I had this saved on my computer for a while and decided to upload it to see if anyone's interested. I'll add more chapters if people like this idea.

At six years old, Harry Potter knew about warriors of old who fought bravely in battle against remarkable odds. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that every young boy (even Harry's moronic cousin Dudley) can recite at least half a dozen such stories verbatim. Whether these tales are told to them by their parents, seen on the telly, or read from a book, the result is the same. Every little boy, no matter how meek and mild-mannered, will at some point glory in the thrill of a fight.

Despite, or perhaps because of, his young age and slender physique, Harry had more opportunities than most to get into fights. From his aunt's and uncle's version of discipline to Dudley's bullying and his schoolmates' roughhousing, Harry had perhaps been in more fights than some of the figures in his stories. When he was little, he would stand meekly and allow himself to be beaten. However, hearing so many stories about great and heroic fighters eventually took their toll. By the time he started school, Harry delighted in fighting back. True, he did not always win his fights. He was weak and undernourished, fighting against well-fed bullies. However, he was agile and quick, and he had a dexterity honed from so many years of striving to do chores to his aunt's satisfaction. This allowed him to get in quite a few lucky hits. After years of being hit himself, Harry knew which specific points to aim at in order to cause maximum pain.

Harry dreamed of being a warrior. Warriors needed discipline, didn't they? That was in every good fighting story he had ever heard. So, he used the battles that cropped up during his daily life to train his body and gain discipline. Young Harry was not quite clear on what discipline was. He gained a vague notion from the "discipline" given to him by his aunt and uncle, plus the more moralistic battle stories that "discipline" meant going without something you wanted, like food or toys. Though why on earth a warrior would want to go without when he could easily fight to get what he wanted was beyond Harry. Still, he liked to think that his body was getting stronger with each fight.

It was a holiday from school, and Dudley was spending the day at a friend's house. Harry had no friends (none of the neighborhood mothers wanted her children playing with that violent nutjob Harry Potter), so he was staying in his cupboard, attempting to read the story of Hercules. It would have been a peaceful, ordinary day had Vernon not forgotten his lunch at home. Petunia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. If she hurried, she could bring her husband his lunch before he started getting hungry. Of course, she had to make extra arrangements for that awful Potter boy...

A quick, unanswered phone call led to the conclusion that old Mrs. Figg, who usually babysat Harry, was not at home. So, he would have to come with her. She only hoped that he didn't blow anything up or embarrass the family too much while they were in the building. It should be a quick trip, but Potter hardly needed any time at all to ruin something with his freakishness. Ah, well, best to get it over with.

She unlocked her nephew's cupboard door and briskly ordered the boy to make himself presentable and to be ready in five minutes, no excuses. "Making himself presentable" meant covering up his injuries that he got from fighting with, well, everyone. Warriors were normally proud of their battle scars, as Harry understood it. They would show them off when they got home from battle, telling long, involved stories about how they got them. Harry himself had quite a few scars and bruises, which his aunt always insisted that he keep covered when he went into public. As an act of defiance, though, he never covered up the scar on his forehead. He was immensely proud of this scar, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning. It was the only injury he had which he could not remember how he had gotten. His aunt and uncle tried to avoid looking at it, much less talking about it. If he wanted to go out with that particular injury uncovered, they would happily pretend it did not exist, provided he wasn't stupid enough to ask questions about it.

Harry quickly put on a turtleneck that was much too big for him and a pair of extremely baggy jeans, both hand-me-downs from his cousin Dudley, and hurried out into the living room. Aunt Petunia gave a disapproving sniff, her usual reaction upon seeing her nephew, and cuffed the boy around the ear, warning him not to make trouble. Harry merely scowled. He didn't make trouble. Trouble usually jumped out at him.

It was a quick trip to Grunnings, where Vernon Dursley worked. Petunia dutifully handed Vernon his lunch with a quick peck on the cheek. She was about to leave, dragging Harry quickly along with her before too many people spotted him and guessed that they were related, but her exit was interrupted by Vernon's secretary. "This yours, Mister Dursley?" She asked curtly, putting a piece of paper on Vernon's desk. "I found it in the copier."

Vernon glanced at the paper, and his eyes widened in shock. He began reading the list, his lips moving silently as he scanned each line. His face turned red, then purple, with fury.

"No, this is not mine! Do I look like a nutcase to you?" Vernon screamed, his mustache quivering with indignation as his loud voice echoed across the office. Harry thought that his uncle looked somewhat less-than-sane, and, judging by the secretary's expression, she agreed with this assessment. Petunia looked curiously over her husband's shoulder to read what had gotten Vernon so upset. Her icy blue eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips, certain that her freakish nephew had something to do with this. Her well-manicured fingers dug deeply into Harry's shoulder, promising punishment when they got home. Harry stood on tiptoe, cocking his head to see what was on the paper that had gotten his aunt and uncle so upset. His determination to read more fighting stories combined with the fact that he was rarely allowed to watch TV and never told stories had made him an advanced reader. He was able to scan the whole note before his uncle angrily crumbled it up and threw it in his wastebasket. The note read:

"Bringing the required items does not guarantee admission to training, but no applicant will be considered unless he arrives with the following items and exactly five-hundred pounds cash for personal burial money. This money must always be carried in the student's shoe so that if the student is ever killed, his death will not be a burden on Project Mayhem. In addition, the applicant has to arrive with the following:

Two black shirts

Two black pairs of trousers

One pair of heavy black shoes

Two pairs of black socks and two pairs of plain underwear

One heavy black coat

This includes the clothes the applicant has on his back.

One white towel

One army surplus mattress

One white plastic mixing bowl"

Vernon continued to rant about lunatics, morons, and ineffective administrative assistants as the secretary edged her way out of the office. Petunia nodded along supportively as she mentally wrote out her grocery list... must remember to pick up more crisps; we really run through those fast, don't we? Oh, yes and prunes. Nobody noticed Harry swiftly ducking down to grab the discarded paper out of the wastebasket and slipping it into the roomy pocket of this jeans.

"It probably belongs to Crazy Jack," Vernon said, finally finishing his rant. "That man's a complete and utter lunatic. He has the office right across from mine, though not for long." Vernon grinned nastily. "Everyone knows he's going to be sacked soon. Good riddance, I say."

As Aunt Petunia dragged him by the hand out of his uncle's office and towards the exit, Harry risked a glance towards the office across from his uncle's. The door was open a crack, but he could not see anything out of the ordinary, merely a tired looking man doing something with his computer. The man happened to glance out in the hallway, and Harry stifled a gasp when he saw that the man's face was covered with bruises, scrapes, and scars. He looked like he barely survived some sort of horrific battle. When the man's eyes found Harry's, he gave the boy what could only be described as a cheeky grin. Aunt Petunia pulled impatiently at Harry's hand, tugging him along. Harry raised his other hand and gave Jack a very small wave.

For reasons Harry did not fully understand, he was sent to his cupboard for a week when he and his aunt arrived home. Normally, he would have put up a fight, but today, his mind was elsewhere, focused on Project Mayhem. It sounded like a place where he could train to be a warrior. However, the note didn't have an address. Where was he supposed to report for training? He decided to make his way to Grunnings and hide out there until the man named Jack left. He would follow Jack wherever he went after work. If it was the same place Jack got all those injuries, Harry would know that he had found the right spot. Back in the real world, Harry's silence caused no amount of smugness from his aunt, who was convinced that her discipline technique was finally working and that she would have a perfectly docile nephew in no time. Little did she know that Harry was hatching a plan.

Harry tore through his messy cupboard, looking for the required supplies. He slipped on one of Dudley's old black shirts and a pair of worn-out black pants. He found another black shirt and pair of black pants and folded them up neatly in a clean corner of his cupboard. The mattress that Harry had been using as a bed all his life was rolled up and placed into the corner. The heavy black coat was harder to find, but Harry uncovered a box of moth-eaten old clothes for Winter. He found a heavy black coat that looked too big even for Dudley. It might have once fit Uncle Vernon back when he was more athletic. He also found a pair of heavy black boots that had once belonged to Dudley. Dudley had never done anything that would require the use of such durable footwear; he had merely seen them in a sports store and demanded them because he thought they looked "Cool." As with most things that Dudley just had to have, his interest in the boots faded even before he had broken in the new shoes. Now, they were shoved into the box, forgotten, and stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs. They were still about two sizes too big for Harry, but he remedied this by crumbling up a few pieces of paper and wedging them into the toes of the boots. This way, he could walk, run, and fight in them without them falling off. They weren't very comfortable, but he would get used to that. This Project Mayhem thing was well worth it.

Harry sat against the door of his cupboard, too anxious to even try to read the rest of the story he had started this morning. Instead, he merely stared at the bootlaces of his newly acquired shoes, trying to imagine what Project Mayhem would be like. Finally, he heard the sound he was waiting for: the front door opened and closed as Aunt Petunia left the house to pick up Dudley. Harry waited a minute in order to ensure that his aunt was too far away from the house to hear anything.

Harry had recently gone through a stage where all he could think about was Karate. He would read all the books he could find about Karate and spend every spare moment practicing the techniques. At first, he would practice punching and kicking the air, then, he would incorporate these moves when he was defending himself. When these techniques proved to be successful, he moved on to breaking apart boards of scrap wood he had found in Uncle Vernon's rarely used workshop. Eventually, he had broken every board he could find into tiny, unusable pieces. He was just staring at the pile of wood chips he created, wondering where he could find some new boards when, suddenly, the pieces hovered in the air as though swept up by a sudden wind. They began to drift back to the ground, but before they hit the floor, they repaired themselves, looking exactly as they had before Harry had broken them. Harry stared, wide-eyed at the newly repaired boards. He prodded them experimentally with his big toe. Completely solid. Ever since then, Harry found that he had a special, unexplainable gift when it came to fixing things. For simple things, like repairing broken boards, he simply had to focus on an image of how he wanted them to look, dedicated his entire mind to forming the image in his head, and the boards would be repaired. The process grew simpler with practice until Harry could do it instantaneously. To fix more complicated items, such as Dudley's old, crushed Walkman that had been discarded in his cupboard, Harry could focus in the same way to make the outside of the object look repaired, but the Walkman still wouldn't work. To make it work, Harry had to take it apart, discover what was broken, and fix it. For this, Harry "borrowed" extensively from Uncle Vernon's unused toolkits, and hoarded them in his cupboard. He pored over Fix-It guides and books about mechanics as rigorously as he studied his action stories. Soon, he was able to fix more complex objects such as Dudley's television when he put his foot through the screen or Uncle Vernon's car when it broke down, though neither of them knew who the mysterious repairman was.

Now, he was ready to put his hard-earned knowledge to good use.

He raised one booted foot and kicked at the door of his cupboard. The wood shattered, and a hole large enough for Harry to walk through appeared. Without wasting any time, he , stuffed the extra shirt, pants, and underwear and the rolled-up mattress into an ancient, moldy duffel bag that the Dursleys had stored in his cupboard. He hesitated a moment. Most of his possessions were either stolen or discarded items, but it hurt that he would never see any of his favorite things again: his storybooks, the toy soldiers he had nicked from Dudley, the tools that had once belonged to his uncle. Still, in a lot of the stories he read, the hero had to put aside childish things in order to fulfill his destiny. This was what he was doing now. He was growing up.

On the other hand... the tools, at least, could prove useful even though they were not on the list of required supplies. It would not hurt to pack those as well. Fixing and building things was a useful skill, and even though Harry had a natural gift for it, it did not come by magic. To repair anything complicated, he needed his tools. So, without another thought, Harry bent down, grabbed all his tools, and added them to his duffel bag.

With the bag slung over his shoulder, Harry leapt through the hole he had made in his cupboard door. A quick look over his shoulder caused the broken twigs of wood that littered the Dursleys' otherwise immaculate living room carpet to hover in the air momentarily before attaching themselves to the door. He usually got locked into his cupboard for a week at a time, give or take a couple of days. They would never know he was missing until he was long gone.

Harry hurried to the kitchen and dug through one of the cupboards, trying to rummage through as neatly as possible, remembering his aunt's sharp eye for untidiness and her penchant for blaming him for anything that appeared to be out of place. Harry quickly grabbed a white plastic mixing bowl and stuffed it into his duffel bag. Then, he hurried upstairs to Uncle Vernon's study, knowing that room would be the most likely place his uncle would keep his money. Sure enough, Harry found a couple hundred pounds hidden at the bottom of some paperwork in the bottom drawer of Vernon's desk. He counted out 500 pounds and stuffed them in his right shoe. Then, he grabbed a few extra bills to use as cab fare and stuffed those in the pocket of his baggy jeans. Now, he was ready for an adventure.

A/N: So, what do you think? I like the idea of combining Harry Potter and Fight Club, but this is my first real crossover. If you like HP/Fight Club fics, check out Mischief, Mayhem, Magic (in which one year-old Harry walks off the Dursleys' doorstep and is found and raised by Tyler Durden.

Fair warning if you wish to read MMM: Fight Club and Tyler Durden not exactly canon at this point. This is mainly because Harry is still a baby in the story. A canon Fight Club and Tyler Durden would result in a dead baby. However, Tyler will act more in character as time goes on.