SIGNS OF SNOW

Prologue:

A long morning.

Harriet Potter's P.O.V

It was at exactly 6:14 am, on July 31st 1999, that Harriet Potter realised her entire life had been a lie. It was an odd realization to come to. Hollow in a way. Nothing had explicitly changed. She was still Harriet, Harry to her friends, and she had lived what she had, and yet, everything had changed. Everything. It felt as if she was standing on a mudslide, rushing up, running as fast as she could, and still, down she went in a wave of dirt and earthworms, and all her fighting against it had been pointless in the face of the truth. Buried. However, that came later. Just like that damned mudslide, the rumbles started slow, too slow for Harry to dodge the hit before it came.

The day before that pivotal birthday, Harry had no such crippling reservations. No. In fact, all had been seemingly going well. Voldemort was gone. Harry, against the odds, was alive. Her friends, minus a few she would never forget, were with her. And, above all, she was turning seventeen on the morrow, an age she never, throughout the war, thought she would ever reach. Yes. Life had been good to her over the last year, and it had only appeared to be going onwards and upwards. Her acceptance letter into advanced Auror training had come on the tail end of last week. She owned her own home, passed on to her from her beloved godfather, Sirius. She had food and clothes, more than she ever had as a child. Life was good. Too good, in hindsight.

The first sign that there was anything unseemly coming had been a headache. Just a headache. Nothing special. A little twinge at the temples that, by eight in the morning of the 30th, became a drumming throng, then a pound, and, by one o'clock, Harry thought she was dealing with a migraine. Painful, unpleasant, but not at all too worrying. People, muggle and wizard alike, suffered from headaches every damned day. They came, they went, and they were soon forgotten about. Unfortunately, Harry had never been fortunate, and this particular headache would follow her, like a pebble thrown into a still pond, she would feel the ripples of that innocuous headache for years to come. Nevertheless, like any other muggle out there, she popped some aspirin, closed the curtains of Grimmauld Place and went back to bed to try and sleep most of it off.

Although, it didn't stop at a mere headache, did it? The prickling came next. Pins and needles, tingling, right in Harry's fingertips and toes. She flexed her digits, thinking they were just cold, hoping the movement would warm them up and stop the feeling. It only worsened it. Slowly, it spread, up and out, over calf and thigh, bicep and shoulder, lapping at her face, until it felt like her flesh was crawling right off her skeleton. She had tossed and turned in bed, kicked the blanket right off when it began to feel like sandpaper rasping against her tender skin. Itch, scratch, pat, nothing soothed the prickle. Yet, like the headache, it became worse. A tickle, prickle and then a deep burn as if someone had set her blood on fire. Boiling and roiling through her swollen veins.

Worry began to steep into Harry then, like tea in water swirling herself to amber anxiety, but, as she always did, she brushed it off. Flu. She had the flu. Nothing more. Groaning as she heaved herself from her bed, knees shaking and limbs trembling, she had dragged herself to the bathroom, filled the tub and flopped herself in after yanking and tearing her irritating clothes off. She could barely keep her eyes open for long, the light was too much, the pounding in her head turning keen at the bright lights, and with an errant wave of her hand, the light bulb blinked to black.

Harry didn't know how long she had been in the bath for when the cramps came. Long things they were, muscle knotting and scorching, and even her joints ached, as if some invisible hands were wringing her bones and pulling, stretching. The hot water soothed some of the ache twisting her to one giant open nerve, but when she whimpered and strained out, as her toes touched the bottom of the bathtub and her knees were still bent quite sharply, Harry knew something was terribly wrong.

Harry had always been a short girl, you see. Barely five-four, she had always been a head and shoulder below her friends. Normally, in the bath, if she were to lay flat in the water to wash her hair, only her tiptoes would reach the bottom and the crown of her onyx hair would skim the had been one of the few pleasures Harry had always had, being able to spread out and relax in a tub, no matter how small or cramped it seemed. Now, with her back still pressed against the head of the tub, her knees bent…

The pounding in her head turned violent, a sledgehammer to soft clay, and as Harry flinched, hand coming up to rub at her head, or perhaps try and claw her way into her own skull to pull out the brain that was causing all this, her fingers skimmed something on the border of her hair line. A lump. Large. Growing. Two. One on either side. Harry scrambled for the edge of the tub, but it was like her limbs weren't fully her own, slipping and sliding and gangly as she slipped over the edge and fell to the floor in a heap of pain and incoordination, like a fawn trying to walk for the first time. She didn't remember how she managed to get a towel wrapped around her, neither did she remember how she managed to drag herself to the threshold of the bathroom door, but she remembered, through the haze, calling for her wand.

By the time she sent off her Patronus to the only person she could think of, her thoughts at this point nothing but a muddled potluck of words and phrases that she was having difficulty understanding, the world was flashing in and out of focus in sickening intervals. Propped up against the doorway of the bathroom, breath coming fast and sharp, shivering, aching, Harry's head lolled, her wand fell to her side, and she slid into darkness.

Hermione Granger's P.O.V

It was exactly 2:45 am that Hermione Granger, in her little flat in Diagon Alley, received Harriet Potter's Patronus. Rubbing crusty sleep from her eyes, dressed only in her slippers and nighty, her heart plummeted as the glowing majestic stag opened its mouth and she heard her friend, so weak, call for her.

Hermione… Help…

Of course, Hermione wasted no time in grabbing as much floo powder as her little fist could, dashing into her connected fireplace, and shouting out Grimmauld places address before she was swallowed up in green flames. Her wand was ready in her hand by the time she stepped out of Grimmauld Place's fireplace, shoulders drawn back, feet spread, eyes and ears alert. Merlin knows what was wrong, if Harry had been attacked or not, if her attacker was still skulking around the place, lingering in the shadows, but Hermione wasn't going to get jumped easily. If she did, she was sure, Mad-eye would start spinning in his grave.

Creeping into the foyer, peeking her head around the door to glance into the shadowed hallway, Hermione was hit with how… Silent the house was. No footsteps, no shouts of expelliarmus, no flashes, not even a TV or painting ranting and raving. Silence. It was dark too, thick, rich curtains drawn over window, lights out, candles unlit, night heavy on the house, it was hard to see an arms width in front of her.

"Lumos."

Her wand lit up in a ball of soft pale light, and perched behind the door, Hermione steadied her breathing before she began to slither out and about the house. The bedroom was empty. So was the kitchen. Sirius's old room was empty too, as was the library, Order rooms and potions lab Harry had converted from an old bedroom. Dread sinking her gut, but thankfully having spotted no blood to dampen her hope that her friend was alive and kicking somewhere, Hermione turned to the last room she could think of, before the attic, the bathroom. Looking around, she saw nothing. The tub was full, water cold, the tiles on the floor was slick with water, as if someone had splashed out the bath like a floundering fish, and as she went to step through and into the room, to look around the bend at, what she knew, would be the mirror and cabinets, her foot hit something soft and the next thing she knew, she was falling, barely managing to put her arms out in front of her face before she smacked right into the tile.

Huffing, Hermione scrambled up, slipping once or twice in the puddle of water, and turned, pointing her wand to the lump she had tripped over. Her breath caught in her throat. A body. There was a body. Panicked, Hermione spelled the bathroom and hallway light on, blinking rapidly at the sudden change of light, and finally got a good look at the crumpled heap at her feet. She wished she hadn't.

It was her friend alright, dear Harry, but something was horribly wrong. She was crashed against the door-frame, a puppet with her strings cut, unconscious, wet with a towel haphazardly draped over her body, her wand discarded by the side of her limp hand. Her hair was loose and curly, cascading down her waist, shiny like an oil slick from the water, but… Half of it was white. Bone white. And there, right there, Hermione, with her very own eyes, saw more of her ebony hair leaching itself to white, lock by coiled lock. Bending down, Hermione reached for her friends mouth, feeling the softest of breaths flutter across her knuckle.

"Harry? Harry, can you hear me? Harry?"

There was no answer. Brushing her hair away from her face, Hermione tried to see if her eyes were open, if she was trying to focus, but, as her palm brushed skin to prop her bent head back, something flaked off. Pulling her hand away, Hermione saw flecks of peach dust coating her palm, and as she looked back up, right where her hand had been, she spotted a streak of… Blue. Yes. Blue. Scanning Harry, Hermione saw more of these patches, on her knees pealing through, on her arm, up her throat, blue like a summer's day. Merlin… It was like she was shedding her skin. Then her gaze caught Harry's forehead.

Two… Antennae, that was all Hermione could think to call them, right at her hairline, were wiggling back and forth, frantically almost, as if they… She… Harry, were distressed. Cradling Harry's face once more, Hermione's tone became desperate, freaked, full of fear and concern.

"Harry! Listen to me! Wake up! Can you hear me! Harry!"

Something, blood Hermione thought, even if it was a deep blue, darker than her skin, trickled out of Harry's nose, but her eyes didn't so much as move under closed lid. Conjuring up her own Patronus, Hermione began to heave her unconscious, half naked, bleeding and colour-changing friend, into her arms, huffing at the added weight and height. Careful not to knock her head off the Wall, Hermione, as best as she could, carried Harry back to her room, whispering all the way.

"It's okay. I'm here. Helps coming. Just hold on. You hear me? Hold on."

Severus Snape's P.O.V

It was exactly 4:01 am when Professor Snape came sweeping into the bedchamber of one Miss Potter in Grimmauld Place, carrying his portable potions lab in a thick leather case, on the behest of a Patronus Otter sprouting nonsense of blue skin and death in the voice of his former student, the know-it-all chit, Miss Granger. None to pleased to be summoned so abruptly, especially when he thought his days of being summoned were well and truly over, Snape was not in one of his best moods. It only soured further when he was pounced upon by Miss Granger as soon as his dragon hide boot touched plush carpet.

"You have to help!"

Reaching up to fiddle with his black silk scarf wrapped snuggly around his neck, Snape bit back down on the derisive reply he wished to give. After all, if it weren't for Miss Granger, alongside with Miss Potter, as loathed as he was to admit it, he would not be here this day. It was Harriet Potter's quick actions of extracting as much venom as she could from his wound that helped prevent his immediate death, and it was Miss Granger's after care that had solidified his life once the two made it back to him after the battle had been won. Oh, to owe his life to such Gryffindors… Still, Severus Snape did not like being indebted to anyone, and so, here he was, hopefully paying back what was owed so he could get on with his sorry life without being dragged into this or that by a gormless Gryffindor.

"Where is Miss Potter?"

Miss Granger buzzed around him like a fruit fly, imprudently snatching up his arm with grabby little hands as she dragged him to the end of the bed, nodding over to it.

"This is her."

Now, there wasn't many instances in Severus Snape's life where he could say he was well and truly shocked to silence. The first time his father hit him. Watching Lily preform magic. Accepting his Dark Mark. That fateful night in Godric's Hallow. He could count them all on one hand. Yet, he found himself in that horrid sort of pitiless disbelief once more as he glimpsed the figure on the bed. The girl on the bed, if it could be called a girl, looked anything but… Human.

Her skin was flushed blue, real blue, all over, from nail bed to eye lid, periwinkle, if he weren't mistaken, and her once long black hair had seeped to stark white, the colour of fresh snow on untouched land, almost blinding in its brilliance, and there, on her head were… Merlin, where those Feelers? She was taller too, six foot upright if Severus had to guess, long limbed and lithe, blue feet dangling off the edge of the bed. If it weren't for her face, which still very much held the features of who he knew to be Miss Potter, a heartbreaking rendition of her mother, Lily, he would have thought this to be some half-breed from a Cornish Pixie. An overgrown Cornish Pixie. Due to all this, was it really that surprising that Snape's first assumption, especially in conjunction with exactly who he was dealing with, was this was some sort of prank? No, he didn't think it was.

"If you and Miss Potter believe this to be some funny jest, I advise you to rethink ever calling upon me and-"

Hermione sharply cut him off, her hand tightening bruisingly on his arm.

"I know, I know! This isn't a joke! That's… That's Harry. But she looked… Well, more herself just an hour ago. She's… Turning? I don't know. Somethings wrong. I got a Patronus call for help and when I got here, she was only a little blue, and her hair wasn't so white, and those lumps weren't wiggling like that and-… Professor, please, help."

Locking gazes with Miss Granger, Snape's stomach sank when he saw desperation shining hotly in her bright amber eyes. She wasn't joking. Gaze snapping back to the prone body on the bed, Snape pulled his arm free, stormed over to the side of the bed, placed his bag down on the nightstand, popped the clasp open and began to set to work.

"Move out of the way miss Granger, and please, calm yourself. You'll be no help to your friend if you continue into this state you have worked yourself up in."

From the corner of his eye, Snape saw Miss Granger nod harshly, breathing in heavy through her nose.

"Right… Yes. Calm. I am calm."

Pulling his wand out, Snape ran the point over Miss Potter, sweeping downwards. Lower temperature. Nearly too low. Increased metabolism. Lungs functioning correctly. Two heartbeats slow, but strong… Two heartbeats? Scanning again, Snape had not been mistaken. There were two heartbeats. One in the rightful place just left of the sternum, and the other down and to the side, hidden under bottom ribs.

"Do you know when this started?"

Her Muscle structure reading was also coming back differently, denser. The… Feelers on her head were sending his readings haywire, and, no, she didn't have a spleen, appendix or pancreas anymore. In their place was… Something. Organs, Snape assumed, though he wished to do no assuming should he make a fool out of himself, but it was his best deduction at the moment with his limited knowledge in the magics of Healers. What in Morgana's name was happening?

"I spoke to her this morning. She seemed perfectly fine then. Well, she did say she had a bit of a headache, but I didn't think nothing of it."

Casting a diagnostic spell, one after the other, layers upon layers, all came up blank. No registered curse. No poison, muggle or magical. No residue left by a cursed object. No sign of consumption of any potion, although there was remnants of aspirin in her system.

"Anything else? Was she slurring her speech? Did she say she was bitten by something? Eaten something she wouldn't normally eat?"

Snape went through them again, one by one, and still, nothing. If this was not the work of an outside force, then the cause must be internal, from Miss Potter herself. If he didn't already know that the girl-who-couldn't-stay-out-of-trouble-for-his-sanity had not consumed any potion, he would think this was the work of Polyjuice incorrectly brewed. Had she tried becoming an Animagus? No. That would have came up in the general diagnostic spell he had cast. Teens were always thinking they could tackle the hardest of Transfiguration subjects, with brashness only youth knew, and being caught between human and animal was a common milady in the wizarding world.

"No, none of that. She spoke about meeting up for her birthday tomorrow… Well, today, but she didn't want anything big."

Her birthday. Harriet Potter's birthday was today. How old would she be? Seventeen now? Yes, seventeen. Could it be? No. Lily would never… Yet, it was the only clue. Delving back into his potion's bag, Snape pulled free three vials, popping the corks as he mixed the three together, swirling clockwise twenty-five times before he leant over the bed, pried open the clenched jaw of Miss Potter and promptly emptied the contents down her throat, clapping his hand over her mouth as she spluttered against the vile taste before she finally swallowed. Counting in his mind, Snape reached thirty before he ran his wand back over Miss Potter. The light burst to gold.

"Merlin…"

Miss Granger was at his side immediately.

"What? What is it? Do you know what's wrong?"

Snape went back to his bag, pulling out this or that potion, a few herbs and dried specimens. Snape didn't like making potions in a room or house not his own, especially without the right equipment, but dire circumstances called for drastic measures. Or, at least, that was what Albus used to tell him.

"I have a suspicion. Miss Granger, please go and call the Order members here."

Hermione Granger stood stock still at his side, staring down at her friend.

"Now."

Snape barked and Miss Granger jumped, nodding hastily before she darted out the room to floo call those he requested. Busy at work with his potions, Snape only had a moment to glance at Miss Potter before he would have to get to it, should the girl die on his watch. Seeing the blue skin, feelers and white hair once more, he grimaced.

"Oh, Lily, what have you done?"

It was lucky Miss Granger had called him. Not many would know what Miss Potter was going through, and even less would know how to help. Thankfully, Snape did. He was well acquainted with dark magics and, this, was a dark magic indeed. Sánguinis Mei Virum.

Blood magic. The darkest of the dark. And this, Sánguinis Mei Virum, blood of my Husband, was one of the oldest blood spells known to the wizarding world. It was an invasive magic, seeping in and re-writing everything it could, from magical core to cells, warping what it could to fit what the caster wished. In a time when Family names were paramount, and infidelity could mean the ruin and shame of a name, witches who, sometimes by pleasure or by force, were begot of a child not their husbands, turned to this very magic in desperation. In short, it forced the child into being, looking, even magically inclined, to resemble the witches husband. Nevertheless, it had been outlawed centuries ago, and fell out of practice even quicker when it was discovered the children under the spell often died horrendously on their seventeenth birthday, when their magical cores were strong enough to battle the aggressive Blood magic and shirk it off. The reverting process too taxing, and often too violent, for the victim to survive.

Harriet Potter, or Harriet as it likely was to be, was such a victim, and right now, she was battling for her very life. If Snape was not fast enough, she would be dead within the next two hours. Merlin knew why Lily was so desperate to use such a spell, her and James, as bitter as Snape was to admit it, were deeply in love, or so he thought, but perhaps the blue skin, white hair and feelers had been incentive enough for Lily to hide her… Indiscretion. and how did Lily even know of such a spell to begin with? And who, or what by the current predicament of Harriet, was her real father? Snape sighed.

He had a long, long morning in front of him and no firewhiskey in sight.

Woo or Boo?

NOTE: Well, I am getting quite the collection of Harry is an Alien fanfic based in Star trek lol. I know I should be working on them, the fics I've already got going, and I really do plan to, but every time I sit down to write up another chapter, this very plot bunny pops right into my head and refuses to leave. In the end, I couldn't help myself, so here it is, the fic no one asked for, Harry as an Andorian!

Andorians get far less love then they deserve, little fanfiction, and hardly any recognition and so, this is my, most probably horrible, attempt at waving the Andorian empires flag. This will be a deep dive into the Andorian race, culture and, of course, beliefs, so expect much interpretation on my part, as not much is given in strictly canon sources. Even so, I might be twisting some stuff, as I want to add my own little spice into the mix.

As for this fic itself, it's mainly about a journey to self-discovery, heritage, traditions and finding ones place in the world, or galaxy, in this case. There will be romance, but not in the traditional senses of the word. This Harry will have a Harry/OC/OC/OC pairing, with the OC's being Andorian, all of which are my own creation (And, if I do say so myself, I've worked really hard on every single one of them), and playing with the half canon notion that Andorian's have four genders and often Marry/mate in quadruplets. So, if you're offended by things that play with the concept of gender, none traditional (Explicitly heterosexual) pairings, strong clan mentality, or what else could be construed as 'alien' behaviour, I really would advise that this fic isn't for you, it won't be for everyone, and I hope you find a fic that fills all your needs on the next try.

Most importantly, this fic is about family, the bonds between family and how that can both positively and negatively impact a person, or Andorian. The relationship between Harry and Shran will be a heavy focal point, and will likely be the thread holding this story together. So, here we go kids, buckle up!

If you have a spare moment, please drop a review, they let me know whether to continue or not. I hope you all enjoyed this little prologue, and, hopefully, more will be coming soon!