For those at the forefront of discovery, it was known that often one had to disregard his or her morals for the greater good. Wealth. Friendship. Family. These were meaningless foibles, only serving as distractions. Excess wealth beyond the necessities of life did not bring about results; friends only served to bring chaos in an otherwise immaculately ordered life. And family? The bickering of relatives not concerning oneself was not even worth listening to, let alone intervening in.

For Amanda Flynn, these thoughts had served her well for years. Her brothers and sisters were dull, preferring to engage in fickle activities such as sports and music to occupy their days and evenings. She preferred to read and ponder about how things worked. She remembered well the day that her eldest brother purchased a car, a simple four-door sedan; while the others were marvelling at the comfortable seats and the ample baggage space, she spent more of her time looking at what was under the hood and wondering how it worked. They poked fun at her for weeks after that, thinking that she was strange for being fascinated by gears and metal.

Strange. It was an appropriate enough word to describe her, she supposed. But the opinions of others did not matter to her. What did matter was power; and what better power was there than knowledge?

Combustion engines were interesting enough to look at, to dismantle and examine. So were most of the other moving parts that worked. But as she pondered more about the workings of machines, she found herself staring at her hand after a while. Closing and opening it, turning it around, and experimentally prodding at the skin, amazed at how flexible yet tough it was. It was at that point that inspiration struck her, that would set the course for her future.

Machines were powerful. Machines were complex. Machines of metal and plastic were everywhere, and yet even they could not satisfy her curiosity.

She needed more. She needed to look at the greatest and most complex machinery known to mankind. The machinery of the living body, comprised of trillions of minute cells working in harmony. How it functioned, she did not know; but she knew that at one point, she needed to find out. If simple machines could be so useful, who knew how powerful such a complex machine could be, brought to perfection?

And fifteen years later, her ambition and drive bore fruit. Amanda Flynn, a researcher in molecular biology, found her calling. Working on a skunkworks project with an up-and-coming pharmaceutical company to discover the secrets of the human genome, she found herself in her element. The stern red-haired woman found herself striding down sterile white laboratories, supervising experiments that were being conducted. The experiments were proceeding well enough, she supposed; observations came as fast as they could be processed, and groundbreaking results published to the company archives at regular intervals.

But it was not fast enough for her. What was the point of observing something already present, if they were not going to improve it? The genome was being mapped at an incredible rate with the amount of funding being channelled into it, but that was all they had done for at least a few years. Mapping. Mapping. And more mapping. Categorically noting down what everything did, what alterations would accomplish, and what problems may arise from the presence or absence of a particular genetic pattern. And it irked her greatly that such knowledge was being treated as purely knowledge, and not wielded for power.

The power to create was in her hands. And she would be damned if she allowed the knowledge to simply gather dust in some old library. No, she needed to do something with it.

To forge the greatest machine of all. To enhance a human body, from an existing template.

It proved immensely difficult to find a suitable donor. Every other scientist that she had spoken to had balked, citing foolish reasons like morals or religion. Finally, in frustration, she decided that if nobody was willing to assist her on this line of research, she would do so herself. After all, she only needed a few cells, and not a limb or two. Cells that she would no longer need, given ten years or so.

Under the guise of a larger experiment, Amanda diverted significant funds from their research funds to the creation of a set of prototype artificial wombs, in which she placed heavily-modified embryos. Embryos created from herself and a male donor, one of her junior researchers with a curiously intense interest in the project – and likely the only man that had any interest in it. She projected that the result would be stronger than most other humans; equipped with denser skeletal structure and denser muscle structure, and having already-identified disease-causing genetic material scrubbed.

On examining the embryo's genes, however, she found a strange sequence that had not been identified before on one particular female foetus; but dismissing this as variation brought about from her donor's own genetics, she paid it no mind.

With Amanda's attention solely focused on the development of her 'children', the rest of the laboratory began to fall into chaos. Research proceeded without direction or vision, with neither tangible results nor theories to show. What results that she could publish were rejected by her peers, who decried her experiments as completely overstepping the bounds of what was ethical, and called for her removal from the company.

With great opposition facing her, she was faced with the choice of having the project's funding completely cut off and her efforts redirected, a mere four weeks before the embryos would be considered matured – or having it forcibly terminated, and her position be taken by another scientist. The first option would have been acceptable, given the fact that she could simply retry in the future once her opposition had quieted down again. Yet she found herself unable to sign the paper that would state that she would terminate her experiment.

No. Her children. She looked at the six glass pods in front of her, all hooked up to an iron lung and a tank of nutrient fluid. For once in her life, she felt a strange feeling well up in her heart. It was crushing. Cold. Chilling. But what had to be done, had to be done. With a shaky hand, she finally put a blot of ink on the paper and signed it, handing it to the secretary that was hovering over her shoulder. The secretary immediately collected it and flounced off, leaving the mad scientist to her own devices.

The experiment was over. It was terminated. With a heavy sigh, she walked up to the tubes and switched off the power, one by one. Fluid drained from the pods, their pumps no longer refreshing their contents, and she turned away, unable to bear watching her work of six months be destroyed.

Her life's ambition, extinguished.

"I hope that you are satisfied," she hissed spitefully at nobody in particular. Only the faint hum of the research facility's climate control answered back.

And then came a plaintive cry from behind her. Muffled. Soft. Weak. But definitely there.

Amanda spun around. There was a single pod on the far right side that contained a single baby girl. A girl that was still breathing and crying, no longer suspended by the pod's fluid. She clambered awkwardly onto the pod, trying to access the emergency release on top of it; she slipped and fell with a cry, landing with a loud thump on the concrete floor.

"Amanda?" asked a concerned researcher from the hallway just outside her lab, "What's happened to you? Slipped on a soap bar again?"

"Very funny, Smith," she grumbled, picking herself up again, "Just go, and lock the door behind you,"

"Whatever you say, boss,"

After that, she heard the laboratory door slam closed. The baby in front of her was still crying, but it was steadily growing weaker. Its face was growing bluer with every passing moment. Then, inexplicably, the pod's glass began to crack from within; eyes widening, she reflexively raised her arms to shield her face.

And not a moment too soon. Glass shards sprayed in all directions, pelting her and everything else in the room with countless sharp bits of glass. That was impossible, she thought to herself. The glass was rated to resist immense pressures, and there was nothing inside that could have caused such an explosion. That, and the baby was still inside the pod, now sleeping soundly as though nothing had ever happened. Oddly enough, her laboratory coat seemed to have somehow escaped any damage whatsoever. Though the researcher in her realised that this was something that was definitely not normal, Amanda was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She needed to take care of the still-alive baby.

Carefully avoiding the bits of glass on the floor, Amanda walked over to the sink in the corner and picked up a towel and shaking it out. She grunted as she hefted the baby up from the pod, struggling to wrap it in the towel. Surely the child had to weigh more than twelve pounds, she thought to herself.

Then a thought struck her.

The company was trying to shut down her line of research, as it was producing no results at great cost. And yet, in her arms, was the result of that experiment. A genetically-modified girl, who seemed to be far heavier than the average newborn; even more when one considered that she was a few weeks early. There was the usual baby fat, to be sure – but no human body was denser than water.

Her experiment had succeeded. This girl – her child – was the result of it. Her mouth opened in a silent snarl as she recalled that the company had shut down her research before it could come to full fruition. The other five would likely have been successes as well, had they been allowed to grow to term.

They had no faith in her, or her experiment, even after all the months of successes that she had brought before. They did not deserve a result, even if they were looking for one. Glancing over her shoulders, she looked somewhat relieved that whatever had happened with the pod had also smashed the surveillance cameras in the corner. They would be none the wiser if she hid her child and moved it away.

Knowledge was power. And what they didn't know, they couldn't have. Spotting a cardboard box that was used to transport papers, she knew she had a way to smuggle the baby out.

"Are you sure, Amanda? You're resigning?"

"I am positive, Director Ashwood. There is no place for me here," the red-haired woman spoke crisply, crossing her legs. "No longer, at least. My colleagues do not trust in my suggestions, and often it seems that my research is on topics that will serve no benefit in the future. I do not wish my time to be wasted,"

Director Ashwood, a portly middle-aged man wearing a suit several sizes too small for his growing belly, groaned and cupped his face with his hands. "Your work in the past has been exemplary, barring the one debacle that we are both too well aware of. Are you certain there is nothing more that we can offer you that may change your mind? Perhaps a change of research topics, if that's something that's causing trouble?"

"That would be nice, but my mind is set. I also have...personal issues to attend to that I cannot while working,"

The director pursed his lips and hummed a little, before shaking his head. "Then it looks like we both don't have any more to discuss. Goodbye, Miss Flynn. It has been...interesting working with you,"

"Yes, interesting indeed. However, I doubt that we shall see each other again. Goodbye, Director,"

With that, she swept out of the director's office, closing the door behind her. She sighed and reached into her lab coat's pockets, trying to fish out her wallet to check if she had enough to hire a taxi home; but before she could do so, a hand quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Black. I suppose that you have a reason for manhandling me?" she sighed, knowing that only one person among her staff would dare do something like that. Her colleague, Phineas Black – the one that had donated his genetic material for the experiment, and one of the few that would actually talk to her about things that piqued her interest.

"Yes. I do," he spoke, with a little more urgency than the laid-back man normally did. "Look. I...might have overheard part of your discussion with Director Ashwood. Come with me, and I'll take you home,"

"And why would you offer to do something like that? Or better yet, why would I accept?"

He grimaced. "Amanda, you know that you aren't exactly...the easiest woman to work with. There's a lot of people out here that don't like you,"

"How flattering, but I was already aware of that. The opinions of others don't really matter to me,"

"Well, I hope that's going to change when someone has something positive to say to you, for a change. Even though you drive us to work hard, and demand results all the time, you get results when you put your mind to something. You want us to learn while working, to become better at what we do,"

She fell silent. That had to be the first time a colleague – and not a superior – actually praised her for what she did. She didn't know how to respond to that. She felt her face heat up uncomfortably for no reason, but she was certain that she did not have a fever. Was it even possible to get a fever instantaneously?

"Wow. The Ice Queen is actually blushing?" chuckled Phineas, who just barely dodged a slap that was thrown his way immediately after he said that. "Okay, okay. Sorry! It just slipped into my mind. Anyway, I just wanted to...oh, never mind. Let's get into my car before the evening traffic gets any worse. You'd spend a fortune on a taxi getting home around this time. Where's your house, anyway?"

"Since you're offering to drive me, I suppose you'll need to know. Number three, Privet Drive. Little Whinging in Surrey,"

A strangely brief car ride later, and Amanda found herself at her house in Little Whinging. There were several irregularities that she thought she saw, but couldn't pin down. She swore that at some point, Phineas had driven through a set of hedges and a traffic barrier, but the car was none the worse for wear; and even she doubted what she had seen herself, considering that more than a few cars seemed to have jumped out of the way of Phineas' car. Perhaps she was more exhausted than she thought, and she was starting to see things that weren't real. Regardless, when she stepped out of the car and breathed in the faintly perfumed air of her neighbourhood, she knew that she was home for real. Before sundown, no less.

"Well. That must be the quickest trip home that I have experienced," she said. Turning around, she found Phineas also out of the car, looking around at the neighbourhood.

"I must say, this neighbourhood looks rather fancy,"

"There are certain perks to being a senior researcher, I suppose," Amanda replied, shrugging, "Still, I should check on Cordelia. She must be hungry by now; her caretaker should have left at least an hour ago. Still, thank you for driving me home, Mr. Black. I hope that we speak again someday,"

"Aww, no invitation to come again?" he teased, earning a glare from Amanda, "Okay, okay! Just kidding!"

The year was 1991.

It had been ten years since Amanda had acquired little Cordelia. The pharmaceutical research facility that she had worked at had been entirely destroyed in a fire that she thought was rather suspicious a few weeks after she had left. No accelerant, no explosives, and it had apparently started in the rather innocuous centre wing of the facility, which was where they had most of their cryogenic storage units. Whatever its cause, she was glad to have heard that her old laboratory had been thoroughly incinerated in the blaze, with nothing left inside. After all, those that only sought knowledge without using it were as useless as those that were ignorant.

"Cordelia," she called out to her daughter, who was cautiously walking down the reinforced metal staircase of her house, "Fetch the mail while I make us both breakfast,"

"Going, mum," Cordelia groaned, shaking the stairs with her footsteps. Amanda suppressed some laughter as she popped several pieces of bacon on the pan. It never ceased to amaze her how her child had grown, from a tiny little (but heavy) baby to a tall and willowy (but heavier still) girl. For a ten-year-old girl, she was almost five feet tall – and weighed nearly a hundred and seventy pounds. Something that had caused the school nurse to call her in confusion, especially when the girl in question was most certainly not overweight.

Moments later, she could hear the front door open and close, and Cordelia came to the kitchen table with a stack of letters. Well, a stack of letters and a single leather pouch, stamped with a wax seal; three ravens and a sword, with a skull above it.

"It is that time of year again, is it?" sighed Amanda. Picking up the bag, she opened it up and looked inside, to find a sizeable hoard of gold coins and a thick bundle of normal cash. She set it down on the table, careful to not spill any of it.

No names, no address, only that wax seal on the neck of the bag. She didn't know who was sending them every year. The first time this had happened, the very confused police at the nearby police station said that no money of that amount had been reported missing. Nor did they recognise the symbol on the wax seal. A trip to the library to look at the register of ancient noble houses' seals and arms bore no fruit; and after two weeks of waiting without anybody claiming it, she supposed it was hers. And the arrangement had continued without stopping since the first year she raised Cordelia.

"Very well. Have your breakfast, dear, before the bacon and toast goes cold. I will look through these letters,"

Cordelia nodded and sat down at her usual seat, wolfing down the bacon and toast as though she had not eaten in weeks. "Cordelia," warned Amanda, peering over the letters to find her daughter looking guiltily at her with a piece of bacon half dangling from her mouth, "Try to chew. Do not forget to breathe. And lastly, take your time. The food will not escape while you are not looking,"

"Sowwy mum," she mumbled through the mouthful of food, swallowing down the bacon. "I was starving,"

"That still does not excuse your lack of manners, young lady. More bacon?"

"Yes!"

"What do you say when you wish to have something?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Please, mother, may I have seconds?"

"That is better. And of course you may, child," her mother replied, tipping another lot of bacon onto her daughter's plate. In a blink of an eye, her plate was spotless once more. "No. No more bacon for this morning, Cordelia. You may have some cheese and salad instead,"

She recoiled at the mention of cheese and salad. "I think I'll pass,"

Suppressing a snort, Amanda began to look through her letters. "Very well. Then you must wash your plate before you go,"

Over the soft clinking of soapy utensils against porcelain, her daughter started to speak. "Um...mum?" Cordelia asked hesitantly, "Do you know where our neighbours went? The one with...that boy? The one with the messy black hair who seems to be always trimming hedges and cutting lawns?"

"Number Four?" Amanda queried, raising her eyes from her letters, "No. I cannot say that I have, for at least two days. Why?"

"When they left, they looked like they left in a hurry, and I don't think I've seen their car come back. I wonder if something happened to them?"

"It is possible, but if there had been something that happened, the police would have come,"

Cordelia replied with a grunt, setting down the now-clean dishes on a drying rack. "Alright. So...uh, should I be-"

"Studying? Yes, young lady, you will be studying. Finish the chapters that I have set, and you may do as you please,"

"Alright, mum," she whined half-heartedly and walking towards the study room in the back.

As Amanda continued to look at the mail she had received, she noticed that the last one felt heavier than the others. Heavier and thicker – and smelled somewhat musty. Curious, she gently pried open the envelope with her fingers. Inside was a letter in honest-to-God parchment, written in what looked like quill and ink.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorc.; Chf. Warlock; Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Flynn,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

"Well. That was...unique," Amanda commented, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

Looking into the envelope, there was indeed a list containing what looked like a list of equipment and books. If this was a hoax, it was a very elaborate one. She couldn't think of any stationery stores in London that actually stocked parchment and sold it for any less than an arm and a leg. Quills could have been plucked from a chicken, she supposed, and ink could have just come from disassembled pens. But the printed emblem on the head of the letter was far too ornate for a one-off prank; the same applied for the wax seal on the envelope. It was more than likely a genuine letter.

But Amanda's mind was well and truly conflicted. She was a practitioner of hard science. Measuring what was measurable, observing what was observable, and recording exactly how things worked. Magic, by all that she knew, did not – and could not – exist. 'Witchcraft and wizardry', indeed! She would not show this to her daughter, not yet. Not until she discovered the truth behind this letter.

A series of sharp raps on her front door caught her attention. It always irked her to no end when people seemed to not recognise that a doorbell was the more civilised way of getting the attention of whoever was inside the house. Standing up, she marched to the door and threw it open, expecting maybe a persistent salesman or travelling evangelist. Instead, she came face-to-face with-

"Phineas?"

A/N:

So I obtained the inspiration for this story after watching a re-run of a MythBusters episode on whether or not you could polish poop till it shines.

Magical pureblood supremacists always held that blood purity was everything that a great wizard needs (excluding the fact that excessive inbreeding would cause amazing amounts of genetic abnormalities to pop up, but let's leave the Targaryens to see that, shall we?), but what if a muggleborn was 'polished' and then brought into the magical world? Would a 'polished' muggleborn be better than a pureblood? Or even a normal muggleborn? We will simply have to see, won't we?

Also another note for those with keen scientific or technological backgrounds, I am well aware that the technology of 1980s earth is likely not sufficient to perform a full genome mapping, let alone modifying it. The project itself was conceived in 1984 by the US Government, but was not actually completed until 2003. Considering that a single hard disk was only tens of megabytes in size at the time (and the platters were literally the size of dinner plates), one could only wonder just how much storage was needed to store a human genome consisting of 3.3 billion base pairs of DNA. For the purposes of this story, let's just say that technology is more advanced than would be expected of that period.

Questions? Comments? Feel free to review. Thanks for reading!

-ArcturusWolf