I've taken many liberties with this, but as expected, Harry Potter does not belong to me. Everything in the Harry Potter universe and stuff is all JK Rowling's. I am merely a nerd with a gay heart and a thing for Severitus (not Snarry although I do love that too). Anyway, if you're into powerful Harry who is also rather brilliant, you've come to the right place. Also, there's drarry so...

Harry sighed as he stared up at the ceiling of his cupboard, reflecting on his day. It had become a habit for the dark haired boy to ponder his daily happenings each night, allowing him to analyze each moment and calculate improvement. July 23rd, 1991 had not been a bad day, though it had also not been his best. He had perfected a new recipe for the Dursleys' breakfast menu, which they had all appreciated despite their lack of gratitude. The meal had, in consideration for Dudley's new diet which Harry had advised, excluded meat with nitrates or high fat concentration, as well as provided nutritious vegetables with disguised tastes. Harry was sure to calculate every calorie accurately before each meal-he was Dudley's personal nutritionist-as cooked accordingly. He had yet to receive any thanks for his troubles, but he did not expect any and he learned from a young age not waste concern on matters that he could not change.

After expanding his mental list of suitable recipes, the young boy retreated to his cupboard while silently reciting a chapter from the novel Ender's Game which he had quickly read when he was six after sneaking off to the library. Harry was what one would consider a genius. His IQ, unbeknownst to anyone, was 187 and was accompanied by a photographic memory. Unconsciously, Harry memorized every book he read, most of which required less than an hour for him to complete. Verbatim enumerations relaxed Harry and prevented him from focussing on the immediate future to which he was forced to resign himself. Silently, Harry recalled the words: "And the despair filled him again. Now he knew why. Now he knew what he hated so much. He had no control over his own life. They ran everything. They made all the choices. Only the game was left to him, that was all, everything else was them and their rules and plans and lessons and programs, and all he could do was go this way or that way in battle" (Card 151). Harry cherished the novel more than anything. He had read and loved countless books, without his relatives' knowledge of course, but Ender's Game was by far his favorite. He could relate to Ender, could appreciate the character's loneliness, fear, self-loathing, and brilliance. Harry always felt that the characters in books were worth more than living people. Real people were cruel and unforgiving, but fictional people were friends.

A banging sound had awoken Harry from his reverie and, by sheer force of habit, the boy removed himself from his own mind. "Mind your chores, boy!" Uncle Vernon had shouted from the other side of the cupboard. "We don't keep freaks who are too lazy to earn their stay!"

The dark haired boy had sighed, and collected himself quickly before heading outside to complete the yard work in the daylight. He always completed the outdoor work first for the sake of efficiency. Indoor chores could be finished by artificial light, outdoor chores could not.

So progressed his day as usual. Nothing remarkable had occurred. He had weeded the garden, pruned the flowers, watered the plants, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the trees and bushes to perfect shape. As usual, he completed the outdoor chores in only a few hours before returning to the gloriously air conditioned house. As usual, he set off to do the laundry, sweep and mop the hardwood floors, vacuum the carpets, prepare a healthy lunch for the Dursleys, wash the dishes, dust the furniture, and tend to the overall upkeep of the house in which he was unwelcome. Thus, he earned his keep.

He decided, from the safety of his familiar cupboard, that there was not much on which to reflect that day. Uncle Vernon had not been particularly violent, aside from the usual slap or knock, and neither had he been unconventionally drunk or stone-cold sober. Aunt Petunia had not been remarkably vicious in her verbal encounters with him that day either. Apart from the expected mutters of his "freakiness", she had remained too busy to bother him with unnecessary abuse that day. Dudley was, well, Dudley. He was gone most of the day, no doubt wreaking havoc on the neighborhood and terrorizing smaller boys with his gang. He returned to play cruel pranks on Harry and purposely sabotage his handiwork, requiring him to revisit several chores. Of course, Harry expected no less and had come to plan it into his schedule. He had developed said schedule over the years, making slight revisions when necessary, but sticking to it usually in order to complete each task sufficiently and timely.

The ordinary nature of the day did not strike Harry as any reason to spend time analyzing it. Harry proceeded to get some much needed sleep to recuperate after another arduous day.

His days would not remain ordinary for much longer.

Harry awoke early on July 24th, rising right on schedule at precisely 5:30 in the morning for optimum efficiency. Each morning, at 5:30, Harry would dress in his tattered hand-me-downs, collect the mail, and prepare breakfast for the Dursleys after forcefully choking down the urge to cook a portion for himself as well. Uncle Vernon rose at precisely 6:15 every morning, by which time Harry must be finished his morning routine and breakfast must already be hot and on the table. Or else.

It was a simple enough routine for one who was as accustomed to it as Harry was. As usual, Harry collected the mail and sorted it into piles: one for matters of utmost importance, one for matters of less importance, one for matters of no importance, and one for matters unfamiliar. As with many of the efficient workings of the Dursley household, the pile idea had originated from Harry, though Vernon would claim its brilliance.

Everything seemed normal about July 24, 1991, except for one small detail. There was a strange letter in the mail that day. It was not strange in its origin, although Harry indeed had never seen its like. The strange part about it was its address.

Mr. H Potter. The Cupboard under the Stairs. 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey.

The letter was addressed to him. It had to be. Harry was unfamiliar with another "H. Potter." Who had sent it? Why did they send it? Harry did not have friends. Surely, it was not a birthday party invitation or a polite update on the wellbeing of an accomplice. No, this was an entirely foreign letter, both in origin and in purpose. Sparing a glance at the clock, Harry realized it was already 5:45. He would need to hurry with breakfast preparations. Quickly stuffing the odd letter into the waistband of his tattered jeans, Harry put on the kettle and began to prepare breakfast.

At precisely 6:17, Vernon Dursley stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, sparing no thanks to the boy who prepared his meal as he plopped himself into his chair. "What are you doing standing there, boy? Serve me," the vile creature spat. Harry repeated the memorized lines of Ender's Game to keep himself calm, knowing what was in store for him.

"Ender sat in a corner of the battleroom, his arm hooked through a hand-hold, watching Bean practice with his squad" (Card 202).

"Yes, sir," Harry quietly replied, knowing better than to look into the face of his relative lest he be on the receiving end of the belt currently threatening to slip off Vernon's abnormally large waist. Moving swiftly, Harry wordlessly poured the steaming tea into an overly fancy mug and set it in front of his uncle. After one particularly hard-learned lesson, Harry knew better than to pause in serving the food. With no hesitation, Harry served Vernon with two slices of buttered toast, three fried eggs-slightly underdone just as Vernon liked them-, two crispy pieces of bacon, and three overdone sausages-exactly to Vernon's taste. Despite the perfection of the meal, Vernon's hand unsurprisingly found its way to Harry's face in a load backhand, just as Harry knew it would.

"Boy," Vernon grunted, "why have you only given me three sausages?" Harry knew not to answer. "I wanted four."

"Yesterday they had worked on attacks without guns, disarming enemies with their feet" (Card 202).

"Yes, sir," Harry responded respectfully, eyes still not meeting Vernon's as he served another sausage. It was the same every day, odd letter or no. Just like every day, Aunt Petunia stomped gracelessly into the kitchen at 6:30, promptly followed by a miserable-looking Dudley.

"Mummy," Dudley whined, "can't the freak just stay in the cupboard?" Petunia, just like every day, smiled sickeningly at her son, though her face still scrunched up as if she had smelled something rancid.

"No, Duddikins, the freak has to cook us breakfast. But he can leave now," she spat the last part pointedly at Harry, who quickly took his leave without sparing even a glance at the meal he knew he couldn't have.

"Ender had helped them with some techniques from gravity personal combat-many things had to be changed, but inertia in flight was a tool that could be used against the enemy as easy in nullo as in Earth gravity" (Card 202).

Harry sighed. If only he could just enter null gravity as well, he could float away from the Dursleys and learn space combat and attend Battle School and join Dragon Army and... Harry's thoughts trailed off. Ender was a fictional character in a fictional world. It would not do for Harry to want the things he knew he would never get. Instead of reciting Ender's Game to put his thought in order, Harry recited pi.

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481 117450284102701938521...

From the quiet darkness of his cupboard, Harry silently retrieved the mystery letter from his jeans. He had no light in which to read the words, but a strange excitement filled him just from touching the object of his curiosity. After laboring in the Dursleys house, completing his chores under Petunia's unforgiving scrutiny, Harry finally could read the letter.

Grasping the torch which he kept stored beside his pitiful excuse for a mattress-he had placed the torch there months ago due to his irrational fear of the darkness-Harry flicked on the light and broke the seal of the letter.

He took barely a second to peruse the words splattered in fancy handwriting on the parchment, storing the lines in his vast memory and processing the information. The letter read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress.

Well, that was certainly quite an invitation. Harry was unsure what to make of it, and thus proceeded as he always did when he was uncertain. First, he assessed his situation and considered his options. In this case, he analyzed the document in his hands, particularly its legitimacy.

Whoever sent it-Minerva McGonagall apparently-obviously knew his name. How, he didn't know, but the point was moot. He decided he would question the "hows" later and would instead focus on the "whats" and "whys" first. The biggest question in Harry's mind was the school. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That certainly made a statement. Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Apart from the stirs over witches in the 17th century, prominently the Salem Witch Trials, Harry was unaware of common witch practice. Obviously, he knew that there were those who believed unfoundedly in magic and "practiced witchcraft" in their spare time, but Harry did not believe in that. He did not believe that burning candles in a pentagram would summon spirits. He did not believe that any force of man could change fate. He did not believe in anything that could not be supported by irrefutable science. Certainly, witchcraft was not irrefutable science. Besides that, Harry was positive that he, himself, did not practice magic and he had no intention of beginning, even if such a thing existed. Which is didn't. Therefore, this letter must be faulty.

Still, foolishly, Harry held onto some kind of childish hope and continued his analysis. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry was not blind to the lack of mention of price, which was always a sure sign that it was expensive. It was an advertising trick: interest the customer so much so that, when the monumental price is named, it is of little importance. Therefore, the school was either expensive or nonexistent. Harry assumed the latter.

As the letter stated, a list of necessary items indeed was included. However, the necessary equipment and books were ridiculous. The uniform included Halloween attire: black robes, a pointed hat, and "dragon hide" gloves-all of which would make him look like a fictional character stepping straight out of a Tim Burton movie. None of the required books included any classic literature, or even remote literature.

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore, Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Schamander, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble.

Harry did not have the faintest clue what drugs were involved in the formulation of this list-this letter even-but whatever they were, if drugs did not scramble thought and immobilize functional brain activity, Harry would already be researching where to find them. Honestly, the only one on the list that could possibly be real was Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them because beasts actually did exist. Magic did not. Transfiguration, Harry assumed, was close enough to alchemy to be possible, but even true alchemy was a myth.

Harry decided to move on. A thorough investigation of all possible intentions of this letter was in order. Thus, he recounted the "other equipment" that this alleged school required.

One wand, one cauldron (pewter, standard size 2), one set of glass or crystal phials, one telescope, one set of brass scales, and a cat or a toad or an owl.

Harry didn't even know where to start with how ridiculous this list was. A wand, which Harry assumed would be for casting "spells", was unnecessary because Harry could not perform magic. Magic was not real. Harry reasoned that the cauldron would be for brewing "magical potions" with pixie dust and tea leaves, but it was the pewter that caught Harry's attention. Harry was well familiar with chemistry and was fascinated with metals and materials. Pewter was a metal alloy, consisting of copper, antimony, and tin, though prior to the mid-1700s when they discovered the health and tarnishing hazards, lead was also a component. Tin, which makes up roughly 92% of pewter, creates the malleability while the copper and antimony add strength and durability. That was not the interesting part about pewter. It stuck Harry as one of the oddest materials for a cauldron-assumed to be for brewing something-because pewter has a rather low melting point. For the standard cauldron of first year students, this could prove hazardous for those less educated on the properties of pewter. Harry supposed the somewhat poor choice of cauldron had something to do with the potential chemical interferences with the "potion" ingredients. Perhaps a more durable metal, such as steel, would react differently with different components.

This was, of course, under the assumption that this farce letter was not sent by an inept idiot unfamiliar with the curious information it contained.

The rest of the materials did nothing to intrigue Harry, though the pet owl was interesting. It references back to the letter, which read that the response was to be owled. Perhaps a trained owl was to perform delivery services, though Harry doubted that. In fact, he doubted that an owl could be so well trained.

So brought Harry to his next observation. The expectation for a response was only seven days away, and Harry knew he would need longer than that to ponder whether or not he would attend this... whatever it was.

It was probably just a ploy to rob parents of their money while blaming it on someone else. Something like Santa Claus.

Harry decided that, whatever this school/insane asylum/drug dealer wanted, he would not partake. He had no desire to be implicated in a scam to steal the Dursleys' money. He hated to think of the repercussions; it was doubtful he would ever walk again. No.

Harry Potter would not be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.