V= ([g*t]/m)^ f

~*~

Gravity,

Destiny,

Velocity,

Weight.

How

much

Lift

for a

Pound

of

Fate?

~*~

Everything was going according to schedule at Number 4, Privit Drive. It was Saturday morning—the same as practically any Saturday morning, which meant that Vernon and Dudley Dursley were asleep, Petunia Dursley was not, and Harry Potter was in a cupboard. Seventeen minutes until the smell of sausages would rouse Dudley, nineteen minutes until it would rouse Vernon, and two-and-a-half seconds until Petunia Dursley would rouse Harry Potter, who was a full three seconds from wishing he were anywhere but where he was.

Schedules so horribly precise are seconded only by Dementors in the task of sucking out a nine-year-old wizard's soul. It was a good thing, then, for nine-year-old Harry Potter, that things would not be going according to schedule for long.

The schedule continued until seven forty-three.

Seven forty-three was when Harry Potter fetched the newspaper.

Seven forty-three was when a man arrived.

Seven forty-three was when the schedule experienced a mild hiccough, followed by severe internal hemorrhaging.

The man who arrived at seven forty-three was not an especially interesting man—he was an insurance salesman.

He did not have a memorable car, nor an attaché case full of cash, or a familial relation to the small black-haired boy, or a magic wand.

All he had was a sensible business suit he did not quite fill, a younger half-brother with an unusual favor to ask of him, and a package.

The package, though, was devastatingly interesting.

Fredric Alkerton was just the only man uninteresting enough to deliver it.

The uninteresting man stepped out of his uninteresting car, just as Harry Potter, a prophesized savior with bacon to fry, reached the morning paper.

"Hello," said Fredric. Harry clutched the newspaper and addressed the front walk.

"I'll go get Uncle Vernon." he said quickly, wondering as he turned weather it would be worth stalling the man to save himself from waking his uncle, though he was more or less resigned to the idea that he was in for a scolding and out a meal no matter what he did next. That was how the schedule went.

"Hang on," the man called, after confirming that he was at the right address. "I'm looking for a 'Mr. Potter.'"

Harry nearly dropped the paper.

"You're looking for me?"

Fredric smiled. "That I am, Mr. Potter, assuming you are the only 'Mr. Potter' of the household."

Harry nodded silently.

"Well then this," he pulled the long, skinny package out of the backseat of his car—the devastatingly interesting package, "is for you. It's…" he fought back a smile. As someone who bore absolutely no blame for the situation, he found it rather amusing. "Well, you see, it's nearly nine years overdue." Harry let the man lay the package across his outstretched palms and found it to be surprisingly light, despite being easily taller than Harry was himself. "As I understand it," he continued, "there have been several dozen unsuccessful attempts to deliver this. If you could sign here…"

He held out a yellow delivery form detailing in elaborate lime green text the conditions of the purchase. Harry, for lack of anything better to do, laid the package on the grass and painstakingly penned his name in the loopy and still-clumsy letters that he knew he ought to use for official documents such as this. He even included the 'J.' because it seemed the proper thing to do.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. You get this, in case you need to contact the manufacturers in regards to your purchase… here, you can have this too, seeing as you're so hard to reach." He handed Harry first a receipt and then one of his own business cards. "Just give me a ring and I can get you connected to my brother. He's the one who's been trying to get this sent, actually... oh, and I'm supposed to inform you that your place of residence had been warded against all owls, including those with official delivery qualifications, and was unreachable by several official representatives of Aurora Borealis Broomsticks. Their muggle half brothers, though, are another matter entirely," he said with a wry smile, "you can't keep the commoners out."

Fredric walked back to his car as he spoke. Harry didn't quite know how to respond.

"I'd best be off. You have fun with that, I think you'll find it well worth the wait."

The man had started his car and begun to drive away before Harry remembered to shout his thanks, just as his uncle Vernon noticed his absence.

"Get in here boy, bacon's not going to fry itself!" he bellowed, loud enough that he didn't have to concern himself with where his nephew actually was, "And where the devil is the newspaper?"

Harry scurried back into the house, overcome with a sudden panic. If he could get to the cupboard, just for an instant… he edged past the door. Petunia was at the stove, back turned on her accursed nephew, Vernon was sitting so that the back wall of the hallway was out of his line of sight, and Dudly was far too engrossed with his breakfast to notice either his cousin or the foot-and-a-half of paper-wrapped parcel that stuck up from behind Harry's back. Harry sprinted the last few steps and dumped everything into his cupboard save the newspaper.

He had lived in with his relatives for long enough to know that large and mysterious (not to mention devastatingly interesting) packages addressed to him would not be tolerated, but he was not about to give up the only package he had ever received without a fight. He shut the package in his cupboard just as his spatula-brandishing Aunt chose that moment to crane her neck around the kitchen door.

"There you are!" She screeched "Come on, come on, the bacon is going to burn!"

Harry slipped back into the schedule without another word. The newspaper got delivered and the bacon did not burn, but for once, Harry did not imagine himself away to a happier place. For once, he imagined himself right back inside his cupboard, with a large and mysterious package to open. The man had said something, though. Harry thought back to the short conversation… something about wizards, and muggles, and owls… and broomsticks.

He had definitely said something about broomsticks.

~*~

With an

Ounce

of

Magic

for a

Quart

of

Sky,

Will

You

Fall

or

Will

You

Fly?

~*~

A/N: Found this while fishing around in word documents. Wrote it a few months ago. Does anybody want to read more of this? Does anybody actually care? Is it just a re-hash of crap you've already read? Please let me know! If I do continue, while I can't promise a planned-out story arc or an ending, I can promise that it won't be, despite the premise, fluffy beyond belief.

Props to anyone who figures out the variables in the formula of the title. Double-props to anyone who knows what formula this is based on.