The night was dark and still in Little Whinging, a silence that almost seemed deliberate, as if the universe held its breath. Baby Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had just been placed on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive by Albus Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid. Their task complete, they vanished into the night, unaware that destiny had plans far different than they anticipated.
Not long after their departure, the low growl of an old truck rumbled down the narrow lane. Its headlights flickered through the thick fog, slicing through the gloom. The driver, Burt Cunningham, a wiry man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, gripped the wheel with the determination of a man who had seen too much. Beside him sat his wife, Maggie, a sturdy woman with a face hardened by the unforgiving life in the Appalachian Mountains, but eyes that still sparkled with a flicker of tenderness.
They had come to England for an unusual hunting trip, intent on tracking rare and elusive game. The trip was Burt's idea, a chance to venture into foreign lands, but Maggie had always had a soft spot for exploring different corners of the world, even if it was mostly wilderness. As they passed the prim, cookie-cutter houses of Privet Drive, Maggie's sharp eyes caught sight of something unusual on a doorstep. A small bundle wrapped in blankets.
"Burt, stop the truck," she said, her voice thick with the Appalachian drawl.
Burt grunted, slowing the truck to a halt. "What in tarnation…" he muttered, stepping out. Maggie followed him, moving with surprising grace for a woman of her stature.
The bundle on the doorstep wriggled slightly, and when Maggie pulled back the blanket, she gasped. There, nestled against the cold stone, was a baby with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
"Well, I'll be," Burt said, peering at the child. "Ain't nobody around to claim him?"
Maggie found the note left by Dumbledore and scanned it quickly. The words "danger," "protection," and "special boy" jumped out at her, but none of it seemed to matter. Her heart, hardened by years of living off the land, softened instantly at the sight of the infant's tiny face.
"They don't want him," Maggie said softly, cradling Harry in her arms. "We'll take him. A boy like this deserves a proper family."
Burt scratched his head, taking a quick glance at the note. "Sounds like he's got some kinda important business. You sure?"
Maggie's eyes glinted with a determination Burt had long learned not to question. "Burt, this child needs us. We're takin' him back to the hills, where he can grow up right."
And with that, the Cunningham truck roared back to life. Without a second thought, they whisked Harry Potter away from the suffocating streets of Little Whinging, bound for the rugged, wild terrain of the Appalachian Mountains.
As the truck disappeared into the fog, it wasn't just Harry Potter's fate that had changed. The entire wizarding world had just been altered forever.
Harry Potter's childhood in the Appalachian Mountains was as far from the world of wizards and magic as one could imagine. The Cunninghams raised him with no knowledge of his true heritage, and in the rugged hills, the only magic was the survival skills he learned from Burt and Maggie. Their cabin, tucked away in a remote part of the mountains, was as rustic as it gets. Creaky floorboards groaned underfoot, and every rainstorm turned the leaky roof into a symphony of drips and splashes. Despite the rough conditions, the cabin exuded warmth, always filled with the scent of woodsmoke and the sounds of critters rustling outside.
From an early age, Harry was taught to fend for himself. Burt believed that a boy should learn the ways of the land, and by the time Harry was six, he was already proficient with a rifle. Maggie, in turn, taught him the finer points of living off the land. He learned to skin rabbits, clean fish, and forage for food. She wasn't the nurturing type in the conventional sense, but there was a fierce protectiveness in her lessons. "This world don't owe you nothin'," she'd say, her voice as sharp as the knives she used to gut their dinner. "You take care of yourself, and you take care of your own."
By the time Harry turned eleven, he was already a crack shot. His prized possession was an old elephant gun, a family heirloom that had been passed down through Burt's ancestors. The gun was far too big for a boy his size, but Burt insisted Harry learn to handle it. "A man's gotta protect what's his," Burt would say, watching Harry with the kind of steely pride only a man of few words could muster.
Life in the Appalachian wilderness was tough, but it was honest. The days were filled with chores, hunting, and the kind of quiet isolation that most city folk would find suffocating. For Harry, it was all he knew. The wizarding world, with its magic and mysteries, was a far-off dream he didn't even know existed.
That all changed when the letters started arriving.
It began innocuously enough: a simple envelope, thick parchment with a strange seal, delivered by an owl. The Cunninghams weren't the kind to pay attention to anything that didn't come from the U.S. Postal Service, so the first few letters were tossed into the fire, dismissed as some bizarre prank. But the letters kept coming, each one more persistent than the last. Harry was intrigued, but Burt wasn't having any of it. "Ain't no one from the hills got time for this nonsense," he'd mutter, squinting at the wax-sealed envelopes.
Then, one day, an owl swooped down with a particularly insistent letter. The bird perched on their porch, hooting softly, as if daring them to ignore it. Burt, never one to tolerate intruders, grabbed the elephant gun and, with one clean shot, took the bird down. The letter fluttered to the ground, its contents forgotten as Harry dragged the bird off to be buried.
Harry thought that was the end of it. In his mind, whatever strange game was being played had run its course. Life in the mountains returned to normal—or as normal as it ever got. Until one blistering hot summer day, when a figure appeared on the horizon.
Hagrid's massive form seemed to materialize out of the heat haze, trudging up the steep hill toward their cabin. By the time he reached their porch, he was panting heavily, beads of sweat glistening in his wild beard. He knocked on the door, making it rattle in its frame. Maggie answered, eyes narrowing at the sight of the giant standing before her.
"I'm here to see Harry Potter," Hagrid said, his voice a deep rumble.
The Cunninghams weren't easily startled, but Hagrid's sheer size and presence threw them off balance. After some tense introductions, Hagrid explained the reason for his visit—Harry was no ordinary boy. He was a wizard, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been trying to reach him.
"Yer a wizard, Harry," Hagrid declared, wiping his brow.
Harry, sitting on the porch with his elephant gun propped against the wall, looked up from whittling a piece of wood. He wasn't sure if Hagrid was joking or if the man had simply lost his mind. The whole concept of magic seemed like something out of a fairy tale, not something that applied to him.
Burt, meanwhile, took a long drag of his tobacco pipe, spat into the dirt, and glared at the giant man who'd intruded on their quiet life. "Wizard or not," Burt drawled, "he's our boy. What's this school yer talkin' about?"
Hagrid tried his best to explain, but it was clear the Cunninghams weren't sold on the idea. They had no use for magic or the fanciful world Hagrid described. To them, life was simple: you worked hard, you protected your family, and you didn't bother with things that didn't put food on the table.
Eventually, after much back-and-forth, they agreed to let Harry go to Hogwarts—on one condition. "He's takin' his elephant gun," Burt said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Hagrid, wide-eyed, nodded, unsure of what he had gotten himself into. As he led Harry away from the cabin, Harry glanced back at the only home he had ever known, his fingers tightly gripping the massive gun slung over his shoulder.
When Harry arrived at Hogwarts, elephant gun slung over his shoulder, the reaction was immediate. The students, used to wands and robes, gawked at the sight of the massive firearm. Whispers spread like wildfire across the Great Hall. Harry, unfazed by the stares, marched in with the same calm demeanor he had when tracking game in the Appalachian wilderness.
It wasn't long before a freckle-faced redhead named Ron Weasley sidled up to him. "What's that for?" Ron asked, pointing at the enormous gun on Harry's back.
"Protection," Harry said with a shrug. "My pa says never to go anywhere without it."
Ron blinked, unsure of how to respond. "Right…"
Despite the initial shock, Harry quickly adapted to life at Hogwarts. The strange sights and sounds of the magical world were more curious than overwhelming to him. Whether it was ghosts floating through walls or enchanted staircases shifting unexpectedly, Harry took it all in stride. He wasn't much for wand-waving, though, and preferred to rely on what he knew best: a steady hand and his trusty elephant gun.
Not everyone took kindly to Harry's unconventional methods. Draco Malfoy, the spoiled Slytherin with a sneer plastered permanently on his face, tried to assert his usual dominance over the new boy. One day, in the hallway outside Potions class, Draco approached Harry, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
"Think you're special, do you, Potter? Walking around with that ridiculous contraption?" Draco sneered.
Harry, calm as ever, shifted the elephant gun on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "You wanna try me?" he asked, his tone almost lazy.
Malfoy, never one for real courage, quickly backed down. Even Crabbe and Goyle, who normally lumbered around like brainless oafs, knew better than to mess with someone armed with an elephant gun.
Classes, however, were a different story. While the other students focused on mastering charms and potions, Harry mostly kept to himself at the back of the room. He often spent his time tinkering with his gun, adjusting the sights or cleaning the barrel, much to the dismay of Professor McGonagall.
"Mr. Potter," she said sternly one afternoon in Transfiguration, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'd appreciate it if you would pay attention to your wandwork instead of that... weapon."
Harry gave her a respectful nod but didn't put the gun away. McGonagall, though frustrated, had to admit that Harry's focus on "alternative defense" showed a certain… pragmatism, even if it didn't follow conventional wizarding methods.
Then came the night of the troll.
While Hermione cowered in the girls' bathroom and Ron fumbled helplessly with his wand, Harry didn't hesitate. He aimed his gun with the same precision he had when hunting deer back home. One deafening shot later, the troll crumpled to the floor, dead before it hit the ground. The entire school was stunned.
"Handled," Harry muttered, wiping the barrel clean.
From that moment on, Harry's reputation was sealed. He was the boy who brought a gun to a wand fight.
But even with his newfound fame, there were whispers of something darker happening within the castle. One day, Harry overheard some older students talking in hushed tones near the Gryffindor common room.
"Did you hear?" one of them said. "Professor Quirrell's been arrested. Something about trying to steal a magical artifact from the third floor."
"I heard he was found stuck in front of a mirror," another added, lowering their voice. "And... they say You-Know-Who was involved."
Harry didn't know who "You-Know-Who" was, but he filed it away. Professor Quirrell had always been strange, what with his nervous stuttering and constant sweating. But Harry didn't have time to dig into the rumors. He wasn't one for gossip. Besides, if anyone dangerous showed up, he figured his elephant gun would be more than enough to deal with them.
As the year wore on, Harry continued to navigate the strange world of magic in his own way. He wasn't the best at spellcasting, and he didn't care much for the usual Hogwarts drama. But when it came to solving problems with a no-nonsense approach and a gun, Harry was unmatched.
By the time Harry's second year rolled around, things had settled into a strange sort of normal for him at Hogwarts. The other students had learned quickly: no one messed with Harry Potter, not even the older Slytherins. His elephant gun slung over his shoulder acted as a constant reminder that Harry played by his own rules. He wasn't the type to get caught up in duels or wizarding rivalries. He solved problems the way he had learned in the Appalachian hills—swiftly and directly.
So when students began turning up petrified, Harry didn't waste time trying to solve the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets. Riddles, cryptic messages on the walls, and ancient prophecies weren't his style. While other students panicked, wondering if Hogwarts would close, Harry did what came naturally.
He went straight to Hagrid.
"You got any more of them big critters like that troll?" Harry asked, eyeing Hagrid's suspicious demeanor as they stood outside his hut.
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Er... yeh might say that. There's... somethin' bigger in the forest. Aragog."
"Good," Harry said, his expression unchanged. "I'll take care of it."
Hagrid tried to protest, muttering something about how Aragog was "friendly" and "wouldn't hurt nobody," but Harry had made up his mind. Armed with his elephant gun and a hunting knife Burt had given him years ago, Harry headed into the Forbidden Forest alone. The deeper he went, the thicker the canopy became, blocking out the daylight and turning the world into a tangle of shadows and sounds.
Soon enough, Harry found the giant spider lair. Aragog, the enormous Acromantula, skittered forward, its many eyes gleaming in the darkness. Harry didn't flinch.
"I don't much like spiders," he muttered, lifting his gun.
With a deafening bang, Harry fired. Aragog collapsed, legs twitching violently, but it was over in seconds. The rest of the spiders scurried back into the darkness, terrified of the boy who had just taken down their leader. Not one to waste an opportunity, Harry skinned the spider on the spot, deciding that a creature this big was worth a proper meal. Back at the castle that night, he roasted some of Aragog's meat over the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. It wasn't bad—tasted like tough chicken.
Meanwhile, the rest of the school was in a frenzy. More students were being petrified, and rumors of the Chamber of Secrets swirled wildly. Harry, however, didn't concern himself with the details. He figured whatever was behind the attacks couldn't be worse than the spiders he'd just hunted down.
One night, as he lay in his four-poster bed, Harry heard something strange—a voice echoing through the walls, hissing in a language he didn't understand. Most students would have been terrified, but Harry's instincts kicked in. It was a predator's call, something dark and dangerous.
He followed the voice, his feet moving quietly down the stone corridors. Eventually, the sound led him to the second-floor girls' bathroom—the one nobody used because it was supposedly haunted by Moaning Myrtle. Harry didn't hesitate. He pushed open the door, scanning the room. The hissing voice seemed to be coming from the sinks.
"Well, I'll be," Harry muttered, narrowing his eyes. "There's somethin' down there."
Without any hesitation, Harry aimed his elephant gun at the sink and fired. The porcelain shattered, revealing the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets—a large, gaping hole that led straight down.
"Looks like I'm goin' in," Harry said to himself as he slung the gun over his shoulder and slid down the opening.
He landed with a thud in the dark, damp chamber below. The smell of decay filled the air, and he could hear the slithering of something enormous nearby. Harry didn't need a wand or a spell to know what was waiting for him.
The basilisk.
As soon as the giant snake revealed itself, hissing and rearing up to strike, Harry raised his gun. There was no hesitation, no fear. He fired one clean shot straight into the basilisk's head. The massive creature dropped to the ground with a sickening thud, dead before it had a chance to do any damage.
With the snake dealt with, Harry glanced around. In the corner of the chamber, he saw the crumpled form of a young girl. She had red hair and looked vaguely familiar—probably one of Ron's sisters, though Harry hadn't really gotten to know her.
"Reckon she's been missin' for a while," Harry muttered, kneeling down beside her. She was unconscious but alive. Harry threw her over his shoulder and began the long trek back up to the surface, not particularly concerned with the details.
When he emerged from the Chamber, the professors were already gathering, their faces pale with shock.
"You found the Chamber? Defeated Slytherin's monster?" McGonagall gasped.
Harry shrugged. "Just doin' what needs doin'," he said simply, walking off to clean his gun and maybe finish off the last of the Aragog stew he had stashed away.
With the basilisk dead and the Chamber mystery solved, Hogwarts returned to its usual rhythm.
In Harry's third year at Hogwarts, things took a more complicated turn. For most students, the news of Sirius Black—the infamous murderer who had escaped from Azkaban—was cause for panic. Everyone whispered about how Black was likely coming to kill Harry, but Harry wasn't too worried. He figured if Black showed up, he'd handle it the way he handled everything else—with his gun. After all, he'd already dealt with trolls, giant spiders, and even a basilisk. One escaped convict didn't seem like much of a challenge.
As the school year wore on, the fear surrounding Sirius Black's escape grew. The Dementors stationed around the grounds, meant to protect the students, only added to the sense of dread. But Harry's focus remained sharp. His elephant gun was always within reach, and he kept a close eye on the comings and goings at Hogwarts, waiting for Black to make his move.
Sure enough, one cold night, Harry got the sense that something was about to happen. The air in the Gryffindor common room felt heavier, and the flickering firelight cast long shadows across the stone walls. Harry sat by the fireplace, his elephant gun resting casually across his lap, ready for anything.
It wasn't long before the door creaked open, and a tall, gaunt figure slipped inside. Sirius Black, with his wild hair and haunted eyes, stood frozen in the doorway. His robes were tattered, and he looked more like a hunted animal than a man. But Harry didn't flinch. He met Black's gaze, calm and steady.
"Lookin' for me?" Harry asked, raising the barrel of the elephant gun.
Sirius froze, his hands trembling slightly as he stared down the barrel. "Wait—Harry, I'm your godfather!"
Harry cocked his head, studying the man in front of him. "You tryin' to kill me or what?" he asked, his voice steady and low, as if asking whether someone wanted tea.
Sirius shook his head frantically. "No, no! I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to protect you! It's not what it looks like!"
For a moment, Harry didn't say anything. He was good at reading people—years of hunting with the Cunninghams had taught him to recognize when something was dangerous or when it was just scared. Black didn't look like a killer; he looked desperate. But Harry didn't lower his gun just yet.
"You got five minutes to explain," Harry said, not moving from his spot by the fire.
Sirius, still shaking, quickly began his story. He explained the truth about what had happened all those years ago: how he had been framed for the betrayal of Harry's parents, how Peter Pettigrew was the real traitor, and how he had spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. It was a wild tale, filled with betrayal, tragedy, and escape. By the time Sirius finished, Harry had lowered his gun slightly, though he still kept a firm grip on it.
As Sirius caught his breath, he glanced around the common room. His eyes fell on something—or rather, someone. Ron Weasley's pet rat, Scabbers, was scurrying across the floor, trying to get back to the safety of Ron's bed. Before Harry could register what was happening, Sirius lunged forward, snatching the rat up in one quick motion. The rat squeaked in terror, and Sirius gave it a long, intense look, his eyes filled with malice.
"Got you," Sirius muttered darkly under his breath, his grip on the rat tightening. Harry barely noticed; he didn't much care what Sirius was muttering about. As far as he was concerned, Black had earned the right to act a little strange after twelve years in Azkaban.
After a moment of glaring at the squirming rat, Sirius stuffed it into his tattered robes and stood up. "This rat's got some... unfinished business with me," he said vaguely, giving Scabbers one last evil look.
Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. He had his own priorities.
Harry considered the story for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "All right," he said. "I won't shoot you. But if you're lyin' to me…"
"I'm not," Sirius interrupted, relief flooding his face. "I swear, Harry, I'm telling the truth."
Harry stood up, shouldering his gun. "We gotta get you out of here before the Dementors catch up. Ain't no good for you or me if they find you here."
Sirius nodded gratefully, but before they could move, the distant howling of Dementors echoed through the cold night air. The dark, soul-sucking creatures were getting closer.
"Follow me," Harry said, taking charge. Sirius, despite being a grown man and a hardened fugitive, found himself obeying the twelve-year-old with the elephant gun as if his life depended on it—which, in truth, it probably did.
With the knowledge of secret passageways he'd picked up over the past few years, Harry led Sirius through the castle and out into the Forbidden Forest. The Dementors circled Hogwarts, but they didn't dare go deep into the woods. Once they were far enough from the castle, Harry stopped.
"You can't stay here," Harry said. "These woods'll swallow you up."
"I know a place," Sirius replied. "But it's not safe for me in Britain. I'll be hunted."
Harry considered this. "My folks'll take you in," he said, thinking of the Cunninghams back in the Appalachian Mountains. "They don't care much for the law or any of that wizard nonsense. You can lie low there."
Sirius blinked in surprise. "The Cunninghams?"
Harry nodded. "They're good people. Ain't much they can't handle. If you don't mind a hard life in the hills, they'll make sure you stay hidden."
Sirius smiled for the first time, the exhaustion and fear momentarily melting away. "I think I'd like that."
And so, Harry arranged for Sirius to be smuggled out of the country. With the help of Hagrid, who provided some discreet transportation (and a few questionable creatures for the journey), Sirius made his way to America. He found refuge with the Cunninghams, who took him in without question. Burt, never one to judge a man's past, figured anyone who could survive Azkaban had earned his respect. Maggie took a liking to Sirius too, and before long, Sirius had settled into the rough-and-tumble life of the Appalachian hills.
Back at Hogwarts, the professors remained baffled. The manhunt for Sirius Black continued in Britain, but the wizarding world never suspected that he was halfway across the world, living quietly with a family of mountain folk, safe from Dementors and the Ministry of Magic.
As for Harry, he never gave it much more thought. He had his own way of handling problems, and this was just another one taken care of. As always, he shrugged it off, adjusted the sights on his elephant gun, and moved on to whatever challenge came next.
In his fourth year, Harry found himself unwillingly thrust into the Triwizard Tournament. While most of the school buzzed with excitement, Harry rolled his eyes at the whole ordeal. Fancy wizards and their over-the-top competitions weren't his style. But rules were rules, and being bound by a magical contract meant he couldn't exactly skip it—even if he wanted to.
The first task was designed to be a terrifying spectacle: face a fire-breathing dragon. The Hungarian Horntail, to be exact. Harry, however, had faced worse in the Appalachian Mountains. A dragon might've been big and mean, but Harry had taken down plenty of wild, dangerous creatures before, with nothing but his elephant gun and a steady hand.
When the task began, the Horntail loomed over the arena, roaring and snapping its jaws. The other champions had been nervously strategizing about how to outwit or outfly the beast. Harry, on the other hand, was calm as ever. He pulled out his elephant gun, aimed with the precision Burt had drilled into him over the years, and fired two rounds straight into the dragon's chest.
The sound of the gun echoed across the stadium, and the crowd fell silent in stunned disbelief. The massive dragon teetered for a moment, its fiery breath sputtering before it collapsed to the ground, dead before it hit the dirt.
"Next?" Harry asked, slinging his gun over his shoulder and walking off without a second glance.
The audience was in shock. Professors muttered amongst themselves, unsure of how to even judge what had just happened. But Harry didn't care. It was just another day for him. A bigger lizard, sure, but nothing too special.
The second task—an underwater rescue involving mermaids—wasn't exactly up Harry's alley. Diving into a lake filled with magical creatures wasn't his idea of a good time, but he was a pragmatist. He brought along a spear gun, not trusting the little bubble-head charms everyone kept talking about. When the time came, Harry dove in and made short work of the mermaids who tried to stop him. They weren't nearly as dangerous as the wildlife back home, and he dispatched them easily enough, spear gun in hand.
By the time the third task rolled around—a maze filled with magical creatures and obstacles—Harry was getting bored. He trudged through the hedges, blasting anything that tried to stop him. Blast-Ended Skrewts? No problem. Enchanted vines? A quick shot from his elephant gun took care of that. He wasn't interested in the fancy magical solutions everyone else was using. To him, this was just target practice.
Eventually, Harry found himself at the center of the maze, face-to-face with Cedric Diggory. Both of them had reached the Triwizard Cup at the same time.
"Let's take it together," Cedric suggested, breathing heavily from the run.
Harry shrugged, indifferent. "Fine by me."
But the moment their hands touched the cup, they were whisked away in a swirl of magic, landing in a cold, eerie graveyard. The sudden shift didn't rattle Harry—he was used to sudden changes in terrain from his days hunting in the mountains. He scanned his surroundings with a practiced eye and immediately noticed the unsettling scene before him.
In the center of the graveyard, a cauldron bubbled ominously, and standing beside it was a man who looked oddly familiar. His face was twisted in concentration, and Harry couldn't quite place him at first—until he recognized the features. It was Barty Crouch Jr., disguised as their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Mad-Eye Moody, all year. But now, the disguise was faltering, and the truth was apparent.
Before Harry could react, his eyes fell on something even more grotesque: a small, twisted, almost inhuman creature—Voldemort, not yet fully restored, lying in a bundle of rags near the cauldron. His form was a disturbing half-life, a pale, sickly homunculus waiting to be reborn.
Crouch Jr. looked up, spotting Harry and Cedric, a manic grin spreading across his face. "You're just in time, Potter!" he sneered. "The Dark Lord will rise again, and you will witness it!"
Harry, never one for dramatic speeches, ignored Crouch's rambling. His focus went straight to the homunculus Voldemort.
"Another one of those fancy villains," he muttered, raising his elephant gun without hesitation. "Reckon this'll end quick."
With one swift, practiced motion, Harry aimed and fired. The homunculus Voldemort barely had time to twitch before the shot rang out. The small, deformed body jerked once and then went still, a dark silence falling over the graveyard.
Crouch Jr.'s face twisted into pure horror. His plan, years in the making, unraveled before his eyes. "No!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. He reached for his wand, but Harry, ever the hunter, was faster.
Before Crouch could make a move, Harry turned his gun on him. "Not today," Harry said coolly, and pulled the trigger.
The shot hit Crouch in the leg, sending him sprawling to the ground with a howl of pain. His wand clattered to the side, useless now as he writhed in the dirt, clutching his bleeding leg.
Cedric, who had been frozen in shock this whole time, finally found his voice. "What just—what did you do?"
Harry slung his gun over his shoulder, looking unfazed. "Took care of it," he said simply, glancing down at the still form of Voldemort. "Figured it was best not to wait for the speech."
Moments later, the Triwizard Cup, which had been acting as a portkey, activated again, whisking Harry and Cedric back to the Hogwarts grounds. The graveyard and its grim scene vanished, and they found themselves back in the chaos of the tournament arena.
The professors, already on high alert, rushed to the two boys. When they saw the bloodstains on Cedric and the state Harry was in, the panic escalated. The professors demanded explanations, but Harry simply shrugged.
"Voldemort tried to come back," he said, matter-of-factly. "Didn't work out for him."
The staff were stunned. The Dark Lord, defeated by a Muggle weapon before his rebirth could even begin. And Barty Crouch Jr., exposed and incapacitated, now being dragged off to face justice.
As the crowd buzzed with disbelief, Harry just shook his head and walked off to clean his gun. Another magical crisis averted, in his own straightforward way.
"Ain't much to it," Harry muttered, disappearing into the distance as the wizarding world tried to comprehend.
As the years passed, Harry Potter's legend grew, but not in the way anyone expected. The wizarding world had always anticipated that Harry's fame would be tied to his spellcasting prowess or his connection to ancient prophecies. Instead, his reputation became known for something entirely different: his uncanny ability to solve magical problems with brute force and his trusty elephant gun.
After his fourth year at Hogwarts, when he had effectively shot Voldemort before the Dark Lord could properly rise again, there wasn't much left that concerned Harry. Dark wizards, evil plots, and dangerous creatures lost their sting. The wizarding world was left stunned, unable to keep up with this new breed of hero—one who preferred action over words, efficiency over elaborate magic. Harry had dealt with the biggest threat the wizarding world had ever known, and now, he was simply tired of it all.
There were still small threats that cropped up here and there over the next few years. A rogue werewolf, a vengeful Death Eater or two, but none of it seemed to bother Harry much. He went through the motions at school, completing his time at Hogwarts more out of a sense of obligation than passion. His wand, though capable, was often overshadowed by the looming presence of the elephant gun slung over his shoulder. Where others fumbled with spells, Harry simply pulled the trigger. The magic world's threats seemed less daunting when faced with simple, direct solutions.
Even his teachers, who had once been in awe of Harry's potential, grew confused. Professor McGonagall, once a fierce advocate of honing his magical abilities, eventually gave up trying to guide him towards more "traditional" paths. "Potter," she would sigh during Transfiguration lessons, watching him fiddle with a gun part rather than attempt another spell, "you are... unique."
After Voldemort's demise, there wasn't much left that Harry cared about at Hogwarts. He wasn't interested in magical politics or the power struggles that came after. Dark lords, prophecies, and the weight of the magical world's expectations no longer meant anything to him. The grand speeches about saving the world or carrying on some magical legacy had fallen on deaf ears.
He missed the Appalachian hills. The quiet life with Burt and Maggie, his adoptive parents, called to him more than the magical world ever had. His years at Hogwarts had felt like an obligation, something he had to do because the world demanded it of him. But his heart was always back in those rugged mountains, where the problems were simple, the air was fresh, and the solutions came from skill and instinct rather than wand-waving and incantations.
When Harry's time at Hogwarts finally came to an end, he wasted no time returning to what he loved most. He packed his things, including his old wand, though it hadn't seen much use, and made his way back to the Appalachian Mountains. Burt and Maggie were waiting for him, their faces unchanged by the years, still as solid and unyielding as the mountains they called home. They hadn't asked many questions about Harry's time at Hogwarts—they didn't care much for magical nonsense—but they welcomed him back with open arms.
Back in the hills, Harry quickly fell back into the rhythm of his old life. He didn't need much—just his elephant gun, a knife, and the skills Burt and Maggie had taught him. He became the protector of their little patch of wilderness, fending off the occasional bear or wildcat that wandered too close to their cabin. The local wildlife, no longer intimidated by the boy who lived, now respected the man who hunted.
There were rumors that Harry still kept in touch with a few people from the wizarding world, but it wasn't anything serious. Hermione sent letters occasionally, updating him on the progress of magical laws and reforms she was championing. Ron would visit once in a while, though the visits were short—Ron wasn't much of a mountain man, and the rugged, wild lifestyle wasn't to his taste. They'd sit on the porch, talk about old times, and laugh about the absurdity of it all, but when Ron left, Harry felt no urge to follow him back to the wizarding world.
Magic had never felt like home to Harry. It was something he'd been born into, sure, but it never called to him the way it seemed to call to others. His time at Hogwarts had been filled with prophecies, expectations, and dangers, but none of that seemed as real or as meaningful as a quiet evening in the hills, with the smell of woodsmoke in the air and the sound of critters rustling in the brush.
He didn't forget about magic entirely, of course. There were times when a simple spell could be useful, like when patching up a roof or tending to an injury in a way that was quicker than conventional methods. But he didn't miss the magical world. The politics, the prophecies, the endless squabbles over power—they all seemed so far away now, like a distant dream he barely remembered.
And so, the boy who lived became the man who hunted. Content to live out his days in the quiet peace of the Appalachian Mountains, Harry didn't seek fame or glory anymore. He didn't need it. The world of magic had moved on without him, and that was fine. He had found his own place, far from the chaos, where life was simple, honest, and filled with the kind of peace that only the wild could provide. The legend of Harry Potter would continue in the wizarding world, but for Harry himself, there was no legend to live up to anymore—just the serenity of the hills, his family, his gun, and a life that finally made sense.
