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

Guys, I'm back!

I have bad and good news.

Bad: This story isn't going anywhere. I'm sorry... but I'm discontinuing it.

BUT, here's the GOOD NEWS: I'm actually going to re-write it. Sort of. It's going to have the same theme and plot line-ish thing. But it'll be different. But still similar.

Below, I have the first chapter for the re-write. I'm going to be posting it as a separate story with the same title and cover, except it'll be called "Don't Pull a Potter 2.0" yeah I know, I'm so original ;)

I hope this re-write will be better than the original so read the first chapter and tell me whether or not I should continue!

THANKS -Not fully edited-

Harry Potter has never had trouble keeping track of time.

Even back then: when he was trapped in the cupboard.

Most people would eventually lose track of time, the days would meld together, the years would fly by.

But not Harry.

Ever since he could remember, there was always that pressure.

It wasn't painful, but it wasn't comfortable either.

Every night at exactly nine fifty three, the pressure would disappear and an unpleasant prickly sensation would wash over his body. Then it was over. Exactly three hours after that, the pressure would appear again and it would slowly increase until it was once again nine fifty three at night.

That was how Harry was able to tell the days apart. It especially came in handy when his darling guardians decide to lock him away for a few days in a row.

When he was four, that cycle was broken.

It was after his uncle yelled at him and then proceeded to shove him roughly into the confined space. This occurrence had happened many times in the past; however, what truly set it apart from others was the fact that his uncle had attempted to lash out at him with his fists, Harry was only spared by his aunt's interference.

The raven haired boy was now curled up on his cot in his cupboard. His face was wet from the tears escaping his closed eyes and his small body shook with fear. He could feel the pressure building up rapidly, suddenly the unpleasantness washed over him,.

Harry gasped.

He was confused.

It was the wrong time.

Something had changed.

Change.

That was the turning point. That day Harry very nearly received his first beating at his uncle's hands. It was only his aunt's presence that had saved him.

Never again. The little boy vowed. Never again will I unwillingly be at the mercy of others. Never again will I experience this fear.

That was the day that Harry discovered how to harness the pressure.

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 engrossed in the newspaper.

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

The six year old raised an eyebrow as they cautiously turned to face him.

"Potter." Aunt Petunia said as her light blue eyes darted around the room nervously.

"W-what do you want?" Uncle Vernon asked, his newspaper now forgotten.

The boy gave a casual one shouldered shrug, "Where's Dudley?"

Aunt Petunia's face turned pasty white while her husband's turned purple.

"N-now see here boy!" Uncle Vernon said with false bravado though his fingers trembled slightly.

Harry cocked his head to the side and smiled at his guardians angelically, "No need to worry Uncle, I just want to play. But if he's busy, then I would like an apple please."

Aunt Petunia grabbed an apple off the counter and handed it to him, she flinched when her hand came in contact with her nephew's and felt the unnaturalness shoot through her arm.

"Thank you Aunt Petunia." Taking the apple in his small hands, Harry turned away from his relatives. None of them noticed a small satisfied smile tugging at the corner of 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 hadn't been particularly hard to convince the Dursleys to buy him a new bed. All he had to do was tilt his head to the side and smile sweetly at them as he carefully released some of the pressure and allowed the dull ache to lessen.

Briefly Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he should really be doing this. He knew that bullying was wrong, that was after all the one of the first things he had been taught in preschool. But if Harry one day stopped releasing the pressure, there was no telling what's going to happen to him: his relatives might revert to their ways from back then or he would do something- either way Harry would end up severely injured or dead.

Neither is going to happen. Harry promised himself.

When Harry was eight, his Uncle Vernon started enrolling Dudley into mixed martial arts classes at a professional place called Defense Studio. At first Harry had been indifferent about the whole thing, the studio soon faded to the back of his mind after Dudley had complained and quit after only spending a month there. It all changed after a nasty run in with a bunch older bullies. Harry realized that some people are just too stupid to notice the effects caused when the pressure is released. Sometimes you just have to do things the old fashioned way. If Harry was to avoid trouble, he needed to know how to fight. He needed Defense Studio.

A month after that revelation, Harry smothered a pleased smile as he confidently strode into a large matted room in Defense Studio. He wrinkled his nose when his senses were overloaded by the smell of sweat and… blood?

I hope I made the right choice… Harry thought as his skeptical eyes scanned the room.

When Harry was nine, he started spending more and more time reading in the library. It's not that he didn't read in the past, it's just that he found himself gravitating towards the place when he had time off from school, homework, and the studio.

After setting his Aunt and Uncle down in the living room sofa, Harry proceeded to give a long lecture about why it is in their best interest to allow him to have a library card. The best part? Harry didn't even have resort to releasing the pressure.

Then again, the pressure and the pain had been increasing as the years passed... it was quite worrisome.

A week before Harry's eleventh birthday, he had gotten out of bed at seven o'clock sharp as 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 outdoors under the sun caused his teeth to look whiter than it is. His body bears some scars acquired during the past three years of fighting. 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 parents, his father's family had all been cursed with terrible eyesight for 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 in a fight.

Stepping back, Harry traced the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead with a single finger. It wasn't particularly special since Harry had more scars than was usual for an eleven year old due to how often he was at the studio. But it was strange how Harry couldn't remember where this one came from. He's had the strangely shaped scar ever since he could remember, it was like the pressure: there ever since he could remember.

Toweling his hair dry, he grimaced when he looked up into the mirror and discovered that his hair looks 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 of the 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 few 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 to 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 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 was hailed a hero even before he could walk properly, how did this even happen? Minerva asked herself.

Harry ran his hand over the holly phoenix tail feather wand he had gotten today. His wand. He was a wizard. A bright genuine smile spread across his face as he sank into his bed. He couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts and learn magic and have fun and get to know his parents' past and…. and…

The boy-who-lived. He was the boy-who-lived. Well, according to the two professors and the witches and wizards he had met at Diagon Alley today. Harry's enthusiasm seeped away from his body as he thought about what he had learned today. A Dark Lord had murdered his parents. The very same Dark Lord had tried to murder him. But… failed.

What was he supposed to do? This world, well it certainly wasn't as appealing as it had been two minutes ago.

The logical, survivor part of him is screaming at him to not go. Stay here.

But the other part of Harry, the part that enjoys the adrenaline rush he gets before every junior MMA tournament*, the part that had steadily worked through all the books in the library, the part that had felt icy fury when it was revealed that his parents were murdered, this part of Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts.

But everything's too chaotic. The expectations, the fame, the crazy murderer after him… the crazy murderer that Harry very much wanted to take action against.

Harry reached up and traced his lightning bolt scar, this marked the attempt on his life. This marked the deaths of his parents. If it weren't for that evil person his parents would still be alive. He wouldn't be with the Dursleys.

Anger. Fear. Hate.

Pressure. Pain. Snap.

Harry cried out when his body exploded in pain. He collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling, panting slightly. He turned his head to the side and felt his eyes widen with horror. His once tidy room looked like a warzone. Never before had this pressure, -his magic- Harry realized suddenly, lashed out so strongly.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed out slowly… if he goes he would be swamped with fame, fans, and most likely people that wanted to kill him. If he goes, he might possibly die –the professors had said the psychopath had been vanquished by him, but Harry had caught the wary glances the two professors exchanged-.

If he didn't go he will die. Harry wasn't stupid; he knew that feeling building pressure that eventually becomes pain wasn't normal. It was magic. The pressure and the pain that comes with it had started to become more intense and more frequent as he became older. The damage caused by all this was becoming more and more powerful, he couldn't control it anymore. His messy bedroom was proof of that.

If Harry was to ever find a cure he'll need to go.

He needs time to find a cure. Time to learn as much as he could. And if possible, time to extract revenge.

He needs a plan to stay out of the spotlight.

Rules.

It will give him the time he needs. It might work…

"The weak is ignored, the weak is overlooked." Those were the rules.

Harry has decided.

And so it begins…

Go to "Don't Pull a Potter 2.0" to continue following this story!

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