Harry opened his eyes; they were already accustomed to the 4am darkness. He sat up, looking past the crackled walls of his shoddy apartment, rubbed the sleep away from his face, and assumed a meditating pose: legs crossed, elbows rested on his knees, hands linked over his shins... relaxed shoulders... straight back... A few breathing exercises later, the tension accumulated during the night had already receded a bit.

It wasn't a muscular stress... More like an existential tension, something repressed that wanted out. He had his rituals to cope during the day, but when he slept... He knew the dreams were part of the problem, but for all his reading on the subject, he still hadn't mastered lucid dreaming, self-hypnosis, or any other way to take control over his restless nights...

The tension was too much; his meditation wouldn't work. He'd have to exhaust it first. He hastily put on some comfortable linen clothes, prepared his... hum... herbal tea – his stash was running low by the way – put it in a thermos, and climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the roof of his apartment building. It was technically forbidden, but people who lived there had more important problems – such as the fact that they lived there.

He felt the cool morning wind seep through the light material of his shirt, and forced his body to relax until it stopped shivering. He extended his sense of self to his surroundings until the air seemed part of him. There was a sphere; It was centred on him... It was his space. He imposed his control over it until he felt its quiet down. The early bird calls and car alarms disappeared in the distance, never to be heard again. He started moving slowly, then faster reproducing some kind of kata, never opening his eyes.

It wasn't exactly karate, or kung fu, or anything precise. It was an exercise and meditation routine he had been doing everyday since he was around 12; a lot of martial arts had been incorporated at some point or other. He knew it wasn't actual martial arts: he never had had the money for a class; but he had managed with reading, watching movies, documentaries about xiaolin monks, and observation during free trial classes... In the end, he could manage some pretty moves, but they probably wouldn't be of any use in an actual fight.

He started including the tension in his dance projecting it, grabbing it, unfolding it, extending it in the air around him and the ground under his feet. As he did so, he pictured the ground shifting under his feet. Pillars rising at odd angles, shooting up from under and around him with the muffled sound of something heavy being dragged against concrete. In his mind's eye, he jumped from one column to the next; when he accompanied a sweeping motion a certain way, it would cut a pillar in two and let it crash. Another way, and it would uncoil into a wall, or form a bridge to another stone column, or drag itself on the ground with a grating sound. Kick the ground a certain way, one would lift off and hover above the ground; another way, it would explode into small pieces. He ran up the side of one of the concrete cylinders, kicked off of it into a backwards dive, and landed heavily on both feet, his open palms under his belly, pushing the tension downwards and out: the whole structure he saw around him – a forest of stone pillars – shattered at once into levitating rubble.

As he exhaled, he relinquished a part of his control over the imaginary rocks' movements, giving them a measure of will of their own. What his mind's eye saw began to elude his own will, as though his own imagination formed images without his consent. A rock accelerated towards him from behind; he dodged it. Then another. Then another. Then two at the same time. The tempo got faster and faster until he fell into a state of flow, where his acrobatics could just barely keep up with his mind. He kept it up for a while, before opting for a more challenging workout. He upped the tempo again, this time allowing himself to deflect the imaginary rubble, using his arms to form shields around hims, striking at them to destroy them as he twirled and flew around them. Eventually, it got fast enough that some would get around his defences. They'd stop by themselves, of course, less than an inch shy of pummelling into his body. He would tsk under his breath, mentally rewind the rock's motion, and start over until he found a way to destroy it. When all of it was turned to dust, he spread his arms, drew in a sharp breath... then let it go, his arms and legs folding again into a meditation stance, letting the dust vanish.

He kept meditating for a while, conjuring his mental palace and organizing the events of the day before "by hand"... Since his dreams weren't apparently about that... His palace entrance looked like a cupboard with a sloped ceiling; the kind you'd find under a flight of stairs in a suburban house. The back would open under his touch, revealing an Escherian network of stairs, where all the rooms were roomy cupboards lodged in improbable perspectives. He liked cupboards; he felt comfortable in them even though, if you'd have asked him why, he'd have been too ashamed to answer.

When he was satisfied with his mental tidying up, he finally opened his eyes. Three hours had passed and the tension was mostly gone, the rooftop around him was as flat as ever. He took a swig off his thermos, got back to his flat for a quick shower, and off to work flipping burgers.

He hadn't really had a choice in the matter: his adoptive family had kicked him out the second he was legally an adult. His high school years had been okay at best, but he hadn't got any money for pursuing any form of higher education. So unqualified, tedious, menial work and a figurative shit hole for an apartment... Still, he was kind of happy being on his own. He felt healthy, if restless.

The days at work were all the same. At some point, his coworkers took a cigarette or coffee break; he had a different ritual. At the first opportunity, he would go in the back, sit crossed legged, close his eyes, and juggle for a few minutes. As the day moved forward and into the night, after the dinner rush, the restaurant emptied and he could do it more frequently. As closing time approached, he'd grow so bold as to do it behind the counter. And systematically, at the latest possible hour, when the restaurant was empty, right before it was time to close up and go home –

"Hello, Harry."

Her voice had a special way of cutting through his concentration. No matter how much expected it, he'd always lose control and drop however many balls he was juggling. Nobody else had that effect. It was especially weird because by now, he knew the sound and rhythm of her footsteps. He knew it so well he could mentally countdown to her salutation, steel himself as much as he wanted... And everything would end up on the floor every time. And this time was no different.

Ponk!

He had been contact juggling with a single, pretty heavy acrylic ball.

"Hi, Hermione. Long day again today, huh?"

"How are you not getting better at all?"

He went to the sink to wash his hands.

"I am! just not when you set my heart aflutter with your lascivious greetings. It's a case of observation disrupting the experiment. Like the watchamacallit... The Heisenberg principle?"

"You know what? Too bad. Today was the day I was gonna give you I my number but you ruined it."

"With my juggling mishap?"

"With your terrible understanding of physics. And who uses the word 'lascivious'? That's just creepy..."

"It is, isn't it. I heard it too but it was too late. You'd rather give it to one of your PhD students, then?"

She shuddered with disgust. She was a really, really gifted academic. As a result, her PhD students tended to be the same age, if not older than her. And happened to be stereotypical theoretical physics graduates.

"Don't make me think about them... They're worse than you on both fronts... Understanding and creepiness, I mean."

He handed her a bag of something that could be legally called either food or poison, depending on the context.

"Aren't you worried that I know your order by heart now? The next step is having your name on the menu, you know..."

"Yes. I am. But I'm too tired to actually do something about it."

"You work too much... Eating that won't help, though. You should let me cook for you sometime."

"You cook for me literally every day."

"Touché." He took her credit card, let her type in her pin number, ostensibly looking away. "Still... You should let me cook something better."

She gave him an inscrutable look as he returned her card. She stood there lost in thought for a minute. Eventually Harry broke under her unflinching gaze:

"Is... Is the thought of me cooking something better than what basically amounts to 'fried cholesterol' that perplexing? Why do you look so discombobulated?"

"Disc... I'm not discombobulated, I don't get that way. You know what? I'll cut you a deal. When's your day off?"

"Thursday and Friday"

"Perfect. On Thursday, you shall have the pleasure of cooking a healthy meal and joining me for lunch... But, in return for this inestimable favour, you'll have to follow me to the lab afterwards, and partake in an experiment."

"Well that escalated quickly"

"Not that kind of experiment."

"What kind, then, if not the fun kind?"

"All experiments are the fun kind." She was dead serious.

"...Yeah... Still though, how can I possibly help the field of theoretical physics? And how come a theoretical physicist performs experiments? It says 'theoretical' right there in the name."

"Yeah, but... It's a side project... about... movement... and... uh..." she trailed off, "interactions... human-machine interactions." She decided

"...Woah."

"Right."

"You... You really cannot lie, can you? Like not at all?"

"No! It's just... I just thought it up! I didn't have time to come up with a freaking title... But it's just harmless measurements of motions and stuff. You'll get to show off your bare torso so I can install electrodes and motion capture instruments. Very sensual." The sensuality was undercut somewhat by her matter-of-fact tone.

"Well okay then. It should be fun indeed. Thursday at twelve?"

"Twelve-thirty. Imperial College, Huxley building, office 516. If you can't find it or if they don't let you in, ask for Dr. Granger."

"Perfect. Until then bon appetit, and buonanotte Dr Granger."

"merci, and grazie" flawless accents, of course... "see you on Thursday, Harry... Oh, who am I kidding; see you tomorrow, same time, same order."

Harry picked up his contact ball, and closed up shop before going home.

As he entered his flat, he was greeted with a strange scene. His window was wide open – which, first of all, why the hell was it? –, and an owl was staring at him from the windowsill. It was black with white spots, and had a very dark blue face with two shiny, yellow eyes stuck on it. It cocked its head, flapped a bit while turning its body toward Harry. It glanced at his bed and back at him once or twice, cocked its head again then left.

There was a letter on the bed, and if the cursive calligraphy was to be believed, it was addressed to him. Probably written in 1785... He opened it.

Dear Mr Evans,

Maybe it was intended for a different Evans? He had had his name legally changed from Dursley only a year prior... From some sort of secret society? The Freemasons? They do mysterious bollocks on parchment, right?

I regret to inform you that due to an unprecedented fault in our instruments, we haven't been able to locate and contact you sooner. A letter of acceptance to our institution should have reached you 12 years ago, on your eleventh birthday (oddly specific, and the odds of this being intended for another Evans were getting slimmer). It would have indicated that you were invited to attend the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry (pff- the what? No he'd read it properly... Some kind of roleplaying game, then?) for the duration of your secondary education. Obviously, it's a bit too late for that; I would like to extend our deepest apologies for this most unfortunate mistake on our part, from the whole staff here at Hog- (he refused to read it again, it was too ridiculous).

The terrible awkwardness resulting from this baffling oversight notwithstanding, I must warn you that a wizard without a proper education is a wizard in danger. In consequence, even though it would seem that you have successfully found ways to cope with your wizarding condition (they kept saying 'wizard' as though it was supposed to mean something to him in that context), I would very much like to meet you and discuss the proper way to move forward from now on.

You will find enclosed a silk ribbon. Please, when you have time for a meeting, rub it between your thumb and index finger.

With my deepest apologies,

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Well... There was a ribbon alright. Would he rub it? He felt kind of silly just asking himself the question... Rubbing a ribbon was a pretty innocuous thing to ask... Could it be doused in poison? Why not just fill the envelope with anthrax then... Maybe... Maybe it was that one drug that made you completely docile, and someone would burst in and have him do whatever they wanted... That's just ridiculous: how would they know he'd have rubbed the ribbon between his fingers? And he was pretty sure that particular drug had to be ingested. And why adorn such a devious ploy with such a strange letter? Shouldn't it be something about a Nigerian prince?

He shoved the letter in a drawer, washed his hands for good measure, and climbed on the roof. Whatever the letter was, it would require careful consideration as to what terrible thing it could be before... uh... before he'd act accordingly.

Once on the roof, he could finally let go of his day, of obviously made up names (he didn't know a lot of people, and there already was one Hermione; what were the odds of a Minerva just showing up out of nowhere?), let go of their incomprehensible letters, of Dr. Granger's terrible nutrition habits, of his dwindling stash of nerve medicine. He could just forget everything and dance in his mind's eye.

That's the first chapter. Don't be afraid to tell me what you think; (yes, you may have noticed that I find the semicolon to be a thoroughly underrated piece of punctuation; you'll get used to them) I'm not a native English speaker, so any mistake you'd find on that front would be of interest. Obviously, any stylistic insight would be greatly appreciated.

I don't think I've underestimated my rating, but there are some slightly more adult themes and language coming. Hopefully, they're treated with enough distance as to be inoffensive to 13-year-olds. Don't hesitate if you think anything is inappropriate.

What else? The first few chapters are going to be mainly about reinterpretation of characters in this context, exposition of the why's and the how's, and refashioning the discovery from this new point of view.

Oh, and also I hereby disclaim any form of ownership over most characters and story elements, please do not give me money for it would be illegal... maybe... in some countries... I'm not actually very sure but it seems to be a tradition here to say this kind of things.