QUICK NOTE: I am heavily, and I can't stress that word enough, messing with Harry Potter Canon. If you have never watched DS9, you likely do not know what a Changeling is, but well, it's an alien. If that doesn't hint at the scale I'm fiddling with Harry Potter Canon, I don't know what would lol. Either way, for those fans who dearly love Canon, I just wanted to give you a quick heads-up before I start this fic so you can turn back now. If you don't mind this, but are rather put off by the DS9 aspect, don't fear, most of DS9 will be explained through the eyes and P.O.V of Harry. That being said, for the ones sticking to this absolute insanity I've cooked up in my head, I really do hope you enjoy this! Future chapters will be longer, as this is just a prologue and meant to wet the appetite so to speak, and to see if there is any actual interest for… Whatever absurdity this is lol.

TAGS: Fem!Harry. Alien!Harry. Changeling!Harry. Parental Odo. Cultural exploration of the Vorta and the Founders. (More to be added later.)

PAIRINGS: Keevan/Fem!Harry/Weyoun. Kira/Odo. Garak/Julian.

Harry's P.O.V

Harry Potter had always been a little bit… different. Most of the time, it was in ways most civilised people could handle or explain away. So what if she preferred her home, her belongings, in order? Alphabetized, colour-coded, sized and grouped by shaped, everything and anything in her world had a place and direction. Aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon had surely profited, from the arduous years she had spent under their abuse and neglect, from her innate need to clean and give order to things. So what if she loved textures, even if that ended up as fashion disasters such as her yule ball where she mixed fur with corduroy? So what if she didn't sleep, not in the way most sentient beings did? Sleep, arguably, deprived so many of much needed time to get things done, to think and explore. Sleep, from what her friends had described it as, sounded torturously boring. So what if she neither ate or drank? In the end, it was she who was saving grocery money. Still, the fact remained she had always been a little odd, right from her birth, or rather, her discovery.

Harry supposed that was another 'odd' thing about her. She hadn't been born. Well, rather, like most she couldn't remember being born, but she was pretty sure, if she had, it wasn't in the same lane of most mammals, being pushed out of their mothers' stomach, wet and squawking… And solid. According to Remus, Lily and James Potter had found her in Godric's wood, a week after they moved into their modest village house, just a handful of what seemed to be bioluminescent green gunk glopping off an oak tree leaf. Not quite knowing what she was, or that she was sentient at all, and ever curious, James Potter had scooped her up into a little flask and took her home with him. When, a day later, James had opened the flask to see her pop out, against gravity, and slip and sloop away into the corner of the front room was, perhaps, the time he and Lily realised she wasn't some pretty, glow in the dark tree sap valuable for potions making. Thank Merlin.

In those days, she had been barely big enough to fit a dainty tea-cup, just a tickle of slime was she. Still, she grew, as most things did, even sentient liquid it seemed. James and Lily had coaxed her, talked to her, been incredibly kind and within a month, she was morphing. Just a little spike here, a ball there, a spiral, a finger, a limb, a body, then a face. By six months, she looked as any other baby looked, rosy cheeked, gummy, black of hair like James, green of eye like Lily and soon, not only was she solid, though she could not hold the form longer for thirty minutes in those old days, she was their child. They took her in, adopted her. They sang to her. They laughed and cried and… They were, for the sorrowfully short time Harry had the pleasure of their company, the best parents any goop that could shape-shift could ask for.

They named her Harry. Short for Harriet, for a girl, or plain Harry for a boy. In those early days, she couldn't morph properly and well, gender wasn't really a paramount factor to a liquid, especially when that liquid couldn't keep shape longer than the time it took for a kettle to boil or could speak, so James and Lily had given her both options. Most often now, Harry presented as a woman, in honour of dear Lily who sacrificed her life to save her, whose love for her had been so strong, it had protected her for fourteen, nearly fifteen years, and took the name Harry, in honour of James.

They, the wizarding world, called her a Metamorphmagus, only because they had no other label or name to slap on her forehead. Tonks, the only other adult Metamorphmagus Harry knew, ate and drank, Tonks slept too, and perhaps most importantly, she didn't need to revert back to any gelatinous mass when the clock struck the fourteenth hour, the longest Harry could hold any shape or form so far. Or, as Ron lovingly called it, when Harry had to 'goop out'. The truth was, Metamorphmagus was the closest thing to Harry, or to what she was, anybody could find, and even then, the tag was loose and ill fitting. It was like calling a tiger a cat. Close, but not quite adequate.

Her abilities had come a long way since her rippling puddle of gunk days, being carted around in a flask, but still needed work. Humans, to her, were the easiest and now, at sixteen, standing next to any other from her year, no one would be able to tell Harry apart from the crowd. She reasoned her quick adaptability to mimicking the human visage, right down to pores and hair follicles, was because of the beatings Petunia and Vernon put her through when she showed any outward sign of being anything but solid and human. Her second best was winged animals. She adored taking a flight, be it in raven, owl or griffin form. The feeling of air ruffling her feathers, the crisp smell of the wind, the colours of the sky…

She was less skilled at taking on the legged beast shapes. Oh, she could do it, if she thought long and hard before attempting it. Even then, she was sometimes liable for little faults. An extra hoof, no snout, wonky ears. And objects? Now that was a disaster. She had always been too… Energetic to copy a lamp or bowl, and the few times she had tried, well, it was something straight out of a H. P. Lovecraft novel. Tentacles and all. Yes, her abilities irrevocably drove her away from the crowd, an outsider with just a step in the door, but she was sure, without them, she would be dead… Permanently dead, that is.

For such a relatively short life, all of sixteen years, she had put her gifts, and herself, to the test. They kept her safe from 'Harry hunting'. When locked in her cupboard, before Vernon caught her little game and sealed the cracks with caulk, she had been able to slip in and out as she pleased and well, it was harder to punch, strangle or kick a puddle, wasn't it? In first year, she didn't think she would have been able to fight that troll without transforming herself into that boulder she then rolled at the damned thing, knocking it out. Never mind morphing a part of her hand to resemble the philosophers stone to trick professor Quirrel into thinking she had something to bargain with. She wouldn't have survived the Basilisk without morphing into a sightless phoenix to peck out its eyes before switching to an Acromantula to tear it apart, only reverting back to the form known as Harry long enough to stab Tom Riddles diary with the basilisk tooth she had mimicked her hand to be. In third year, she would have never gotten away, Hermione and Ron along with her, from a turned Remus without being a griffin, nor away from the dementors without shifting to one herself. She would have never left the Triwizard tournament without changing to a dragon, jelly-fish and owl…

The list was endless, but the conclusion wasn't. Without her abilities, she would have been as dead as Voldemort was now. Merlin, most thought, and Harry was inclined to agree, that it was her shape-shifting abilities, her real viscous form, that not only allowed her to bounce back from the killing curse twice, but allowed her, as a Horcrux, to continue on after the shard of Voldemort's soul had been vanquished. No other host, Nagini included, had survived being the vessel of such a foul and insidious substance such as Tom's essence. Once the rot was out, they were dust in the wind, not ironically, real dust, dematerialized and shattered, all apart from Harry and the only thing separating her from everything else was… Well, in her natural state, she was more fluid than most. Even so, being a Horcrux had scarred her, both physically and mentally. In all forms, including her fluid state, there was a scar of sort, a little fissure of a lightning bolt, like a tissue vein when she was gooey, black and vile. That part of her never glowed anymore, dead and cracked, but small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Well, whatever it may be, her abilities, her strange origin, or sheer utter luck, Harry was alive and, despite the scar, for the first time in a long, long while, sitting around the Weasley's dinner table, hearing the laughter and jovial conversations and banter as they all tucked into the lovingly cooked Sunday lunch, Harry was happy… And then the feeling came.

A niggle, a tickle, a moment of stillness that Harry could only equate to the way Humans stopped right before a sneeze, readying, only for it to never come. But this, whatever this was, did come. A tug, right in her centre, a pull, gentle, cajoling and suddenly Harry was struck with the intrinsic need to… Go home. There were no other words for it. She simply, plainly, achingly wanted to go home. Then, for the first time in her life, she blinked and an image, so clear and crisp, so torturously familiar but bewilderingly alien, flashed on the back of her eyelids and Harry, for one weary moment, thought she might be dreaming. She could see it, a sky in sunset, a little island of sandstone standing proud and solitary, and there, right before her, stretching as far as the eye could see, flooding the horizon was a great orange sea of rippling vitality. Somehow, some Merlin forsaken way, Harry new this, this great sea of blazing orange, was home.

She blinked and then she was back in the room, little Teddy Lupin tugging on her sleeve, babbling away. Stubbornly, Harry brushed away the image of the great orange sea still hazing her mind, viciously stomped down on that strange tugging feeling emanating from her middle and crossed her eyes, morphed her face into that of a chimpanzee and blew a rather messy raspberry at Teddy who, in turn, broke out into a peel of high-pitched laughter. She even heard Andromeda, who was sitting on the other side of Teddy, snort in her own muted chuckle. Harry joined in with the conversations. She laughed with the others. She joked and smiled and quipped and soon, Harry forgot about the whole thing.

If only it had stayed that way.

If you wish to see more, please drop a review, they get the fingers typing ;)