Disclaimer: All recognized characters and elements goes to J.K Rowling

Hi people! So I'm not quitting LifeBound or anything, I just had a new idea so yeah...

Anyways, please read this and tell me your opinions!

Harry silently opened the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive and stepped inside with a grace that is unfound in any other six year old. His small body swiftly moved down the hall and into the kitchen where his aunt was busy shinning the already spotless counter while his uncle was leafing through the newspaper.

"Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia." Harry said his voice thin and shaky. A trickled of amusement and satisfaction ran down his spine when the two jumped at the sudden sound.

The six year old hunched his shoulders and pressed his elbows closer to his sides, successfully making him look smaller, as they turned to face him.

"Boy. Give me that." Aunt Petunia said as a thin bony h and shot out to snatch the crumpled piece of paper from his clutched hands.

She scanned the paper with her sharp eyes, her face scrunched up as if unsure if she should smile or frown, "One C, four Ds, and two Es."

"Not very smart are you boy?" Uncle Vernon said not bothering to look at his nephew.

The six year old ducked his head, "I'll do better next time Uncle Vernon."

"Yes, yes, we've heard that many times. Now here," she grabbed an apple off the counter and handed it to him, "Go eat in your room boy, goodness your pitiful brain needs all the nutrients it can get."

Taking the apple in his small hands, Harry turned away from his relatives. None of them noticed a small smile tugging at his lips as he silently walked up the stairs and into the smallest bedroom on the second floor.

Harry shut the door behind him and plopped down on his new, soft, feathery bed. His hands fluttered across the mattress in thought. It had taken him a while but he had managed to convince the Dursleys to buy him a new bed. Harry grimaced as he thought about all the bruises he had to inflict upon himself to get this.

When Aunt Petunia had seen all the bruises on his back, she had been horrified at the thought of the neighbors' reactions and had hurriedly asked him what had caused them. "The bed hurt me." He had said, making his voice weak and feeble. A week later, he came home from school to find a new bed awaiting him in his room.

Briefly Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he was being too over the top. He knew that lying was not right, that is the first thing he had been taught in preschool. But for the life of him, Harry can't drop the act. It was just too funny and amusing seeing all this, and anyway, he likes getting what he wants.

When Harry was eight, his Uncle Vernon enrolled his cousin into the junior football league held in their town. At first Harry had been indifferent about the whole thing, but after a week of watching Dudley kicking the ball around haphazardly, Harry wanted to play, and so he started scheming.

After spending hours practicing each day, a month later, the football coach caught Harry out on the field scoring shot of shot. A week after that, Harry was proud to call himself a member of the Little Whinging Junior Football League.

When Harry was nine, he wanted a library card.

"What use is a library card for you boy? You barely know how to read." Aunt Petunia had spat out when he asked.

With hunched shoulders and wide eyes, the nine year old had replied, "B-but Aunt Petunia, Mrs. Hyland says that i-if I read more maybe my grades will improve."

Uncle Vernon had grunted, "Let him Pet, it's not like he'll ever be as good as our Dudley."

The whole while said blond boy had been shoveling bacon in his mouth. He only paused long enough to shoot his cousin a superior look.

Three days later, Harry came home later than usual, a library card safely stored in his trouser pocket and an armload of books covering a wide variety of subjects.

A week before Harry's eleventh birthday, he had gotten out of bed at seven o'clock sharp as par usual. Methodically going through his morning ritual, the boy had stopped and examined himself in the bathroom mirror.

The steam from the shower he just took clouded the reflective surface but a single swipe of his hand cleared it. Tan skin from spending hours playing football under the sun caused his teeth to look whiter than it is. His raven hair was trimmed neatly though it still curled around messily. Clear emerald green eyes set above high cheekbones blinked back at him.

For the thousandth time, Harry thanked whatever god is up there for his luck of getting his good eyesight from his mother's side. According to his aunt, in a rare moment when she spoke about his parent's, his father's family was all cursed terrible eyesight in the past five generations. Harry frowned thoughtfully as he pictured himself wearing glasses, it wouldn't be bad exactly but it will be incredibly inconvenient when playing a football game.

Stepping back, Harry traced the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead with a single finger. Toweling his hair dry, he grimaced when he looked up into the mirror and discovered that his hair looked even messier than it already is.

Changing into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans from a cheap thrift shop, Harry sighed when he noticed that the hem jeans are now a good few inches above his ankles. He had gotten the pair a few months back and it is now already too short for him. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he should be frustrated at the too small clothes or thrilled at the prospect that he is growing taller. After all, there was a time when Harry worried that his first four years of neglect while living in the cupboard under the stairs with the Dursleys might've stunted his growth. Just a late bloomer than. Harry thought wryly as he stretched his cramped muscles before exiting the bathroom.

"Y-you write with quails?"

Minerva winced at the question before exchanging an exasperated look with her coworker, Filius Flitwick.

"No Mr. Potter, we write with quills." Filius answered patiently.

Minerva stifled a sigh when the boy opened his mouth to ask, undoubtedly, another ridiculous question.

"B-but isn't that bad?" the almost eleven year old asked as he shrank back into his seat, his voice quiet and tentative.

Bingo. She thought, though a part of her longed comfort the boy and put him at ease.

Minerva McGonagall had been asked by Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to go, together with the Charms Professor, to deliver one Harry Potter his Hogwarts Letter personally by hand. They had been instructed to talk things through with his guardians and take him shopping for his school supplies.

The Head of Gryffindor House didn't know what she had been expecting when she and Filius arrived. Perhaps a shy boy, perhaps a confused boy, even an arrogant boy! But no, of all the things, Minerva McGonagall had not been expecting a… a dense boy. Not just that, but a dense, meek boy with absolutely no confidence in himself.

The professor is not one to usually judge a person by quickly, but this… this is just unbelievable. Harry Potter, the son of one of the brightest witches to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts and one of the youngest men to ever become an Auror captain in history; the last surviving member and sole heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter… this boy is… unbelievable, just unbelievable. He's hailed a hero even before he can walk properly, how did this even happen? Minerva asked herself.

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