurt, Mr Potter?"

"Nothing broken, I think," Harry said. "What happened? Did it hurt that much for everyone?"

McGonagall knelt down beside him, paling as she did so. "Hurt, Mr Potter? The Floo hurt you?"

"It was so loud and bright!" Harry said. "Like I was getting hit the whole time. It was awful."

"Mr Potter, that just isn't…unless…"

"Unless what, Professor?"

"Well, the same thing happened to your mother, Lily, when she first travelled by Floo. But Lily was an Aether, and there are no wizard Aethers to my knowledge. I just can't…"

The professor blinked, clucked her tongue, and then said, "Mr Potter, when you look at me, what do you see in my chest?"

"Fire," Harry said without hesitation.

McGonagall paled even further. "And Professor Sprout?"

"Earth."

McGonagall stood, and then offered him a hand to help him up. Only then did he become aware of all the people around him staring. Most were wearing their Veils, but some were not, and the gleam of their interest was disconcerting.

"This way, Mr Potter," she said, leading him through the tables. He looked behind him and saw a trail of two broken tables and three chairs from where he had come flying out of the fireplace.

The other Muggleborns and their parents were gathered at the back, staring at him. He felt his cheeks flush brilliantly and tried to look at his feet when McGonagall joined them. As they got closer to the main group, he heard Mrs Granger asking why he flew out of the fire so violently when none of the rest did.

He strained to hear Sprout's answer clearly. "I'm not entirely sure, to be honest," Sprout said. "That reaction is not unusual for Aethers. Magic tends to lend itself toward elemental properties—this is true across all cultures and magical traditions. However, occasionally a witch is born with a leaning toward a fifth element, what the Classicals called the Aether, or spirit. The sorting we told you about, in fact, is based on a child's natural elemental inclination. Mr Potter's mum shot out like a cannon her first time. However, I don't understand why Mr Potter would have the same reaction since Aethers do not appear in the male portion of our population."

"I want to know how he went through all that furniture without breaking every bone in his body," another man said.

"That, Mr Fletchly, was an example of instinctive magic," Sprout answered. "Witch-born are physically very tough, in large part because of our magic is guided by a sense of self-preservation. For instance, our primary sport involves iron balls similar to a cannon ball which can impact children at speeds approaching fifty miles an hour or more. And yet even with direct blows, it is exceedingly rare for a player to receive injury."

"Now please note that the Leaky Cauldron is located on Charing Cross Road," Hopkirk said over the low conversation. "You may only see it when you are in physical contact with your child. This pub is the main entrance into the magical quarter of London. There are also magical alleys in Leeds and Edinburgh for which we will provide information at a later date. Magical alleys such as Diagon Alley are the only places in which you can obtain the materials your children will need for school. Each alley has a bank run by goblins called Gringotts—we will be visiting there first. I'm afraid the prices are rather steep converting your funds, but there is a form available at the bank to apply for financial aid. Since education is compulsory, those who are unable to afford it will be able to draw from a scholarship fund. Come with me, please…"

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

The Dursley family jumped in alarm when Harry Potter appeared in their living room with the tall, stern-faced Minerva McGonagall right in front of their television. The boy clutched a cage easily as large as his chest holding a massive, perfectly white owl, and a surprisingly small trunk at his feet.

"Good evening," McGonagall said in a clipped tone. "Mr Potter has successfully completed his orientation for Hogwarts. He is to arrive at King's Cross rail station at precisely 9 a.m. on the first of September. When he arrives, I expect him to have been fed three square meals a day from this point until then, to be wearing clean, fitted clothes, and to be in possession of everything you see before you, undamaged and whole. Additionally, I expect him to have suffered no form of physical or mental abuse. If any of these expectations are not met, well…let us say that you would not enjoy that day." She turned to Harry and nodded. "Mr Potter, it was a pleasure to meet you again. I look forward to seeing you at school."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said earnestly.

With a curt nod, McGonagall disappeared with a loud pop that made the Dursleys all jump again. Harry stared at them and could feel them staring back. "Er, well, we already ate, so I'll just go up to my room then. Goodnight."

His relatives continued to stare at him blankly, especially Uncle Vernon, as Harry carried his trunk and his new owl, Hedwig, up the stairs to the littlest bedroom. He went inside, pulled off his clothes and shut the door, before he ran and jumped on his bed, burying his face in his pillow so he could scream without being heard.

Hedwig watched in concern, hooting softly, before Harry emerged from his pillow red-faced and grinning madly. "It's real, Hedwig!" he whispered so hard it came off as a strained, muffled shout. "It's all real. They're just like I am. I'm not alone, I'm really not alone! I'm not a freak, or if I am, I'm not the only one."

He cried tears of joy and relief as he spoke to his owl, who listened with the internal patience of a magical beast who could not understand human words, but perfectly understood tone and intention. Her master was happy, and so Hedwig was as well.

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

Hermione and her parents drove up to their spacious home in Steatham Hill after one of the most exhilarating, terrifying days any of them could remember. When Edwin Granger turned off the engine in their car park, none of them moved at first. The only sound was the kitten with the strange blue eyes—a kneazle, the shop owner called it—mewling for Hermione to lift her out of the cage.

"Those goblins were quite frightening," Hermione finally said. "I daresay I'd never want to steal anything from that bank ever."

"They did seem rather…abrupt," Edwin said, still too startled and disconcerted to risk speaking honestly about this new world they found themselves in. "And that conversion rate—it is difficult to believe they still use gold."

His wife stared at him for the longest time before chuckling. "Edwin, dear, you are so…I love you, but after learning our daughter is a witch, that magic exists and that a whole world of witches and wizards exists around us, are you really only amazed by the fact they are on the gold standard?"

In the back seat, Hermione began to giggle.

"Right, let's be on our way, then," he said, trying to dig himself out of the hole he suddenly found himself in.

They carried Hermione's school trunk into the house while she carried her kneazle, whom she affectionately called Crookshanks because of its already long, shaggy orange fur. Once they were inside, Edwin pulled out a pudding they made that morning in anticipation of the day, and quickly doled out servings. Hermione sat at the bar, grinning happily while sucking the pudding from her spoon, while her parents looked on with pensive half-smiles.

"So, did you and that Potter boy have a nice talk?" Edwin finally asked carefully.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically as she took another bite. "He lives in Surrey. His aunt and uncle don't sound very nice, but he said Professor McGonagall put them to rights. Now he has real clothes that fit, and they're letting him eat, and they even gave him a bedroom with a real bed in it. He's read a lot of books, too. He likes Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton. He said he's never read Tolkien, except a bit of the Hobbit since his copy was burned a little. He named his owl Hedwig, isn't that a funny name? Justine said he was a lot nicer than Ernie and I'm inclined to agree, that MacMillan boy was a little rude, don't you think? And he didn't feel half as nice to shake hands with as Harry did, and Deanna said so too, and Terri too. He could see the magic in Gringotts, isn't that amazing? He said the walls were red with magic, and it felt scary, like if you did anything the goblins didn't like, the magic would hurt you. And did you see those books about him? Or the way other people whispered in the bookstore when they found out it was him? He's quite famous, you know. I realize now that I think of it that the story Professor McGonagall told about Lily must have been about his mum because her name was Lily too. His aunt and uncle always told him his Mum and Dad died in a car crash, but now he knows they were killed by that dark wizard no one mentions. That must have been a really scary time, I'm glad I wasn't there. Poor, poor boy. I bet he misses his Mum and Dad. I can't imagine what I would do if anything happened to you. And did you feel how wonderful he felt? It was like standing in front of the heater vent in winter or snuggling with your favorite blanky or…I can't even think of the word for it. And when he touched me…oooh, if felt so wonderful. If I were like Crookshanks then I'm sure I would have purred. It was like he was touching my soul, and it was so wonderful. I miss him already, I just wish they didn't make us sleep in separate dorms then I could…"

She stopped, her cheeks turning pink as she looked up at her gaping parents. "Er, I didn't just say what I think I said, did I?"

"Frankly, dear, you said so much I'm still playing catch-up," Calliope said. "But it did sound very much like you were suggesting you would want to go to his dorm room."

Her cheeks flared again. "I…would never do anything like that, of course," she finally said.

"From what it sounds like, you couldn't even if you wanted to," Edwin said. "But I have to admit, I have this strange urge to go find and strangle the boy."

Hermione's eyes widened as she dropped her spoon with a loud clang. "Daddy, you wouldn't!"

"No, he wouldn't," Calliope said. "Remember what they told us, Edwin. It's just part of the acclimation process. It's a big step, you know, discovering they're not alone."

At the sound of a loud sniff, the two elder Grangers turned and stared at their daughter in alarm. Hermione was suddenly, inexplicably weeping and swaying in her seat. As sometimes happened when she was feeling great emotion, her spoon bent, and bent again, until it was a solid ball of metal.

"Sweetheart?" Calliope said, hating herself for the small spark of fear she felt at the sight of the crushed spoon. The horror stories of accidental magic did not sit easy in her mind.

Through her tears, Hermione looked up at her mother and said, "I'm not alone, Mum. I'm not a freak, or if I am, I'm not the only one." Nearby their china cabinet began to shake, but then suddenly the kneazle was there, somehow jumping up from the floor to Hermione's lap despite her sitting on the stool, and despite the animal being just a kitten. Hermione squeezed the kitten and rocked it as the cabinet stilled and her accidental magic dissipated.

"And that is exactly why McGonagall convinced us to buy the cat," Calliope whispered pointedly to her husband, who resisted purchasing anything else at such outrageous prices in the magical creatures store.

That was when McGonagall smiled gently and said, "It has been my experience, Doctor Granger, that the true emotional impact of this day will not hit until later, usually right before or after they go to bed. With strong emotions comes accidental magic. But with a bonded familiar, the magic is controlled and much more manageable. It is, of course, your choice, but I would recommend getting her an animal. You'll thank me later."

Looking at their tear-stricken, emotionally turbulent daughter squeezing the kneazle in a way that would have crushed a normal kitten, only to hear the animal purring loudly, Edwin did in fact silently thank the professor.

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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.