Full Summary: A human raised by Vulcans, a Vulcan raised by humans, a Vulcan human hybrid and a Vulcan breaking away from the chains of orthodoxy, all struggle to find their place in the world. With two battling to adjust to Starfleet, one rebelling on Vulcan, and the other on the run for her life through time and space from Romulans, one thing unites them all together: Family. A tale of the differences that separate us, and the kinship that binds. Vulcan!Harry. Fem!Harry. Sybok, Spock, Michael and Harry family fic. Divergent story from my other story, A Long Way Home.

PROLOGUE:

When The Days Grow Cold.

Michael Burnham's P.O.V

There was only one holograph image of the child in the house. It was a small picture, three by four inches, rendered from a gilt hoary disk. It rested in Sarek's personal study, on the far right of the immense immaculate desk, perched facing the man who sat in the solitary chair.

Michael had glimpsed it entirely on mishap.

It was an innocent mistake, to be sure. Amanda had asked her to alert Sarek that their afternoon meal was ready. Michael had politely knocked on the door, but no answer had come. With, perhaps, the naivety of a child, and the brashness too, she had thought he had not heard her, despite Vulcan hearing being sharper than that of a human.

So she had entered.

It was only logical if Sarek had not heard her.

He was not deep in work as Michael first suspected he would be. Neither was he in a long distance communication call from the Embassy, which he typically took in his study. No. He was-

Well, he was doing nothing.

Or what appeared to be nothing on first glance.

He was sitting there, straight back and proud, and unlike all the other times Michael had been in her foster father's study, the disk had been switched on.

He had been staring at it.

Watching.

Michael saw it too.

"Father?"

It was instantly switched off with a sweep of his thumb across the chrome, and just as immediate, curiosity burned hot in Michael's chest.

"Yes?"

There was something different in his normally cool, crisp voice. Something Michael, as a child, could not name. A stiffness. A flicker.

"Mother said our meal is ready. What was that holo-"

"Let us not keep your mother waiting."

And that had been that.

Sarek would not speak of it, and urged Michael to wait for an answer before ever coming into his study again.

Holophoto's were not uncommon in the Vulcan household. Michael's foster mother, Amanda Grayson, kept so many of them it was hard to keep track. Flashes of Sybok and Spock scattered the hallway walls, peppered the mantels, and were strewn across Amanda's own personal study and bed chambers. Two years after she had first arrived in this strange house, half mute and terrified, holophoto's of Michael herself were begging to be dotted around the sprawling residence.

Yet, this one was different.

It was not Spock.

It was not Sybok.

And it undoubtedly wasn't Michael.

Most notably, it was not Amanda's holophoto, as were all the rest.

It was Sarek's.

It was a baby.

Tiny, new-born, Vulcan, the babe was curled protectively in a heavy blanket, pointed ears sharp and long, regal against a thick black curl. Their eyes were shut in the image, too young yet to open them, and it seemed so entirely peculiar, and a little funny, to see Sarek holding such a small being with such care.

If Michael did not know any better, she may, perhaps, think with the dim lighting of the holophoto, Sarek had been smiling in it.

Older and wiser, she did know better.

He had been.

Harry Potter's P.O.V

Harry came to slowly. So very slowly. Painful too. Like hot needles being poked into a straw doll. Only, it was not needles and there was no straw doll, only substandard stasis potions wearing off. A sensory overload of thought and feeling and fragmented memory.

It was dark here, in this small pod. Dark and cold and a little terrifying.

She had always been a little claustrophobic, thanks to that under stairs cupboard.

Why was she here again?

What was she doing?

There was something important… Something she needed-

Run!

Her lashes fluttered against her keen curving cheekbones. The dilation of an already overblown pupil. The scrunch of a nose that told of woozy confusion for the split seconds one lingered between the waking world and the land of obtuse sleep. Trapped.

Everything felt trapped.

She felt trapped.

Yet, she didn't move.

She couldn't.

"Are you sure, Madam Pomfrey? I've known Harry since we were eleven and... Yes, while I agree her... Features are a bit more than exotic, possibly from mixed breeding with magical creatures from her biological parents, to say something so... To come to such a conclusion... I mean... She's just like me!"

The slick, white-washed opaque walls of the stasis-pod she was stashed in were bathed in a weak, neon blue light that flickered in split second intervals, fractions, a wave, like a tide lapping at the rocky shore.

Something heavy, chunky in a way... Bound in clothe... Her bag lay crammed at her feet, pinning her to the bottom of the pod. Yet, despite the warm light, periwinkle like Dumbledore's eyes, Harry could only feel like this pod... cage, was nothing more than the jagged planks to her coffin, the pulsing light echoing the beat of a fading heart or the nails being hammered home.

Was she dying?

Again?

Her mind returned to her, not fully, but enough for Harry to gain her bearings, or at least, a footing in the world she now resided in.

Three indisputable facts bubbled to the forefront of her mind.

"Look, Harry… These test's don't lie. I know, I've read them and re-read them and re-read them. If I thought they were trying to pull something over you, or if I thought it would stop those… Things from coming for you, you know I would be the first to act and stand by your side. But you can't argue with fact Harry. Hard, scientific truth. I've seen the results myself and you have to admit… They do explain your ea-"

"Shut up Hermione."

One: by now, she would inevitably be cruising through space in an actual space ship. Just out there, through a little bit of plastic, glass and metal, the stars shined. Harry had always loved the stars. As a child, she had spent hours watching them, mapping out clusters, stealing glow in the dark markers from Dudley to draw constellations on the ceiling of her cramped cupboard. She had dreamed of flying amongst them before. Dreamed and hoped and prayed and-

It was a bittersweet victory.

For everyone she had known, had cared about, had loved, would be long dead. Nothing but mulch for the plant-life and broken bits of rotten bone. Perhaps reduced to nothing but a genetic code passed down from a descendant or two, but nothing more. And yet...

Yet, she had only seen them yesterday, peeked their smiles, heard their laughter, seen life in all its magnificent sparkle in their eyes.

"Run Harry... Run and don't look back. Not for me. Not for Ron, not even for yourself. Run!"

Two: time travel of this magnitude left her mind pounding, frontal lobe tense and straining, tongue nothing but a heavy lump of flesh in her cotton coated mouth and her stomach swirling faster than a Boggart mid-transformation.

Unfortunately for Harry, she knew, even in the state she was in, this awareness would not last for long and soon she would be pulled back under, only to awaken to worse feelings of discomfort, as well as having a hefty job to dive straight into.

If you could call running and hiding from your abductors a job.

"Are you sure we can trust this... Man... What was it you called him Hermione? Q? I mean, he doesn't even have a last name and by the sound of it, he just pops in and out when he wants to."

"I trust him, Harry, I trust him as much as I can but... But what other alternatives do you have? The safe houses don't work anymore. They'll track you eventually and the ministry... No, wizarding Britain has done all it can against them and we've all come up short. So very short against these... Things. He's offering an out and I think... I don't think you or we have a choice."

Three: Harry was being hunted.

Stalked.

Chased across time and space itself.

If by some miracle all this worked, if Harry did not die in this coffin masquerading as a stasis-pod, if she managed to integrate and hide in this foreign place and even more alien time, she would then need to keep hidden long enough to find who she had been sent to find and hope no others came chasing after her.

Who was she kidding? They would come. They always came...

However, if she managed all that and if this Q was to be believed, which Hermione promised he should be, she might, just might, once again pull through this with her heartbeat intact and perhaps, hopefully, please let it not be true, she may meet the family she had been denied all her life.

Harry could, perhaps, create a home.

A real home with real family.

"You watching the stars again? Don't you ever get bored of that, mate? They just twinkle."

"It's called stargazing Ron, a common past time for muggles. I've done it since I could remember. Do you... Do you ever wonder what it would be like to touch a star?"

"Get a nasty burn I'd reckon. Now come on, my mom will have a fit if we're not asleep soon and end up late to our third year."

"I don't require as much sleep as-"

"Yeah, yeah, you don't need as much sleep as me. You should thank whatever creature gave you those bloody eyebrows. I'm knackered after that game of quidditch. Slytherin is going to crash and burn this year if you play like that again."

The fan noise thumped even louder. Lost as she was in her own drugged mind, fractured, sleepy, Harry began to fade from consciousness once more. The weight of her thoughts, her hopes, the last year of her life since Voldemort's downfall, pushed her down harder, swirling, like water down a drainpipe.

Her last slightly coherent thought was that of Hermione's smiling face, presenting her with a map Q had, in turn, given her, excitedly pointing to what just looked like a splodge of white against the blue, black and purple space. Hermione's voice reverberated around her skull as her face drooped. Blindly, her hand came up to her ears, fiddling with the pointed tip as sleep began to invade her, conquering.

Harry's mouth numbly repeated the word, the sharp consonants bouncing off the interior of the stasis-pod, echoing, haunting, teasing her, staying in the air like a perfume cloud even as her eyes began to shut and her hand fell limply from her ears.

Would this be enough? It had to be.

It had to be.

She had been fixing others mistakes for far too long.

The universe owed her one.

Or two.

The ship tugged along, to the very world Harry had been sleepily muttering.

Home.

She was going home.

"Vu-... Vul-... Vulcan."

"Look Harry! That's where Q says your DNA comes from... Where you come from! To us, it's M-23345, but he has a name! He says it's called Vulcan... Like the Roman god, Vulcan the god of volcanoes, it fits with your temperament. Isn't this brilliant?"

Michael Burnham's P.O.V

"Father has a holophoto on his desk."

Michael blurted out as Amanda tucked her in that night. She had not meant to, really. She had not meant to say anything at all. Yet, such a curious child as Michael was, she could not let it go.

The instructors at the Vulcan Science Academy said it was impudence, not curiosity, at her last parent conference, but Sarek's surprising pat on her shoulder as they left the office, and Amanda's warm smile told her, either or, it was something to be proud of.

Perhaps it was something else entirely this time.

The gentle hands on the edge of her blanket, which had been tucking it to her chest, stilled. Silence drifted in the night, with only starlight and the twin moons of Vulcan for company.

"Yes, he does."

Amanda's voice was hushed, weak, barely there.

"It is neither Sybok, me, or Spock."

There was a dip in the side of her bed, and through the dusk, Michael saw the silhouette of Amanda sit down at her hip.

"No, it isn't."

Intriguing.

Normally, it was Sarek who was this obtuse.

"It was a baby."

A sigh. Long. Drawn.

Pained.

"Michael, if you have a question, you are free, always, to ask it."

But people are not always free to answer it. Even at such a young age, Michael new that. Some questions, like daggers she thought, cut deep and hard, and the bleeding never stopped. Strangely, she had a feeling this was one such question.

"Who was it?"

In the darkness, a hand joined her own. Older, nimble, warm fingers threading, holding. There was a tremble. Michael squeezed the hand back.

"That was our youngest… Our… She… Daughter. That was our daughter. T'Harauk."

Thoughts?

A.N: This is a little side story to my other fic, A Long Way Home, and has a part of that first chapter in this prologue (in case you recognize the work and think I stole it lol), but instead of being based in the Kelvin Timeline, I thought it would be an interesting what-if situation if it happened in the Star Trek Discovery verse.

This is what came from that.

It will, of course, be heavily AU for both Potterverse and Star Trek. I really want to emphasize the heavy there. I'm messing with a lot of canon, as most of my fics do. This story will also mainly focus on family, culture, self identity and Vulcans, with most, if not all, chapters told from Amanda, Sarek, Sybok, Spock, Michael, and Harry. Chapters will likely grow in size too as we move forward, becoming quite large.

All that said, and if none of it made you immediately click the X and run away, welcome to this madness and I hope you enjoy the ride!