A/N This is my first fic :P Hope you enjoy! :) Please leave a review on the way out.

Scopper's response to DZ2's '100%' Challenge

Plot: Witches and wizards only ever use a small portion of their magic, even for their most-powerful spells, so the question is: what could someone do when they tap into the full 100% power?

Rules: Grey, Dark or Evil Harry Maybe

When Harry's magic is unlocked to its full power is up to the reader

Harry uses his new powers for his own benefit

Harry can't allow anyone to gain control of his power

All pairings are welcome

If Harry unlocks the power before Hogwarts, he can't go to Gryffindor

There must be one other figure of magic - at least - who has done this before Harry EXCEPT Dumbledore

Sirius is eventually freed and becomes Harry's guardian and ally

Guidelines: Harry's power grows and grows over time until he eventually reaches 100% Accepted

Crossover references of power/skills are part of Harry's new arsenal

Harry doesn't go to Hogwarts, but a school for others who have the potential to reach 100%

Master of Death Harry

Immortal Harry Eventually

Tom and the Death Eaters help Harry become a new Dark Lord Probably not

Slash

Harry's power has a drawback

Forbidden: Light Harry

Weak Harry

Our hero trying to rid himself of his power

Dumbledore gaining/controlling Harry

If the story starts before Hogwarts, Harry cannot go to Gryffindor

Other than that, it's up to you and, again, it doesn't have to be a serious story: it's meant to be fun and creative, just like all Fan Fiction, really;

The Strength Anomaly

Strange things had always happened around Harry Potter. Queer, his aunt and uncle had said. Unnatural. Freakish. It wasn't that Harry had specifically wanted the things to happen… they just did. If Harry was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he liked it.

For one, the Dursleys always beat and starved him when they heard of his 'atrocious' acts of 'stupidity'. Teleporting to a rooftop to escape Dudley's gang of bullies certainly wasn't worth weeks upon weeks eating only refried, canned beans. Turning a teacher's hair blue certainly wasn't worth ten lashings as well as a week in a dark, empty room.

He found it annoying that although these things happened at the most convenient times, they certainly didn't stop retribution. Convenient only when unneeded; that was Harry's new mantra.

Funnily enough, his teacher had instantly began to display some kindness toward Harry- something that he'd never experienced before. And Dudley mostly left him alone nowadays- which was the human equivalent of a hug and a grin.

It was as if he could directly influence their minds, somehow. He'd immediately pushed the thought out of his head. Preposterous. His mind was wandering. In any case, if he could influence minds, why couldn't he force Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to be kinder to him? Why could he force Dudley's gang to accept him? It was all a mystery to him.

It seemed like 10% of the time, he was able to achieve some actual success in his endeavors. If only he could reach 100%... now that would be heaven. Harry had wished for nothing more than to be accepted- the norm for most people in modern society. How exactly he'd achieve this when the Dursleys were constantly spreading rumors about his 'horrible tendencies' was beyond him.

It had been a miracle, really, that the local public school had accepted him. Perhaps they really cared, or perhaps the Dursleys had bribed the teachers so that Harry could be out of their sight for the majority of the day. Harry was guessing the latter.

And now here he was, staring blankly at the chalkboard, listening to a clearly biased red-faced obese teacher pronounce loudly the importance of binomial division. "Now… Harry Potter!" the teacher barked. "What is 19.5 times 19.5?"

Harry sighed. This man loved to catch his students off guard. "Mr. Andersen, first of all, that's not binomial division; I don't need to answer that question. Second of all, you're asking me to give you a tangible answer in 3 seconds to a multiplication problem; that's hardly fair. And third of all, the answer you're looking for is 380.25."

Mr. Andersen looked furious. "You think you're such a smart aleck, don't you! Detention!"

Harry smirked. He'd honestly been dying to flabbergast this teacher especially; he was the only one in his long chain of tutors he hadn't annoyed. Yet. It was a personal goal. He'd even managed to, ironically, annoy the cr*p out of the counselor who'd been trying to teach him the importance of suppressing annoyance.

Harry currently held the top spot for the most detentions in the school- something he was quite proud of. Funnily enough, he still managed to maintain a 5.0 GPA (he knew all of the material); it annoyed the cr*p out of all of his teachers.

Nobody could blame him, really; the school didn't offer a crossgrading program, and a child as intelligent as Harry wasn't being challenged by courses teaching the most elementary of topics.

It seemed counterintuitive for a child who wanted to be accepted to annoy the people who could accept him; but he figured that he'd always be a 'freak', what with the Dursleys' constant rumors. He might as well; he didn't have much left to lose.

Twirling his pencil absentmindedly, he waited for the tell-tale ringing of the bell, which would signal the end of the day. 10….9….8….7….6….5….4…

A loud voice suddenly rang through the intercom: "Harry James Potter, please report to the front office."

Harry sighed. He'd been looking forward to the sugar-induced tsunami of stampeding students barreling down the hallway. He picked himself up and reluctantly traipsed out the door.

He couldn't deny that he was interested. This was the most eventful thing that had happened the entire school year (he didn't count detentions eventful, they were the norm). What would they do now? Expel him? Certainly not; not when the London Times had named him the greatest asset to the school and 'the most brilliant 5th grader in all of London'.

He turned a corner and wrenched open the door to the office. He was greeted with a most peculiar sight.

A tall, dark-haired woman in the most peculiar of clothes stood in the doorway. She looked exactly like the portraits of the witches at the Salem Witch Trials, what with her tight bun, her emerald-green robes, and her curled hat. The only thing missing, really was a wart on her nose.

"I've been called?" Harry said uncertainly, quickly scanning the room. Funnily enough, nobody except the woman was present. Strange. Usually the secretary, Mrs. Tsume Yuki, would be bustling about. Usually the principal, Mr. DZ2, would be sitting behind his desk, faxing one thing or another.

But today, there was nothing in the room but a deep, eerie silence.

"Hello, Harry." the woman began. "I am Professor Minerva Mcgonagall."

Harry blinked. "That's nice. What does this have to do with me?"

The woman sniffed, slightly annoyed. Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back. 'Way to go, Harry! 2 seconds, and you've already annoyed a Professor!'

"I am here to explain to you that you've been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry gave her a funny look, then laughed. "Hilarious prank, really. I would've believed it, too. Your voice was so serious! Great costume, by the way."

Mcgonagall buried her face in her hands. All of the muggle borns or muggle-raised had the same reaction. "This isn't a prank, Harry. This is a serious invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and wizardry."

This elicited even louder guwaffs from the boy. Mcgonagall sighed. "Incendio." she dictated, flicking her wand. The nearest plant instantly caught fire. Harry's laughter abruptly cut off.

"Ah. So you've but a motion-activated lighter under the plant. Clever, I grant you, but not nearly enough to fool me."

"Levicorpus!"

By some invisible force, Harry was thrown through the air; he landed upside down, suspended by his ankles.

"Ejector pad in the floor?" Harry asked, frowning. Mcgonagall sighed. "Of course not, Harry. This is magic."

Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, so Mcgonagall pressed forward. "Have you done anything… strange? Anything miraculous, even?"

"Now that you mention it… I have teleported to a rooftop, once. I've also turned my teacher's hair blue… that was hilarious!"

Mcgonagall nodded, satisfied. "That, Harry, is magic."

Harry nodded. He found himself inclined to believe the woman, as if a part of him already knew everything she said. It helped that Mcgonagall was tiring of the conversation and had sent a non-verbal Trust Me charm at the boy.

"Interesting… so you are offering me a position at your school?"

Mcgonagall nodded. Finally! They were getting somewhere. She regretted every instance she had to use the Trust Me charm, a potent spell on children; but it was clear that their conversation was getting nowhere.

"Yes, Harry. You will be a student at this school, where you will learn to control your abilities."

Minerva watched as Harry nodded, his eyes glazed slightly.

"I…" his eyes suddenly cleared. "I… I don't believe you!"

Mcgonagall watched, astonished, as Harry shook off the charm. A boy with barely any experience with magic shaking off a charm more potent than the Imperius curse? Unheard of!

"You're… you're doing something, something to make me believe you. And I don't!" Harry continued, his voice sharp. "Using compulsion medicines on a mere child? Have you no shame?!"

Mcgonagall had the morality to look guilty. "Harry… you must understand, our conversation was getting nowhere. But you must understand, child: you are a wizard. There is a part of you, I know, that is accepting every word you say. Trust yourself, Harry."

The boy looked up for a moment. "You know…" he began slowly. "As much as I want to, I still don't believe you. The mere idea is preposterous! Why are we even having this conversation? This is a waste of both of our time."

He turned and stalked out of the room, furious. Furious at what, he had no idea; though if he was honest, himself. An internal conflict raged. His rational, logical side scoffed and spat at the idea, ridiculing himself for even considering it a possibility. His other, more headstrong side strongly affirmed it as the truth. It was driving him crazy.

A powerful tug sent him flying back into the room.

"I'm not done with you yet, Mr. Potter!" Professor Mcgonagall muttered. Harry glared. "Okay, let's say I… I accept that perhaps, maybe, such a school exists. What now?" Minerva gave a tired grin. "Well, Mr. Potter, you'll go buy your books in Diagon Alley, a magical shopping center."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I'll believe you if you show me to this… Diagon Alley… and if I can clearly discern its magical properties."

"Gladly, Mr. Potter. Gladly."

Mcgonagall pressed a bony hand on Harry's shoulder and willed them both to disapparate.

They appeared with a loud CRACK! in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry stared, wide-eyed, at his surroundings, as if taking in everything; albeit at a snail's pace.

"You- you just… you just teleported!"

"Apparated, Mr. Potter. There IS a difference, believe it or not. No matter. Follow me."

The woman guided Harry through the pub, neatly ignoring the stares of almost everybody in the room. The two soon found themselves in the back courtyard. Harry watched in a self-induced daze as Professor Mcgonagall tapped a strange sequence into the brick wall.

The entire thing caved inward; brick rotated and collapsed to form a large archway. Harry didn't bat an eye. He'd just witnessed teleportation; this strange unfolding could hardly shock him now.

What did shock him, though, was the sheer amount of peculiarly dressed people bustling about colorful shops. "What- what the h*ll?"

Mcgonagall smiled a dry smile. "Do you believe me now, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not completely. For all I know, I could be insane, and this could all be a figment of my imagination."

Mcgonagall sighed again. "I suppose. But is your imagination this wild?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure. Could be. I once dreamt about flying, pink zebras, did you know?"

It took another forty minutes to assure Harry that no, he wasn't dreaming or insane- and only then he'd only asserted that 62% of him maybe, partially believed his eyes. Even Harry couldn't possibly dream of the crazy methods of transportation. He found himself idly wondering why students didn't simply Floo to Hogwarts instead of taking an overly complicated, expensive train system. When he asked Mcgonagall, she only shrugged. "It makes a good first impression."

"Nice to know that's where the wizarding world's taxpayer dollars go to…" Harry smirked, sarcastic.

"Anyhow, Mr. Potter…" Mcgonagall continued. "You've bought your books and your owl, haven't you?"

Harry nodded and displayed a large, snowy owl sitting upon a stack of large, heavy books. "Good. Good. Now, we shall get your wand."

"Are you serious? You use wands?"

Mcgonagall narrowed her eyes. "Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, actually. I would've thought maybe staffs would be the norm. Like Gandalf."

To his enormous surprise, Mcgonagall nodded. "Only Gandalf can use such a weapon of pure power. It channels straight from a wizard's magical core, making it extremely dangerous…"

Harry didn't catch the rest of her sentence. "Are you serious? Gandalf? He exists?!"

Mcgonagall looked at him funnily. "Of course."

"That's amazing! Is he still alive?"

"No. He died fighting a fire dragon named Balrog."

Harry shook his head in wonderment. So LOTR really WAS based off of the wizarding world! He'd had a sneaking suspicion…

The two turned a corner and made their way down a dingy avenue and into a small shop. 'Olivanders' was proudly emblazoned in bold, red letters on a sign near the doorway.

"Ah, hello there!"

Harry looked up to see an elf-like man slowly climb his way down a needlessly tall ladder.

"Hello. You're Ollivander, I take it?"

The man nodded.

"And you are Harry Potter. I still remember the day when I first sold your mother her first wand… ah, that was a lifetime ago…" he snapped out of his reverie. "Anyhow, what can I help you with, Mr. Potter?"

"I need a staff- preferably a shorter one. A wand would be nice, too."

Ollivander's face suddenly paled. "A- a staff?" he whispered, his eyes bulging. Mcgonagall shot Harry an annoyed look.

"By asking for a staff, you're not only subjecting yourself to a great deal of danger, you're also asserting that you are just as powerful as Gandalf, the last staff-bearer!" she whispered, her voice frantic. Harry shrugged.

"I honestly couldn't care less. A staff would be cool to have. Do you have any?"

Ollivander wiped his brow. "No; no, of course not! A staff takes months to make, using the most expensive of materials!"

Harry shrugged. "Meh. A wand will do, then."

"That's certainly more… rational."

Turning, Ollivander produced a large, oak box. He slid off the cover; a small, milk-white baton lay within.

"Go on! Try it out…"

Harry frowned and waved it quite fiercely. He channeled all of his strength into it and willed it to do what Professor Mcgonagall had done…

The potted plant resting on the doorway instantly burst aflame; at the same time, a loud CRACK! echoed through the room.

Ollivander watched, wide-eyed, as the wand split in two by the seams, releasing a mound of pent-up magic. Shelves were scattered, books tossed through the air; Professor Mcgonagall raised her wand and shrieked, "Finite Incantatem!"

Everything neatly rearranged itself. Harry watched the wand in wonderment. He'd felt a horrible sensation, as if forced to swallow a slug. "Mr. Ollivander? I don't think this is my wand…" he said, his voice shaky.

"Er… yes, of course…. I'll get a new one…" Turning, Ollivander produced a second oakwood case. "And please don't force any more magic through this one if it doesn't… want… to flow properly. It might crack the wand."

He didn't mention the impact of the cracked wand; only the most powerful of wizards could, by sheer force of will, crack a magical item in half. Harry studied the new wand in his hand; it was pitch black with tiny cylinders embedded through the sides. He waved it experimentally.

Nothing.

Ollivander laughed nervously. He'd been half-expecting the bookshelf to explode. "I'll have that back, if you please…"

He rummaged through the cabinet, his mind racing. The boy had rejected both prime choices of wands… what could possibly be compatible with him? No; certainly not; impossible…

He reached out to the top of the drawers and picked out a large, golden wand. Sweating slightly, he passed it to Harry.

The boy shook it experimentally; an instant whirlwind of energy filled the room. Harry glowed with a powerful, magical aura, emanating through the entire shop.

"Interesting…" Ollivander muttered. It was clear that the wand had chosen Harry. "Interesting… the wand in your hand is the brother of the wand given to a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle, the man who gave you that scar."

He pointed a quivering hand to Harry's forehead. "You-Know-Who did great things in his lifetime; horrible things, but great nonetheless. I think we can expect the same of you, Mr. Potter."

Evening

Harry was still having trouble believing the events of the previous afternoon. It was as if his entire life had been a puzzle with missing pieces, and Mcgonagall had filled in the gaps.

Of course he could 'teleport'! It's accidental apparition, something many young wizards do when placed under extreme stress. And turning a teacher's hair blue was one of the most basic of accidental transfiguration magic.

In all honesty, he should be laughing at himself. Believing that magic exists isn't like believing that the Patriots won the Super Bowl; magic changes one's fundamental world view about pretty much everything.

Mcgonagall had, tearily, explained of Harry's parents' unfortunate deaths at the hand of Lord Voldemort; he'd felt a deep pang of a very familiar emotion: pain. And anger. Deep, deep anger.

So this man was the reason he couldn't have a normal childhood! This man was the reason he'd been stuck with the Dursleys his whole life! The very thought changed his usually humorous demeanor into something much darker. It didn't feel right fundamentally that such a person should exist.

He had true power. Even in death, he could cause such heartache and pain. The mad bastard.

Mcgonagall, upon seeing the dangerous look on his face, quickly changed the topic and took him to Florian's ice cream shop. The usually sweet chocolate tasted bitter and metallic; like blood. He'd bitten his tongue, apparently. He couldn't care less.

Harry was very good at compartmentalizing information; he shoved the thoughts to one side to be dealt with later. No; now was not the time for emotional breakdown. Now was the time to fully appreciate what most of him believed to be a tangible, real, undiscovered, amazing world.

They'd gone straight to Gringotts, where Mcgonagall, intent on distracting him from his parents, had allowed him to make a 30 galleon withdrawal for his own personal devices. He'd spent it all on a mound of books.

He found it amazing that a wizard's starting education in magic began at the age of 11. Preposterous, that was! Children can learn, they weren't stupid like some adults firmly believed. Their immaturity sometimes overshadowed their displayed intellect, but maturity didn't determine intelligence. Take Harry, for instance. He'd been called brilliant, and he was still fairly immature. Leave it to adults to underestimate their greatest assets.

It was in this frame of mind that he tackled the massive mountain of books he'd brought. His memory was exceptional; his brain functioned in a strange way. Any event that happened to him was instantly imprinted onto his brain; it was extremely helpful when memorizing, say, books. Or study guides. Or test answer sheets.

He, in his spare time, shuffled through the books until he found psychology; flipping along, he found a chapter entitled, Eidetic Memory. He opened it and began reading.

The eidetic memory is one of the rarest and most powerful forms of brain disorder in the world; not that it should be classified as a disorder. Any event, action, sound, taste, texture, or smell is instantly recorded in one's brain.

In other words, a super-buffed-up photographic memory.

Harry had scoffed at this. This man… or woman… had a sense of humor. He flipped to the table of contents and read the chapter. Eidetic Memory…. written by Dr. C Niel Demencha. Harry smiled at this. He wondered how many people would understand the name; he doubted very many. People didn't pay much attention to anything, really, much less a name.

Ah, the puns.

He continued through the stack.

By midnight, he was still reading. The Dursleys had, in a strange convenience, gone on a business trip, leaving him with a sack of potatoes and a tattered blanket. Convenient for him, of course. If his 'family' found out about his books, they'd surely burn them in the fire. Perhaps even call in a priest to cleanse the house from the 'work of the devil', something they'd done before- on several occasions.

If there was one thing that Harry had gained from the Dursleys, it was a thick skin. He'd been called 'devil' and 'wierdo' so many times no that it naturally bounced off. He doubted much could hurt him emotionally; it wasn't like he had any real ties to anybody.

H*ll, if somebody captured the Dursleys and tortured them for ransom, he wouldn't pay the money. He'd probably grab a popcorn and put the tape on loop.

Speaking of the Dursleys… they were bound to be back any day now. Their scheduled return date was the day after tomorrow; but with Dudley messing about, it could be rescheduled to the week after next. It wasn't unheard of.

The time they'd visited Australia, Dudley had somehow goaded a peaceful, passive snake to attack him. He was stuck in the hospital for three days. The Dursleys had tried to sue, but they didn't have a leg to stand on. After all, Dudley had punched the snake first. It had simply retaliated.

Harry had laughed up a storm at the image of Dursley's fat fist punching a very surprised snake. This, of course, earned him a week grounded in his cupboard, or 'solitary confinement' as he knew it.

Ah, the good old days. A dark gleam sparked in Harry's emerald eyes. Those days would remain far, far behind him if he had a say in it.

Ever since his introduction to the magical world, his accidental magic had become more and more frequent. He'd even had some control over it, at times.

When a troublesome spider had landed on his book that night, he'd willed it to disappear- and disappear it did, in a shower of sparks and flame. If the Dursleys ever threatened him ever again, he'd be sure to send Dudley up in a bonfire. It'd take quite a long time to burn all that fat off, but it would be interesting, even enjoyable to see the boy squeal in fright.

He stopped himself. Where were these sadistic thoughts coming from? Certainly not his mind; he'd never think such strange things. Lifting a hand, he pressed his finger to his scar.

Pain instantly filled his forehead. Somebody had surely chopped his head in half; that was what it felt like, a horrible, ripping pain. Harry screamed and thrashed in his seat; he instinctively withdrew his hand. The pain faded. Interesting… why would his scar do that to him?

Harry closed his eyes and willed his magic to him. He felt tentative tendrils at first, then more and more; it merged into a thin strand of pure power. Harry smiled. Ah, here's something I can work with. It still felt strangely limiting, though; as if his body could give more, but was unwilling to.

No matter.

Flexing his magical muscles, he extended his reach through his entire body. Something instantly didn't feel…right. A dark, reddish haze centered around his forehead, glowing brighter and brighter until it reached his scar. Oh, god. His scar.

The very skin was tearing up in a supernova of crimson; Harry reached out and pressed his magic against his temple.

A horrible pain welled up inside his head; he kept his focus. With a steady hand, he ripped the pain from out his head.

The instant oppression instantly ceased. Harry gasped in amazement. His entire life, he'd felt a strange unease in his head; now that it was removed, he felt so much more free. It was as if a giant spike had been drilled into his head; now that it left, he felt… powerful.

The supernova of energy instantly flared to life. Harry gasped as it bounced left and right, struggling to escape his tight hold. It seemed almost a soul, even… no. Impossible. This little speck was surely too small to contain the human mind. And yet… it did. He could feel its emotions buried deep inside it, could feel its panic…

He reached out with his hand. The crimson star, now covered completely in his hands, spluttered inside. He watched in quiet fascination as the thing struggled to escape.

In a moment of utter madness, he took the orb and crushed it beneath his fingers.

A loud, shrieking voice suddenly filled the room; the supernova dulled and cracked into a thousand pieces. A deadly force rippled through the walls, sending Harry flying back a good ten feet; he hit the table and crumbled to the floor. He felt winded, the air having been knocked out of him.

The only thing that remained of the crimson flare in the center of the room was a mound of tiny ash. Harry blinked. Amazing. Did he do that?