Disclaimer I do not own the rights to either Harry or Jenny, nor either of their highly contrasting worlds.

A/N: This is a teaser chapter to a story that may be an interesting experiment if people care to read. It is important I receive feedback on this chapter so I know whether or not I should continue with this idea. If I do continue, expect the chapters to be longer and less fluffy.

Thank you for your time.

-CLS (padfootmoony13)

This place defies the comfort I am used to. I miss the repetition, the yellow walls, the mediocrity. The carpet has been torn up and left in shreds, exposing plywood floors and nail marks. The wall's veins quiver beneath the stale white paper, coated in a thin film of mildew. Here it reeks of cat urine and the remnants of spirits, drooled out through the greedy lips of men with woolen caps and tangled beards—it was not sloshed out in celebration. Light creeps along the floor from a crack in a floorboard, warped and mottled as a willow tree's trunk.

Welcome to the constraints of my mind. Consider this my invitation, sealed tight with a wax crest and tied shut with a black ribbon, hand delivered with the greatest care. There are no chairs here, no Victorian parlor, no signs of console. However, feel free to sit Indian-style upon the floor and wriggle around a bit until it feels just right. I will not be offended if I am addressing figures peering through gaps between their fingers, yet I must ask that all ears remain open and receptive, uncovered. I'm sorry if I scare you.

See, I'm trapped here. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but I know that there are no windows nor doors here, and the marks I've left upon the walls count forty-two nights so far. Perhaps I'm meant to remain here. Then again, I don't believe in "meant." It's a mortal tool.

I had another dream about him last night, the boy with the raven hair and round spectacles. He's growing paler, thinner, weary. I counted more wrinkles than ever before. I made it closer to him this time. This time I'm sure he saw me too—

"Jenny?"

The pen fell from her hand and clattered to the floor, spurting ink onto the oak where it crashed. She twisted around in her seat, now feeling very foolish.

"Oh, Tim," she sighed, tucking a stray lock of swarthy hair behind her ear. "You startled me."

He grinned sheepishly. "Didn't mean to shake you from your 'zone.' What are you working on now?" He stepped up beside her, lifting the paper off the mahogany desk. She snatched it from him quickly, looking defensive.

"It's nothing," she dismissed, tucking it away inside the desk drawer. "Just a piece I'm working on for my Writer's Workshop."

"Alright, I won't read it then," Tim assured. He moved behind her chair and slid his arms around her shoulders, leaning close to her ear and saying huskily, "Besides, I'd rather do something else anyway." He kissed her head lightly.

"Not tonight, Tim," Jenny said firmly, shrugging him off. "I'm tired."

"Aw, c'mon," he persisted, moving down to kiss her neck.

Jenny rolled her eyes and stood up, pushing her seat back. Tim let go and looked at her like a small child who had just been denied a piece of candy at the check out aisle. Laughing slightly, Jenny rubbed his shoulder warmly as she said, "Don't take it personally. I've just had a lot of late nights this week and I have an early class tomorrow is all." She smiled sultrily. "Can I get a rain check for tomorrow night instead?"

Tim sighed and smiled back. "Of course."

"Thank you," she said, standing on tip-toe to reach up and kiss him lightly.

He kissed her back before she fell back onto the flats of her feet and turned to tidy her desk.

"Are you coming to bed?" he asked.

"In a minute. I'm just going to collect my materials for tomorrow first."

"Alright, goodnight," he replied, turning down the hall toward the bedroom. When he left, Jenny heaved a great sigh and fell back into her chair heavily. The truth was that she wasn't at all ready to sleep; it was true she was physically exhausted from all of the LA nights she had lived out that week, but her brain was still alert and churning. Her thoughts kept returning to the boy in her dream, the boy she was writing about. It was strange; she felt as if when she met his eyes, he could somehow see inside her mind as if she had thrown the doors open to him and only him. She shivered in the warm spring air as she thought about it, tiny goosebumps rising along her arm.

Presently she felt something brush past her, startling her out of her daydream. She jerked around to peer through the gold light, brilliant blue eyes alight and saucer-like. Naturally, all she found was an empty room and the red curtains rustling slightly from a sudden breeze which must have drifted through the open window. They customarily left their windows open throughout most of the year, allowing the dry Southern California air to warm their modest home, fit for a young couple to begin. She and Tim had only recently moved to L.A. from Ohio, after she attended the prestigious writer's program at Iowa University and won several awards for her writing. Jenny had felt the small town they used to live in was crushing her beneath its wide, expansive corn fields, and when she graduated college and decided to escape to L.A. in search of new inspiration, Tim followed her. They had only been there a week so far, and she already felt the city invigorate her. She had immediately unpacked her notebooks and pens, cleared off the surface of the desk in the front den, and begun writing, only stopping to help Tim unpack the boxes that lied scattered about in each room. Tim had gotten a job as a swimming coach at the local high school, which he was very happy about; he used to be a swimming and diving champion himself in college, and the high school's team he was to coach had won the national championship three years running.

Jenny rose, the fraying bottom hem of her dress dragging along the floor as she shuffled over the window, slid it down, and fastened it shut. At the door to the den she turned to look at her writing studio, enjoying the thrill of the thought: I am a writer. Flicking the light switch, Jenny went to climb into bed with Tim, prepared for another restless night.

Halfway around the world, a boy jerked awake in his narrow bed, eyes shooting open to find the ceiling not very far above and his knuckles clenching his twisted covers. Having regained his sense of surroundings, he laid still, eyes half-glazed, staring at a jagged crack which ran the length of the ceiling before climbing down the far wall. He'd had that dream again, that dream about that tiny girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She seemed so lonely and timid, and yet something restrained him from approaching her, and the feeling which lingered on into his wakefulness unnerved him. It was a complex feeling, not very easily defined; he presently struggled to define it for himself. It occurred to him that it was a combination of pity, helplessness, desire, and a deep sense of dread. What he didn't understand was the dread she stirred in him, the great sense of foreboding he got when he met her eyes this time for the first time and simultaneously realized she was real and glimpsed the tumultuous nature of her mind, of her person. She seemed so delicate in her long black dress reaching down to the floor, standing alone with a wide expanse of white behind her, reflecting off of her porcelain skin. How could someone so delicate contain such a turbulent storm within her without shattering into a million tiny bits?

Shaking himself from his reverie, the boy sat up and swung his feet around onto the floor. Perched upon the edge of the bed, he glanced across the room to the two beds beside his own, both of which were occupied. Realizing he was not going to be able to fall back asleep, he stood wearily and crept on tiptoe past the sleeping girl in the bed beside him to the door beyond, pulled a shirt on, grabbed his glasses from the table he had placed them on for the night, and closed the door to the bedroom behind him with a faint 'click.' He found himself in a very narrow hallway, with a ceiling so low he had to bend over to keep his head from brushing the top. Taking care to keep quiet, he made his way down the attic hall to the tiny window-seat at the very end, and sat with his legs pulled up against his chest. He stared out of the tiny octagonal window down onto the scenery below, noting the pond with the collapsing wooden dock halfway submerged in the water and the miles of fields and farmland off in the distance. The closest hint of civilization was in the form of a tiny prick of light off on the horizon which belonged to the farmhouse of a neighbor's farm. His eyes shifted and he became aware of his own reflection in the window, his face sliced into two uneven parts by the window panes. He stared blankly at what he had become: a gaunt, almost skeletal figure with hair hanging untamed into his eyes, often concealing the outstanding lightning-bolt shaped scar in the middle of his forehead (which definitely had its benefits). The journey had drained him more than he would have ever imagined, and it wasn't even close to over. A passer-by might mistaken him for a skeleton escaped from its grave if his eyes hadn't betrayed the life which still sparked within him: the brilliant green spheres sparkled and flashed along with his spirit, which was still driven on by the purpose he knew he had.

Harry Potter was on his journey to defeat the darkest wizard the world had ever known, and he was a little more than halfway there.