Daddy's Got a Gun

All was well in the peaceful, normal suburb of Little Whinging, and all were enjoying the summer holidays. All save one, that is. This boy, perhaps a man, never enjoyed his summer's, but this one was worse than most. He had just lost the closest person to a father he had ever known. And he believed it was his fault. Many had tried to tell him differently, but he didn't listen.

Yeah, that is a problem of mine. I never listen. Maybe if I did, Sirius would still be alive. Hermione tried to tell me it was a trap, but did I listen? No...

Lost in thoughts such as these, Harry Potter was staring out the window from the smallest bedroom of Number 4. He took solace in the rain that fell, as it reflected the bleakness of his soul.

"Boy, get down here and set the table for dinner. Your Aunt has cooked a wonderful roast, and we are allowing you to partake out of the goodness of our hearts. So do your share, or you won't get any." Uncle Vernon bellowed up the stairs.

Hey, looks like Moody's threat actually worked, I'm actually going to get fed this time...

Harry slowly ambled his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, and set the table for four people. His Aunt had just pulled out a surprisingly well cooked meal and prepared to serve it. Harry took only a little bit of the food, seeing as he wasn't really hungry. He had lost his appetite after the Department of Mystery's escapade. He was pulled out of his morose thoughts by the sharp voice of his Aunt.

"I'm sorry Aunt Petunia, could you repeat that?"

Petunia huffed, as if repeating herself was a terrible affront. "I said, is there any danger from that Voldethingy man, the one who killed your parents. I heard that he came back and is looking for you. Are we in danger because of you?"

Harry, in his noble and self-sacrificing way, believed that everyone associated with him ran the risk of dieing and he was responsible for it. So he answered "Most likely. He's tries to kill me every time he gets the chance, and people who are near me usually get hurt." Harry's tone was so matter of fact, not to mention unemotional, that even Vernon noticed it.

"So, this is how you repay us for our kindness of letting you live here, giving you food off of our table, by bringing a murdering terrorist down on our heads. I won't stand for it! Get out of our house, get out!" By the end of this, Vernon's faced had reached a dangerous red.

"If you did try and throw me out, the Headmaster of my school would probably stuff me back in here with you, and use his...freakishness...on you to make sure that I stayed. You don't want that, I don't want that, so it looks like I have to stay."

Silence met this statement, and the silence continued for some time, only interrupted by the clinking of silverware and plates, and the sound of eating.

Harry, once again thinking, felt that he had to help his 'family' in whatever way he could, so he said "You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea if you guys got some guns or something. My kind die just the same if you put a bullet in their head."

Vernon stared at his nephew, clearly thinking things through. True, his freaky nephew did make the suggestion, but it made sense. Practicality and hate warred in his tiny brain, until the safety of his family won out.

"Dudders, what kind of gun do you want? I've got my fathers old 12 gauge, and you need something to defend the family."

"I want a desert eagle, that's a gun that a real man uses."

Seeing as the Dursley's had taken his advice, Harry made his way up to his room, where he eventually fell asleep, and dreamed of fluttering curtains and haunting voices.

1 WEEK LATER

Harry was, once again, staring out the window of his bedroom. It was very late at night, about four in the morning, but he was still up. He had been thinking about death, and killing, and had recently reached an epiphany. He could kill someone, and enemy, and it didn't effect him a lot. He had read about how people mourned and cried when they killed in battle, but he was pretty sure that didn't happen to him.

You wouldn't know it, but Harry had a lot of hate stored in his system. He hated his 'family', but he hated Voldemort and his Deatheaters a whole lot more. They had taken everything from him. His family, his friends, his future...

The weight of the prophecy on his shoulders, and with it, the whole world, and life had never been so bleak for Harry. Speaking of the prophecy, he didn't mind the fact that he had to kill, the snake faced bastard needed to be put down, and if Harry had to do it, then so be it. It wouldn't be the first time he killed someone.

Hell, he killed a man with his bare hands when he was only 11 years old. Did he care? Hell no. Harry snorted, he doubted he would have trouble killing his enemy's, they likely wouldn't either.

Harry gasped out loud when a burning sting of his scar was all the warning he had that a vision was coming.

He was standing in front of a sea of people, all robed in black with masks of white. He could smell their fear, but also their respect. How he loved what he did.

"Ah, Draco. Did you do perform the requisite rituals necessary to receive your mark?"

"Of course, master. I tortured and killed the needed five muggles, showing them the superiority of wizards."

"Good, good. You know that I can here through any of my followers marks, all Deatheaters know that. But did you know I can hide it? The mark is based off parseltongue, and only I can make it disappear. You will still have it, but that muggle loving fool of a Headmaster won't be able to see it. True, I won't be able to hear what other's around you say, but that is a necessary precaution. Come, receive my mark."

Draco walked forward, almost shaking with fear, but he held it in. Only through Leglimancy could he sense the overwhelming terror the boy felt. It was good to be on top.

"After this, we will attack the Potter brat. Lucius, get your best squad ready, we attack soon. I possess the boys blood, so the blood wards are of no matter to me. That boy has seen his last sunrise."

Raucous laughter met these words.

Harry gasped, he had to warn the Order. He couldn't a letter right now, because Hedwig was out, but he could hope. He grabbed a piece of nearby parchment, and shakily began to write.

Dear Order.

I want to thank you for getting me that exemption for underage magic, it allows me to practice so I can defend myself better.

I just received a scar vision, and the Deatheaters plan on attacking me soon. I don't know when, and I hope...

Harry's scare flared up once more, but it was a different kind of pain. The one made when the Dark Lord was physically near.

Harry swore as he grabbed his wand and stumbled down the hall to his Uncles room. He banged on the door, hoping his Uncle would get up.

"What? What the fuck is the meaning of waking me up at this blasted hour?" His Uncle quietly screamed, which was quite the accomplishment.

"Get your gun, we've got evil freaks on the front lawn."

His uncle seemed shocked, but began to get a move on, waddling over to his closet. Harry was already moving towards Dudley's room, and woke him up.

"Get up you fat piece of shit. Get your gun, some evil people are coming for me. They'll kill you if we don't get them first."

Harry ran back into his room, and wrote on the letter for the Order. It said "Shit. Tom's here"

Dudley started to move faster than he had ever before. Death threats do actually make him move, who would have thought it? Harry idly mused as he worked his way into the kitchen, and flipped over the table for cover. His uncle moved it into the hall, in front of the door, and hunkered down behind it, still clad in his night clothes. Dudley took up position on the stairs. Harry stood out in the open, hoping to draw fire towards himself.

With a swish of a cloak and a muted crack, Deatheaters began apparating onto the Dursley's lawn. There were ten of them, plus the Dark Lord himself. Voldemort snaked his way forward, calling out to Harry.

"Harry my boy, surely you can see that it is useless to resist? I can come through these oh so powerful blood wards, and your beloved old fool can't stop me. Join me, Harry, and we can rule the world together. Join me, and I'll spare all your friends."

Harry answered the only way he could "Shut the fuck up, you half blood freak."

Voldemort took offense for some reason, and ordered his servants to kill the boy. Lucius Malfoy lead to charge into the house. As soon as the door opened, Vernon stuck his head over the table, and a mammoth BOOM sounded through the night. His twelve gauge tore apart Lucius' chest, leaving a gaping whole filled with chunks of his body.

The Deatheaters, having quickly stopped charging through the door after that, began to rain down curses upon the three defenders. Harry quickly moved out of the way as a curse sizzled past him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as it passed. He could hear the cracking of Dudley's handgun and the booming of the twelve gauge as he dodged incoming hexes.

Thinking quickly, he summoned his Aunt's cutting knife collection from the counter top, and banished them at high speed towards a nearby foe. Rabastan Lestrange managed to deflect some of them, but there were just too many, too fast. He took a knife to the throat, and fell with a bloody gurgle.

Harry rolled under another curse, and put his back to a wall, hoping to take stock of the situation.

Alright, I only saw ten Deatheaters come in, plus Tom, and I've killed one, and there are four more dead bodies out there. We might actually survive this.

Just as that last thought worked it's way through his head, he saw something that would haunt his dreams. Voldemort summoned Uncle Vernon's table, and hit him with a cutting curse, right in the stomach. His uncle screamed and tried to put his entrails back inside himself.

Dudley let out a wounded howl when he saw his father dieing, and did something stupid and heroic. Dudley charged out the front door, taking several curses as he went, firing as quick as his pudgy fingers would allow. He killed one Deatheater before he fell, but also managed to nail Voldemort in the shoulder, who hissed in pain.

Harry took advantage of the lull in the fighting to banish the refrigerator at Bellatrix Lestrange, and hit her dead on, shattering most of the bones in her body.

Voldemort, seeing he had lost most of his attacking force, signaled for a retreat. The Deatheaters aimed one last curse at the Boy-Who-Lived, and disapparated. Harry got extremely unlucky when he dodged a severing hex, but it hit his wand, cutting it in two.

No time for that, I need to get out of here, in case they come back. Harry thought to himself. He was bleeding from several minor injuries, mostly caused by flying debris. He looked at his Uncle, the man who had forced him to live in a cupboard for ten long years, and took every chance he could to belittle him, dieing on the floor of his own house.

Harry knelt down next to him, and took his hand in his own. His uncle's squinted eyes looked back up at him, and he heard his uncle whisper one last thing to him.

"Kill all those freaks, boy. That's all I ask."

With those parting words, the pressure from his uncles grasp ended, and the light faded from his eyes. Harry stared at him for a few seconds, before he remembered his new purpose. He took up his uncle's shotgun, and began working his way out of the wreckage. He knelt by Dudley's cooling corpse, pausing only long enough to close his vacant eyes, and take his desert eagle. As he was leaving, he heard labored breathing coming from his left.

Harry worked his way over, and saw Bellatrix pinned under the fridge, evidently in a lot of pain.

"Aw, its ittle bittle baby Potter. What's the matter, scared of little old me? You don't have to guts to kill me, boy."

Harry looked down at the crazed women who had cost him his godfather, and placed his new shotgun against her forehead.

"This is for Sirius, bitch."

A deafening boom echoed through the still morning air, and brain matter was sprayed across the freshly mowed lawn. Harry Potter walked away from Number Four, leaving total destruction behind. Smoke rose from the mangled house, and water sprayed from a broken pipe.

Harry trudged his way and walked into a nearby forest, just as the sun rose above the horizon, giving the sky a blood tinged visage.