As Harry entered his fifth year at Hogwarts, the air was heavy with tension. Over the summer, through dark magic and another highly convoluted, overly complicated ritual (involving more sacrifices, some cursed objects, and a Dark Lord-fanatic who knew way too much about necromancy), the Death Eaters finally managed to bring Voldemort back again—this time without interruptions from Harry's trusty Colt.

Of course, this second resurrection wasn't nearly as dramatic or grandiose as Voldemort wanted. He came back with a grudge, but also a slight twitch in his left eye, courtesy of the bullet wound from Harry's previous "greeting."

Still, the Ministry still refused to acknowledge it. Worse yet, they'd sent Dolores Umbridge, the pink-clad embodiment of bureaucratic evil, to take control of Hogwarts. If there was ever a year Harry needed both his wits and his Colt, it was this one.

From the moment Umbridge set foot in the Great Hall, Harry knew it was going to be a long year. Her sickly sweet smile did little to mask the pure malice behind her eyes. By the second week, the new "Educational Decrees" were plastered on the walls of the castle, each one more absurd than the last.

"No magic in the hallways."
"Bow to Professor Umbridge when she enters the room."
"No discussing 'You-Know-Who'—he's definitely not back."

Harry had a simple response to all of this: he ignored it. The day she caught him practicing defensive spells in the corridor, Harry's hand hovered a little too close to his holster.

"What do we have here?" Umbridge's voice dripped with condescension. "It seems Mr. Potter believes he's above the law."

Harry glanced at her wand—always poised, ready to cast some bureaucratic nightmare of a hex—and then at his Colt, resting snugly at his side. He was tempted to resolve things the American way, but he restrained himself. For now.

"Just practicing, Professor," Harry said, his voice flat.

Umbridge's eyes narrowed. "Detention. My office. Tonight."

Harry sighed. "Of course."

The detentions, of course, involved the Blood Quill. Writing "I must not tell lies" over and over as the words carved themselves into the back of his hand was the final straw.

Harry stared down at the bleeding words etched into his skin, flexing his fingers. This was not a magical solution. It was time for a non-magical one.

The next evening, Harry sat in Umbridge's office, writing out the same cursed sentence as she watched him with that infuriating smirk. She turned her back for just a moment to adjust one of her countless cat plates.

That was all Harry needed.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Harry pulled out his Colt and fired a shot straight into her ceramic kitten collection. Plates exploded in a shower of porcelain, sending cats—both real and decorative—scrambling in all directions.

Umbridge whipped around, her face pale as the shattered remains of her beloved plates clattered to the floor. "Wh—what are you doing?!"

"I don't tell lies," Harry said, lowering the Colt. "And I don't do pointless detentions."

Her wand trembled in her hand as she tried to regain her composure. "This is outrageous! The Ministry will hear about this, Potter!"

"They'll have to catch me first," Harry replied, his eyes glinting with a mix of rebellion and pure, American confidence. "And good luck with that."

From then on, Harry operated in the shadows. Dumbledore's Army became less of a secret study group and more of an underground resistance. Meetings were held in the Room of Requirement, but the lessons? They were a mix of defensive magic and firearms training.

"Expelliarmus works great," Harry explained to the group one evening, holding up his Colt, "but sometimes, you need something with a little more punch."

Hermione, ever the practical one, raised her hand. "Harry, isn't this… I don't know, a bit excessive?"

"Not when you've got Death Eaters and Dolores Umbridge after you," Harry replied. "Besides, it's not like I'm giving everyone a gun. I'm just showing you all how to be prepared."

Fred and George were already admiring the target practice boards Harry had set up, conjuring protective ear muffs as they took turns shooting at them.

"This is bloody brilliant!" George exclaimed after hitting a bullseye.

"You've revolutionized defense against the Dark Arts, mate," Fred added, looking at his brother in awe. "You think we could make a product out of this?"

"We'll call it… Bang-Bang Badges!" George suggested, miming shooting wands. "For the wizard who wants to duel but prefers a little extra firepower."

Harry just smiled. "We'll talk business later. Right now, let's focus on keeping the school out of Umbridge's hands."

By the time the Ministry caught wind of Dumbledore's Army, it was too late. Umbridge had been chasing down leads for weeks, desperate to catch Harry and his band of rebels in the act. But Harry was always one step ahead. Her pink-saturated reign of terror couldn't touch him.

Her breaking point came when she stormed into the Room of Requirement, certain she had finally cornered them.

But the moment she opened the door, she found herself staring down the barrel of a dozen makeshift wands—each one modified to resemble Harry's Colt.

"Surprise!" Fred shouted, sending a dazzling flash of light toward her, accompanied by the unmistakable bang of their latest invention. It wasn't lethal, of course—just loud, bright, and humiliating.

Umbridge screeched as she was blasted backward, her pristine hair frizzing from the shock. "Y-you'll pay for this!" she sputtered, trying to regain control.

Harry stepped forward, giving her a cool stare. "We already have. Now, get out of here before we escalate this."

With one last shriek of indignation, Umbridge fled the scene, muttering about contacting the Minister of Magic himself. But the damage was done—her authority was crumbling, and Harry had made sure of it.

The showdown with the Ministry came sooner than expected.

Voldemort's return was no longer in question, but the Ministry had one last card to play: an all-out assault on Harry and Dumbledore. Unfortunately for them, neither Harry nor Dumbledore was in the mood to play nice anymore.

As Death Eaters swarmed the Ministry in the climactic battle at the Department of Mysteries, Harry had both his wand and Colt at the ready. The usual chaos of magical duels filled the air—curses flew, walls exploded, and glass shattered. But every so often, the unmistakable crack of Harry's firearm rang out, cutting through the pandemonium.

As the battle in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries raged on, Harry found himself face-to-face with Bellatrix Lestrange, who was taunting Sirius Black with her usual malevolent glee.

"You're going to die, Sirius!" Bellatrix cackled, her wand raised. "You're nothing but a broken relic of the past!"

Sirius, defiant, was about to retort when Bellatrix unleashed a blindingly fast curse aimed right at him. In a split second, Harry's instincts kicked in. He lunged forward, shoving Sirius out of the path of the spell.

"Get down!" Harry shouted, pushing Sirius to the floor.

The curse sailed harmlessly over Sirius's head, smashing into a nearby column. Harry, still in the motion of pushing Sirius, grabbed his Colt and fired a shot at Bellatrix. The shot rang out, and Bellatrix staggered backward as a spray of dust erupted from the wall behind her.

But the recoil from the gun, combined with the chaotic environment, caused Harry to lose his balance. He stumbled backward, tripping over debris and crashing into the veil that hung ominously at the center of the room.

As Harry tumbled through the mysterious veil, everything turned eerily silent. The swirling battle sounds from the Department of Mysteries faded into a soft hum. Instead of endless darkness or, you know, instant death, he found himself in a bizarre, foggy void. The space was… underwhelming, like a waiting room in limbo, but with less entertainment.

"Is this it?" Harry muttered to himself, squinting into the fog. "I thought death would be, I don't know… scarier?"

He took a few hesitant steps forward, looking around for anything remotely ominous. Instead, he saw nothing but swirling gray mist and a few stray particles of glowing dust floating past him.

Just as he was about to give up on finding anything remotely interesting in the realm beyond the veil, a sharp, burning sensation flared up on his forehead. "Oh, no… not now," Harry groaned, clutching his infamous lightning-bolt scar.

Suddenly, with a strange fizz and a tiny pop, a puff of black smoke erupted from his scar. The smoke lazily floated upward, swirling above his head like a cartoon thought bubble. Harry stared at it, blinking in confusion.

The black smoke hovered there, almost as if it were… waiting for something. Then, with an indignant little poof, it formed a very tiny, very unimpressive version of Voldemort's face. The face scowled at Harry, wrinkling its nonexistent nose in a way that was both menacing and incredibly anticlimactic.

"Really, Potter?" the smoky face of Voldemort drawled, his voice sounding muffled, like he was speaking through a pillow. "Even in this place, you manage to annoy me?"

Harry, still holding his scar, blinked at the tiny Voldemort face hovering in front of him. "What… what are you even doing here?"

The smoke-Voldemort scowled. "I'm always with you, Potter. Always."

"Great," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. "Now I'm haunted by you in a cosmic fog lounge. This day just keeps getting better."

Tiny Voldemort huffed. "This isn't a joke! I—"

Before Voldemort could finish, the smoke version of his face began to fade and sputter like a dying balloon. "Oh, come on," Voldemort groaned as his voice became even more high-pitched. "This is ridiculous! You're insufferab—"

And then, with a quiet puff, the black smoke vanished entirely, leaving behind nothing but the awkward silence of the void.

Harry stared at the now empty space where the smoke had been, then glanced up at the misty ceiling, as if expecting some kind of explanation. "Seriously? That's it?"

He waited a beat, half-expecting the smoke to come back, or for Voldemort to send a more threatening message from beyond the veil. But nothing happened. Just more fog.

With a sigh, Harry shrugged and dusted off his hands. "Well, that was anticlimactic. Good talk, Tom."

Just then, with another whoosh, the veil behind him opened up, and before Harry could register what was happening, he was yanked backward by some unseen force, stumbling back into the real world and landing face-first onto the cold stone floor of the Department of Mysteries.

He groaned, lifting his head as Sirius rushed over to help him up. "What happened in there?" Sirius asked, wide-eyed.

Harry grimaced. "Not much, to be honest. Just had a weird chat with smoky Voldemort. Oh, and my scar… kinda burped him out. Nothing serious."

Sirius blinked at him. "Your scar… burped out Voldemort?"

"Yep. Black smoke, tiny face, some complaining, and then poof." Harry made a little explosion motion with his hands. "Honestly, he didn't look too happy about it. Guess even evil overlords have their off days."

Sirius shook his head, clearly baffled. "You know, I thought getting pulled into a death veil was bad enough, but you somehow make it sound like an awkward dinner party."

Harry shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What can I say? Even in the afterlife, Voldemort's still the most annoying guest."

Bellatrix, recovering her composure, stared in disbelief. "You—you survived?"

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and stood up straight, holding his Colt with renewed determination. "I guess the veil isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Sirius, now with a mixture of relief and amazement, clapped Harry on the back. "You're either incredibly lucky or ridiculously stubborn."

"Probably a bit of both," Harry said, chuckling as he readied himself for the next round of chaos.

Bellatrix, now visibly rattled, took a few cautious steps back, her usual bravado crumbling. "This isn't over, Potter!"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said, aiming his Colt in her direction. "And I've got more where that came from."

In the end, the Death Eaters were forced to retreat, and Umbridge? She disappeared shortly after, with rumors swirling about a transfer to Azkaban.

As Harry surveyed the wreckage, Dumbledore approached, his expression a mix of pride and bemusement.

"Once again, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice soft but filled with that familiar twinkle, "you have proven that you are… quite unorthodox."

Harry holstered his Colt and gave a small shrug. "When in doubt…"

"Empty the chamber?" Dumbledore suggested with a smile.

"Exactly."

And so, Harry's fifth year came to an end—not with a prophecy fulfilled, but with Harry reaffirming one universal truth: sometimes, wands just weren't enough.