PROLOGUE: WHAT IS IN A NAME?

Todd's P.O.V

Early on in his extensive, lengthy life, the Wraith known as Todd was given a different name by his own kind. Although it could be whittled down to a singular word when using vocal communication, in that action, it lost the soul of it. Guide. It was more than a name, encompassing all he was, would be, and could be.

It was the very essence of his being, his life force, the beat of his heart. Names to them, the Wraith, were nothing like those of the humans, chosen purely on the satisfaction of the rolling vowels or the pulse of consonants. Todd, Lewis, Steve, pretty sounds but gouged and superficial.

And so many, from what he understood of it, could be named the same thing. Redundant. Pointless. More than one human could be called John or Matthew, and the only way to tell them apart was another material matter, the structure of their body, a scar, the colour of their hair. Humans, Todd believed, were wholly entrapped in the artificial dimensions of life. It was sort of tragic, in a way, if it was not so aggravatingly fatuous. How they continually survived, flourished and prospered, when their attention was primarily on the visual and materialistic aspects of life was beyond Todd's grasp.

No. A Wraith's name was simply… More. Through their telepathic natures, they could link, feel each other, connect like root systems, gain more from a single glance and probe from another than a human could 'talking' for hours upon days. Really, all things considered, it was surprising humans accomplished anything at all with their inane need for chatter.

So, when he had been birthed from an old, dying queen and her consort at the tail end of the Lantean-Wraith war, near 10,000 years ago, it was his essence that was judged and named accordingly, not his eyes or nose. It was he who was deemed the one who goes alone. Ahead. Sure-footed and certain, capable of finding the path for others to follow behind. That was how he felt, and that was who he was, who he could and would be and so, through tongue and lip, it had been choppily shortened to Guide, if one was so inclined to butcher their language in such a savage way.

Through his life, Todd had followed his true name. He didn't hesitate. His feet was swift and confident. He led, he fought, and most importantly, he pathed the way for his people to prosper against the odds stacked against them, against the wishes of those who hoped to see them gone and dust. A nightmare long laid to rest. However, in the end, though victory had came for the Wraith against the Lanteans, this path he had tread had led him to a Genii cell, far from his hive, or any hive, cut off and haemorrhaging, alone in the silent void of isolation, starving with only the ache of loss to keep him company.

Idly, he wandered if she was out there. The little babe. The little girl who would one day grow to be queen, so precious were their females, so few and rare. Gift. Full of life and hope and light. Was she following her name? Did she even know of it? Had she found or been found by their people? Was she well and cared for? What was her hive like? Was she a thinker, like he, or a fighter, like her mother? These were the questions that tormented his mind as undiluted hunger slowly devoured him from the inside, in that dank, damp cell.

Harriet's P.O.V

Harriet Potter had been christened many things in her relatively short life. The chosen one. The girl-who-lived. Voldemort's nemesis. The fucker who just wouldn't die. Monikers given to push her to fight, to flame her fire of rebellion and riotousness, tossed at her to spur her to action. They were entirely unnecessary. Harriet would have fought either way, she supposed. That was what she was. A fighter. A survivor. The gift that kept on giving. Knock her down and she only came back swinging. Perhaps that was all she truly how to do. Fight. It was sad, so very sad, and yet it was all she had, this bitter fight and so, she did all she could.

The Philosophers stone, the basilisk and Tom Riddles diary, time-turners, werewolves and rescuing a prisoner, tournaments and graveyards of death and loss, corrupted ministries and halls of prophecy, cabinets of transportation and a tower of deceit, people pulling her strings, making her dance to their song, and through it all, she fought, she bled, and she carried on. It was a cycle she had mournfully become well acquainted with. She won some, she lost most, people fell to the wayside, dead and gone, and Harriet was left to stand once more on trembling knees, bloody knuckled, readying for another round she wanted nothing to do with. In this life, there was no getting out of the ring until the final bell tolled and, dejectedly, Harriet thought that bell sounded too much like a nail in the coffin being hammered home.

There was no other choice really, none but to follow those monikers others had given her, to walk the path they pathed, or die on the lonely road like so many of her predecessors. Alice. Frank. Lily. James. Dobby. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. Gideon. Fabian. All better men and women than she, surely, and yet, they were dead and here she was, still breathing. Harriet wouldn't lie, she didn't want to die, the thought frightened the fuckin' hell out of her, she didn't want to fade or leave and so, step by step, she walked forth, hoping, praying that this day was the final day to this madness.

Nonetheless, those monikers had been marginally better than the original names given to her. It. Thing. Monster. Diseased. Labels affixed upon her to highlight her otherness, her oddities, her differences. They had been names thrust at her to divide her from them, segregate her away, outline her into the scary box of 'foreign' and 'outsider'. If she was the monster, the thing, then they were the people, the heroes and for once, they could feel good about themselves. In the end, it was never really about her, it never had been, but about them. For a long time, before she had got her Hogwarts letter, it had worked. She had believed it all. She was a monster. She was a thing. She was an it. Not human. Not sentient. Nothing close to having a soul or heart of her own. Then again, for a long time, before her acceptance into the wizarding school, all she had was Dudley, Petunia and Vernon.

Still, she was foreign. She was an outsider. She was, to many, even to some friends, a monster who occasionally wore a human face sewn together with magic to ease their dread. A sheep's mask to hide the wolf from the flock. She felt their fear, smelt it too, buried and hidden as best as they could, but never deep enough to hide from her nose and mind. She felt their trepidation as they looked into her eyes, her real eyes. She felt them tense when she entered a room, felt them hesitate to touch her, to be near, felt their hearts tremble or skip a beat when she stepped out of a shaded corner. Even Ron and Hermione were not immune to these reactions, though they were always fastest to recover.

She felt it all and she wept. Legilimency came natural to Harriet. As easy as clapping, as natural as breathing, and, in truth, Legilimency was the closest name Snape and Dumbledore had to label what she could do. Most of the time, she did it without realizing she was. She... Felt people. Heard their thoughts if they were close. Smelt their emotions lingering in the air, tantalizing as it was insulting to her sensitivities. It helped, in a way. Words were often lies, or at least, only partially true. Their feelings couldn't lie, what they said in their mind was brutally honest, blunt and uncensored. Harriet lapped it all up like a kitten drinking milk. It helped fight the loneliness, the isolation, the disconnect between her and others. In the other way, it only hindered her, proving what divided her from them was too vast to swim across, an ocean of instinct, hesitation and fear. No matter how much she tried, how hard she fought, how fast or far she swam, she would never cross that canyon and would, forever, be something other.

She would never be one of them.

That realization had stung like battery acid dripped into the eye. After all, the taunts, the names of it and thing weren't wrong, not really. When she wasn't encased in layers of transfiguration and illusion spells, her oddities irrevocably separated her from the crowd she so longed to fully be a part of. Her frosty, pale green skin that held a glimmer of shine, that appeared to be ashen in bright light, made her yearn for hues of pinks, browns and tawny. Her lack of brows meant she couldn't frown or quirk one imperially high in amusement or jolt them both up to show shock and it hurt to, yet again, have another mode of communication taken from her when she did so poor with words. The small, slit like dimples on the apple of her cheeks felt like brands most days, markings to be weary of, a visual representation of everything wrong and different about her. Somedays, she dreamed of running her fingers over cheek skin and finding only smooth surface, no small ridge or sensitive dips. Her salt white hair only made the green shimmer of her skin more prominent, the almost yellow iridescence of her cat slit eyes eerily significant. She wished her nostrils could flair out wide like the others, that she wasn't as tall as she was, that her teeth were a little less keen and pointed. But, as Harriet knew, wishing never worked and so she was left outside the boundaries of normality. Outside the crowd. A visitor in her own life. The interloper of reality.

Of course, many had their reasons, their theories, of what she was. The original Avada Kedavra she had been struck with had mutated her somehow, turned her into this. This one held less ground for, well, she had been found exactly as she was. Half breeds between wizards and creatures were not rare in the wizarding world, minotaur, mermaids and Veela being only a few of the offspring of such dalliances between man and animal and she was simply one such example. A wrong runt discarded by some unknown beast. Perhaps a Dementor. Malfoy had found great pleasure in tormenting her with that one. Of course, there were others more outlandish. She was a product of an experiment conducted by Slughorn. She was a changeling baby replaced on the death of Lily and James and, of course, Ron's favourite, that she was an alien from a far-off flung world. At least she had the self-awareness to laugh at those ones.

Yet, how and why she came to be, as strange as it sounded, did not matter much to Harriet. She was unalike and she was okay with that. So much so, if only that difference didn't separate her from the crowd. She was a herd person, a bee, a communal entity. Being isolated, alone, lost and singular… No. It was best not to dwell on such dreary thoughts that left her waking in the middle of the night, sobbing until no more tears could come and she was left dry heaving over the toilet bowl. The names had hurt for that very reason. They underpinned her seclusion, her singularity, her outsider-ness. It solidified the 'us' and 'them' mentality, and in the end, she, to everyone, was neither us or them but something uncomfortably outside those realms.

Maybe it only reminded Harriet of aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, and that was why she was so averse to those names. Spending your childhood, right up until you were eleven, locked in a closet, hidden from the word because of what you looked like, slapped and kicked for even going near a window, starved and beaten for sneaking out into the backyard when you were seven just to have a breath of fresh air for the first time in your life, well, surely that would make anyone angry when those same slurs those very people used were mirrored back by strangers. Or, perhaps, it had hurt even more coming from Petunia because she was related to the very woman and her husband who had found Harriet in a mangled heap of metal, vine wires and, according to Sirius, a translucent skin like shielding over a domed little pod that had been cracked and leaking some strange, thick, fog like smoke.

It hurt because then, for just once, James and Lily Potter had seen something more than a monster, more than a thing, more than an it, an animal abandoned to die. They had seen something worth saving and had taken her in. Within the week, they had adopted her through magical means, gave name and home to her and, for the first and only time, she had been a part of something bigger than a singular construct. She had been a part of a family. Even though Petunia adored to tell her, her adoption was the conclusion of Lily and James losing their own son just a week before her discovery through a problematic birth, that she was just a fill in, a poor mimicry, a plug, Harriet couldn't fully trust that.

James and Lily had loved her. Bathed her. Fed her. Sang her to sleep and rocked and played with her. They had given their family name to her, a home, and treated her as if she one of them… No, she was one of them. Sirius had told her that often enough. By Merlin, in the end, James and Lily had willingly given their lives to protect her, to keep her from harm, if that was not love, Harriet didn't know what was. Sirius too had sacrificed himself for her, shoving her out of the way of Bellatrix's curse, taking the hit to the chest, falling through the Veil before Harriet could reach him. He had loved her too. Deeply. She knew that.

And she wasn't alone. Not wholly. Ron and Hermione, even if they still feared her a little, a seemingly natural instinct to her visage, loved her enough to abandon their own safety, their own homes and lives and to come with her, to go on the run, scavenging for Voldemort's Horcruxes so they could finally end this horrid war. Harriet, no matter what names were slapped on her, no matter who called her what, no matter how much fear was underlying the surface of her friendships, would not and could not let that love go to waste. She would end this war, end Tom and all those who stood in her way. For Lily. For James. For Sirius. For Ron and Hermione. She'd kill them all if she had to. For them.

"You alright there, Harri?"

Harriet snapped out of her swiftly darkening thoughts. Who was she kidding? Her thoughts had only been doom and gloom for a while now. Still, she fought back the sickening wave of rage bubbling up her gut, burning her throat and stinging her eyes. Perhaps it wasn't rage at all, but thirst. Her eyes darted over, across the tent, to Hermione, who stood bent half in half out the flap door, sunlight blazing at her back, one eyebrow cocked high as she took in Harriet's sitting form in the far corner.

Subconsciously, Harriet's thumb had been running over her right palm, up and over, down and across, around and around, much like her thoughts. There, on the previously unblemished skin was a little hint of a line, a pinkish mark that was darkening each day, slicing deeper. She knew there was another on her other palm too. They didn't hurt, sometimes they tingled and spasmed, but pain never came. Still, she didn't know what they were, why they were appearing now, or what it all meant, but something, right there, in the crease of the deepening slit, in the back of her mind, rang like a siren. Her hands involuntarily clenched before she forced them to open, clapped her knees and chuckled as she stood.

"Just thinking about food. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

There it was, the slight grimace of Hermione's face as her natural voice rang out clear and dual. From the shaded corner, she could likely only see Harriet's vague form, and with her strange voice, lapping, raspy, deep and twin, like two voices speaking at once, she now knew Harriet had taken off all the concealment and transfiguration charms she normally wore. While on the run, out of sight, Harriet had taken to leaving them off, if only to keep her magic replenished should they blunder into another fight with the snatchers lurking in this forest.

If it wasn't for the incessant hunger that was currently gnawing on Harriet's intestines, maybe the reaction would have hurt more, but as she was, quite literally, starving, the hunger eating at her was one of the only things she could focus on. In a poor attempt to hide her instinctual reaction, Hermione, Merlin bless her, tried to play it off as a joke, skirting out of the way as Harriet slipped through the door and into the almost blinding daylight.

"You must be on a growth spurt. All you want to do lately is eat. Soon, you'll give Ron a run for his money."

Now it was Harriet's turn to wince. Maybe it was from the light scorching her eyes, or from the unintentional jab at Ron's own appetite. Most likely, it was due to the fact that yes, Hermione was right, all Harriet wanted to do was eat and feast and-… Fuck. She was so bloody hungry. But she shouldn't be focused on that hunger. That shouldn't be all she wanted to do, think about, dream of. She had a war to win, Horcruxes to find and friends to protect. Even then, standing next to her, as she spoke one thing, Hermione meant another.

Harriet could feel it, the worry, the uncertainty simmering underneath her words. She was concerned too. Harriet had already ate through their rations three times, stopped an extra four in the local markets to get more food and, rightly, she was putting them all at risk because she couldn't bloody stop the hunger, no matter how much she ate. Most painfully, Harriet could feel the bite of resentment sitting in Hermione's sternum, a pit in the juicy peach, the sting of capped fury. She thought Harriet was wasting time. Her focus on less pressing matters… She thought Harriet was being selfish.

Harriet's sharp tooth pierced her cheek as her jaw clenched. Her blood tasted briny and smooth, but bitter, like glass dipped in the sea and spritzed with lemon. Hermione fell back a step, eyes falling to the floor as she realized what Harriet had picked up from her mind. Brokenly, Harriet took in a quivering breath through her nose, holding it in her chest, feeling it roll in her lungs before gently letting it out. It wasn't Hermione's fault.

They were all tired. Dirty. Hungry. Their insurmountable task set by Dumbledore was weighing heavily on them all. Perhaps Hermione didn't mean it. Perhaps Harriet was being selfish. In the grand scheme of things, none of it mattered. They needed to keep attentive, not squabble over playground arguments like first years, as much as Harri wanted to reach back and punch her for even thinking anyone, any god forsaken person in this retched place was selfish, that it was her of all people. Anger would get them nowhere, and this is exactly what Tom wanted, them apart and alone, easily defeated. Still, Harriet couldn't focus with her stomach twisting itself into a tangled knot of torturous pain and aching want. Hermione sighed and, almost apologetically, softly, placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight.

"Pull up your human face and we'll nip into the local village. Ron will be up for a little shop raid anyway."

Harriet bit back the bark of no. She didn't want to pretend anymore. She didn't want to wear that face that was so tight, restrictive, the chains dragging her under. Why was she the one who had to keep pretending to be something she wasn't? Why didn't Hermione and Ron ever have to pretend to be like her? Why was it, through everything, it was always her that had to give up little parts of herself to fit in? No doubt, Hermione just wanted Harriet to look human again, to ease her own cautionary reaction, because, really, they could go into the village under the cloak or a notice-me-not charm. They were never going to accept her. Never. Not fully. She should leave. Now. Find food and-

Harriet shook her head violently as her hand snapped up to the locket dangling from her chest. Her long fingers bruisingly tightened around the frigid metal. Not today Tom. He wouldn't get into her head today. With a mental push, that insidious, foul dankness shirked itself from her mind, slithering back into the hell it came from. The locket. As the best at Legilimency and Occlumency, it was up to Harriet to handle the Horcruxes, to keep them on her before they destroyed them on mass before the final battle, but this hunger was making it harder to concentrate on keeping Tom's shards out. If they had to share the Horcruxes, no doubt either Ron or Hermione would have stormed off by now. Frankly, Harriet's money would have been on Ron, after being goaded by Hermione in some form. Merlin knew he was never any good at controlling his feelings-

She needed the hunger to stop. The marks on her palm trembled, stretching and rippling, and Harriet's fingers curled as her gaze unwittingly fluttered to Hermione's chest. She thought she could see something glowing there, a light, hot, fresh... Juicy... Harriet clenched her eyes shut, scrubbed at them, and once she opened them again, the light was gone. She couldn't keep track of her own thoughts anymore. One thought bled into another and that into another, dragging her down and before she knew it, she was forgetting what she was meant to be saying or doing. Food. They were going to get food. Harry grinned, or tried to through the ache in her body, pulled her wand free and cast the illusion spell Dumbledore had taught her on her very first night at Hogwarts, so she could finally venture out into the real world, be amongst people and not locked in a bloody closet. Soon, her skin bled to pink, her cheek gashes merged into smooth skin, her nose became more defined, brow hairs sloping over her hooded eyes, her pupils ballooned to little balls instead of slits, and her white hair darkened to black curls. There she was. Human Harriet. Another lie. Another shard. Another mask. Everything tasted bitter, like her blood.

Hermione smiled brightly at the sight and a little part of Harri withered at the reaction. She never grinned at Harriet like that when she was wearing her true face. Not once. Neither did Ron or Molly, Ginny or Arthur. The only one to ever treat her the same in disguise or not had been Sirius and he was… He was gone. Would she have had more smiles such as these if she were like them? Human? Would life be easier with pink skin and red blood not given through spells? Would Petunia or Vernon treated her better if she looked not so monstrous?

No. Not now. First, she would get food, hopefully satisfy this hunger that had slowly but surely began to completely seize her over the last fortnight, and then she would begin to hunt the Horcruxes again. In war, no one had the privilege of letting inane questions cloud their mind, least of all the-girl-who-lived.

What do you think?

A.N: I'm taking heavy inspiration from the book series Legacy from the Stargate franchise. However, for those who know nothing about Stargate Atlantis, or the books, fear not, I'll be heading through with Harriet to hopefully path some ground for those readers new to this fandom. For those who do know Stargate Atlantis and the books, I hope I do the characters and plots justice! However, just some heads up, Harriet, in this, does gradually grow into a darker person than Canon. I prefer my protagonist like my coffee, black with no sugar ;), but it will be a gradual process. This fic will also be deep diving into Wraith civilization, history, and most importantly, culture with my own little zest added in. For those of you who do not like it, this is a Harry/multi fic. That means more than one partner. Plus, they're Wraith (Including alien anatomy), so if that makes you squimish or queezy, turn back now. That all said, I really hope you liked this little taster, poor pun intended, and are looking forward to the rest. If you have a moment, please drop a review. Until next time, have a great day!