The Triwizard Tournament had returned to Hogwarts, and with it, all the pomp and ceremony that came with wizards trying to outdo one another. But Harry? Harry was more of a pragmatist. The other champions spent months poring over spells, strategizing, and practicing magic for the upcoming tasks. Harry spent his time cleaning his Colt.

The first task, as it turned out, was dealing with a dragon—a Hungarian Horntail, to be precise. The kind of creature that was known for turning witches and wizards into toasted marshmallows. When Harry saw the size of the beast, he knew magic wasn't going to cut it, not for him anyway.

As the other champions tried everything from distraction spells to outright duels with their dragons, Harry stood there, arms crossed, watching them all scramble.

"Shouldn't you be doing something?" Hermione had hissed from the stands, her worry palpable.

"Already am," Harry muttered, eyes narrowing.

When it was his turn, the Horntail reared up, wings spread wide, fire burning in its throat, ready to turn him into ash.

But Harry had other plans.

With a calmness that unnerved everyone in the stadium, he pulled out his Colt. The dragon roared, charging at him.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The noise was deafening. The crowd gasped. The dragon screeched in confusion as rounds tore through its leathery wings. It flailed, its body crashing down onto the ground, wings rendered useless. Harry casually strolled over to the incapacitated beast, walked right past its glaring eyes, and picked up the golden egg. The task was over in under a minute.

The silence from the audience was palpable—until Fred and George stood up and started clapping like maniacs, the rest of Gryffindor quickly following suit.

"Blimey," Ron muttered. "That was... something."

"Isn't this against some rule?" Hermione asked, looking bewildered as the judges tried to make sense of what just happened.

Harry just shrugged. "They never said anything about how you had to get the egg. Just that you had to get it."

The second task involved retrieving a loved one from the bottom of the Black Lake. The challenge? There were merpeople, Grindylows, and all sorts of underwater nasties guarding the hostages.

While the other champions brewed gillyweed, conjured Bubble-Head Charms, or developed elaborate strategies to swim through the lake, Harry took a more straightforward approach: underwater firepower. He'd made a quick stop in Diagon Alley and picked up a waterproof case for his Colt. Problem solved.

When the whistle blew, Harry dived into the water, his Colt secured in its waterproof holster. He swam toward the underwater village, where Ron lay suspended, along with the other hostages. As expected, the merpeople weren't thrilled with Harry's approach. One swam forward, spear raised, thinking they'd stop him from rescuing Ron.

BANG.

The merperson froze, staring at the bullet hole that had just appeared in the trident's shaft. The message was clear. The others backed off, grumbling in Mermish, but not willing to test Harry's resolve. He grabbed Ron and headed back to the surface without breaking a sweat.

By the time Harry and Ron resurfaced, the other champions were still wrestling with the local sea life or halfway through complicated spells. Harry just tossed Ron onto the shore and gave a nod to the judges.

"Honestly, this isn't even challenging anymore," Harry said, as he began drying off.

Dumbledore looked bemused. "Mr. Potter, your methods are… certainly innovative."

"Thanks," Harry said, as if he'd been complimented on his homework. "I'll take that."

The final task—the maze—was meant to be the most grueling. Filled with traps, curses, and magical creatures, it was designed to test a champion's courage, resourcefulness, and magical prowess. It was also meant to take hours.

It took Harry about 15 minutes.

Sure, the other champions struggled. Viktor Krum got cursed, Fleur Delacour was taken down by a Blast-Ended Skrewt, and Cedric Diggory, bless him, got tangled in Devil's Snare. Meanwhile, Harry followed the sound of hissing and clicking, knowing full well it meant something dangerous was lurking nearby.

When a Sphinx blocked his path, he sighed. "Look, I don't have time for riddles."

The Sphinx blinked, prepared to pose her question, but Harry had already pulled out his Colt. "Let me through, or I'll make this awkward."

She stepped aside without protest.

As Harry and Cedric stood in the middle of the maze, their hands clasped around the Triwizard Cup, they both felt the unmistakable tug behind their navels—the sensation of a Portkey whisking them away. The maze dissolved into a swirl of colors, and when they landed, it wasn't at the victory platform they expected. Instead, they found themselves standing in a dark, desolate graveyard.

Cedric, looking around, furrowed his brow. "Where are we?"

Before Harry could respond, a shadowy figure stepped from behind a gravestone. Harry's eyes narrowed—it was Professor Moody. Or, at least, who looked like Moody.

But something wasn't right. His magical eye whirled suspiciously, and a twisted grin spread across his face. "Well done, Potter. Well done indeed," he growled, his voice unnervingly triumphant. "You've made it this far, and now, the Dark Lord will face you."

Harry's hand inched toward his Colt, but Fake Moody noticed, his real eye glinting with malevolent glee. "Oh, you think that toy of yours is going to save you now?" he sneered, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Cedric. "Your friend here, he's disposable."

Cedric took a step back, eyes wide. "Wait—what?"

But Harry wasn't wasting time. His instincts kicked in, and with a swift motion, the Colt was out of its holster and trained on Moody.

"Avada—" Fake Moody began, but he wasn't fast enough.

BANG.

A clean shot ripped through his wand hand, sending the wand flying. Fake Moody howled in pain, clutching his bloodied hand. The magical eye spun wildly in its socket, losing control.

Harry stepped forward, gun still trained on Moody's chest. "I knew something was off about you," he said coldly. "The real Moody wouldn't taught us the Unforgivables."

Moody—or rather, Barty Crouch Jr., as Harry had started to suspect—gritted his teeth. "You don't know what you're dealing with, Potter. He's coming. He's almost here."

BANG.

Another shot, this time grazing the side of Crouch's leg, sending him sprawling to the ground. He writhed in pain, glaring up at Harry with venomous hatred. "You think a gun can stop what's coming? You think this ends here?"

"I'm not aiming to stop it yet," Harry said, his voice steady. "I'm just getting rid of distractions."

As Cedric stood frozen, glancing nervously around the eerie graveyard, Harry kept his gun trained on Barty Crouch Jr., who was now writhing in the dirt, still clutching his injured hand.

"Alright, Crouch," Harry said, his tone taking on an oddly casual air. "You're going to tell me everything. How did Voldemort get his body back?"

Crouch, still grimacing, let out a pained chuckle. "Oh, Potter… you have no idea. It was a very complex, ancient ritual. Took weeks to set up. There were... steps. Many steps."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Steps? You make it sound like you're trying to assemble IKEA furniture."

"Oh, trust me," Crouch sneered, "it's even worse. Do you know how hard it is to get your blood, Potter?"

Cedric blinked, snapping out of his shock. "Wait, so... this whole thing was just to bring Voldemort back from the dead?"

"Well, yeah," Crouch said, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious. "You don't just pop out of thin air after being vaporized by a baby, Diggory."

Harry smirked. "So how'd you get my blood, genius?"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Potter," Crouch said, trying to sit up but failing miserably. "It wasn't that hard. You were asleep in your dorm one night, and Moody—or, you know, me, but in disguise—had this brilliant plan. I was going to just... poke you with a syringe."

Harry stared at him blankly. "A syringe?"

"Yes," Crouch confirmed, sounding almost proud. "I borrowed one from the Muggle Studies professor. She keep them in the medical cabinet. Easy peasy."

Cedric stifled a laugh. "So, you just... what, waited for him to snore and took some blood?"

"Exactly!" Crouch grinned. "Except—well, turns out you're a hugely light sleeper, Potter. I ended up having to stage this whole fake training session the next morning to get you to cut your hand open on some thorns. The rest was easy."

Harry rubbed his temple, shaking his head. "So, I bled into some thorny bush, and that was enough to bring Voldemort back from the dead?"

"Technically, yes," Crouch said. "Though there was a whole cauldron involved. Very dramatic. Lots of chanting."

"And now," Crouch continued, looking triumphant despite being half-bound and bleeding on the ground, "he's stronger than ever. He's got a body now! And he's going to take over the wizarding world!"

Suddenly, Cedric frowned. "Hold on... You got Harry's blood from a thorn bush? Voldemort's back because of a thorn bush?"

Crouch's grin faltered. "...Well, yes. It's all very precise magic, Cedric. Don't question the ritual."

At that moment, a swirl of mist gathered at the center of the graveyard. Cold, maniacal laughter echoed, and a tall, dark figure began to materialize.

Cedric and Harry exchanged a glance as the fog parted to reveal Voldemort, arms raised, his robes billowing dramatically in the wind.

"I… have… returned!" Voldemort announced grandly, though his voice had a slight rasp to it.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, you're still a little sore from the whole 'no-body-for-13-years' thing?"

Voldemort paused mid-pose, his eyes narrowing. "A bit, yes. My... joints aren't what they used to be."

Cedric leaned toward Harry and whispered, "Think we could get him a potion for that?"

Harry shrugged, barely holding back a laugh. "Nah, I think he's fine. Besides, who cares about joint pain when you're an evil overlord?"

Voldemort, overhearing them, scowled. "Laugh while you can, Potter. The Dark Lord is—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry interrupted, patting his holstered Colt. "We've heard it all before, Tom. Now, how about you go back to the hole you crawled out of and give us a break?"

Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously. "I see you've grown cheeky in my absence, Potter."

"I've had time to practice," Harry said with a smirk. "And I brought some new toys." He tapped his holster meaningfully.

Voldemort, clearly unamused, sighed. "Fine. Let's just get this over with. Duel me, Potter, if you dare."

Harry rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. "Oh, I dare, Voldy. I dare."

Cedric leaned in again, whispering. "You know, this whole graveyard fight thing—it's kinda losing its edge with all the jokes."

"Yeah," Harry agreed with a wink. "But it's about to get a lot more explosive."

Voldemort glared. "You think this is funny, Potter? I AM ETERNAL."

"Sure," Harry quipped. "Until you take one of these to the kneecaps."

BANG.

A bullet tore through the sleeve of Voldemort's newly resurrected robe. He blinked down at the hole, surprised, as if trying to comprehend this new sensation.

Voldemort snarled, his red eyes flaring with anger. "You think you can defeat me with a Muggle weapon? Avada Ked—"

BANG.

Another shot rang out, this one aimed more carefully. The spell never made it past Voldemort's lips. The Dark Lord staggered, his body collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap. Harry walked over, gave the body a nudge with his foot, and holstered his Colt.

"Wow," Harry muttered, looking down at the now very dead Dark Lord. "That was anticlimactic."

Cedric, who had been watching this unfold with wide eyes, muttered, "Is it… is it over?"

"Looks like it," Harry said, glancing around. "Good thing too. I was down to my last bullet."

Back at Hogwarts, the scene was one of chaos and confusion. When Harry appeared, dragging the Triwizard Cup and Cedric behind him, the crowd erupted into cheers. Dumbledore, looking at the smoldering remains of Voldemort in Harry's wake, merely stroked his beard and sighed.

"Well," he said, "that's one way to handle it."

The Ministry, in complete disarray, had no idea what to make of the situation. Harry stood before a flabbergasted Cornelius Fudge, who sputtered, "You—you shot You-Know-Who?"

Harry nodded. "Seemed like the quickest option."

Fudge was still processing this when Dumbledore put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I dare say, Mr. Potter, your methods are… unconventional. But undeniably effective."

"Thanks," Harry replied. "I've got a pretty clear strategy."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

Harry gave a small grin. "When in doubt, empty the chamber."

And with that, the Triwizard Tournament—like everything else in Harry Potter's life—ended not with a magical duel, but with a well-placed bullet. As far as Harry was concerned, it was the most efficient year yet.