Harry Potter's life was miserable. Living in a cupboard under the stairs, subjected to endless abuse by his whale-like cousin Dudley and the disdain of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, he had learned early on that the world was not a kind place. And Harry, small as he was, was practical. He didn't have much patience for fancy ideas like "turning the other cheek." His philosophy, after years of dodging Dudley's punches, was more along the lines of "turn the other cheek, then sucker-punch them when they're not looking."
But what could he do? He was eleven, skinny, and decidedly power-less (at least, as far as he knew).
That is, until one fateful day when a giant man broke down the door of a damp shack in the middle of nowhere and changed everything.
"Yer a wizard, Harry," the giant man, who introduced himself as Hagrid, bellowed, his eyes gleaming with warmth.
"A... wizard?" Harry asked, rubbing his head. He was still recovering from the door Hagrid had so casually knocked off its hinges.
"Ay! And you're gonna come to Hogwarts, best school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world! Been expectin' you for years, we 'ave."
Hogwarts? Magic? A world where he could turn his spoiled cousin into a toad or banish Uncle Vernon's mustache to a different dimension? It sounded too good to be true.
But then Harry remembered something he had overheard on TV while the Dursleys were watching an American action movie marathon last Christmas—between bouts of shoving leftover turkey into their faces, of course. Onscreen, the hero, some grizzled man with a raspy voice, stood tall, holding a pistol in one hand and a sneer in the other. "The only magic you need, kid," the man had growled to his sidekick, "is right here."
He pointed to his gun.
Harry blinked as a lightbulb went off in his head.
The wizard thing was cool, sure. But he didn't need to rely on fancy spells or magic wands. If he wanted to take control of his destiny, he knew what to do. He needed a gun.
Once Hagrid finished dragging him around Diagon Alley, buying wands and robes and cauldrons, Harry made an excuse to stop by a shop that had caught his eye. The shop's window bore a sign in elegantly creepy script: "Needful Things: Grand Opening!"
Curiosity sparked in Harry's mind. What exactly was this place? He hadn't seen anything about it in Hagrid's enthusiastic whirlwind tour, and its dark, cozy appearance seemed oddly inviting. What could possibly be so "needful" that it required its own shop?
Harry pushed the door open, a bell tinkling above his head, and stepped inside.
The interior of the shop smelled like old books, leather, and something faintly sweet—like pipe smoke. At the counter stood a man who looked like he belonged in a Victorian novel, with a sharp nose, slicked-back hair, and an air of authority. His name tag read: Leland Gaunt, Proprietor.
"Welcome, Harry Potter," the man said in a deep, syrupy voice with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My shop caters to... people like you. Those who have needs."
Harry blinked. "People like me?"
"People who have... unfulfilled desires. Needs that can't quite be satisfied by the usual means." Gaunt gestured toward the shelves, which were lined with an assortment of odd and mysterious objects: rusty keys, strange glowing stones, and even what looked like a cursed teapot.
Something caught Harry's eye on the back wall, displayed in a glass case. It was an old revolver—polished and gleaming, yet with an air of age and history about it. The plaque beneath it read: Colt Single Action Army, 1873. "Peacemaker."
Mr. Gaunt followed Harry's gaze and smiled. "Ah, yes. A fine choice, young man. That is no ordinary firearm. It's a piece of American history. A Colt Peacemaker—the kind of weapon legends were made of. Cowboys, outlaws... and now, perhaps, wizards."
Harry couldn't take his eyes off the revolver. It was so different from everything else in the wizarding world—so simple, yet powerful. While everyone else was out there learning spells and flicking wands around, Harry imagined himself pulling that gun from his holster, just like a cowboy in the Wild West. It would definitely send a message.
"Can I—uh—buy it?" Harry asked, almost afraid of the answer. After all, this wasn't exactly the sort of thing Ollivander had mentioned when talking about wand lore.
Gaunt chuckled softly. "For you, Mr. Potter? Consider it a gift. But, of course, nothing in this world is truly free. All I ask is a small favor—something you can repay when the time is right. Nothing burdensome. Just a simple gesture of goodwill."
Harry, who had absolutely no experience in making deals with potentially shady shopkeepers (but who also couldn't resist the allure of the shiny Colt), nodded eagerly. "Yeah, alright. Deal."
"Wonderful," Gaunt purred. He opened the glass case, lifted the revolver from its velvet cradle, and handed it to Harry, who hefted the gun in his hand. It felt heavy, solid, and strangely... right.
"Oh, and don't worry about it being antique," Gaunt added. "It's in perfect working condition. It'll fire just as well as any modern weapon. And trust me—it's far more... effective than a wand in certain situations."
Before Harry could ask what that meant, Gaunt slipped a small box of bullets across the counter. "You'll need these as well. But remember, Mr. Potter, you only get six shots before you have to reload. Make them count."
Harry nodded again, feeling a mix of excitement and unease as he tucked the Colt into the inside pocket of his new wizarding robes. It wasn't a perfect fit, but with a bit of charm work, he figured he could make it work.
As Harry left the shop, the bell tinkling behind him, Mr. Gaunt watched him go with a gleam in his eye and whispered to himself, "That boy's going to be very interesting indeed."
Two weeks later, Harry stood on Platform 9 3/4. Hedwig hooted softly in her cage, unaware of the steel-clad secret tucked away in Harry's trunk next to his spell books. As he boarded the Hogwarts Express, a strange sense of comfort washed over him. Magic might be unpredictable, but a Colt? A Colt was reliable.
On the train, he met Ron Weasley, a red-haired boy whose clothes seemed to have fought a losing battle with time. Ron was friendly enough, if a bit obsessed with sweets. But Harry had more important things to think about.
"Hey, Harry," Ron said, leaning in conspiratorially after the trolley lady left. "You ever hear about You-Know-Who?"
Harry squinted. "Vaguely."
Ron's face turned serious. "They say he's the darkest wizard who ever lived. Killed loads of people. But no one ever talks about how. You know, some think he's still out there, biding his time, waiting to return."
Harry nodded. He knew what Voldemort had done to his parents. But he also knew that no dark wizard could deflect a bullet. The thought gave him an odd sort of comfort.
"Yeah, well," Harry said casually, "if he shows up again, I've got something for him."
Ron looked confused. "What? A spell?"
Harry patted his trunk with a small smile. "Let's just say it's... American-made."
Ron frowned, clearly bewildered, but before he could ask further, the compartment door slid open. A bushy-haired girl with a stern expression stood in the doorway.
"Has anyone seen a toad?" she asked briskly. "A boy named Neville's lost one."
"No toads here," Harry said, then paused. "But I have something much more interesting. Want to see?"
Hermione blinked. "What do you mean?"
Harry leaned over and flipped open his trunk, revealing the gleaming, cold steel of the Colt nestled among his school supplies.
"That," Harry said proudly, "is a Colt Peacemaker. A single-action revolver with a six-round cylinder."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "You… you brought a gun to Hogwarts?"
"Yup," Harry said, with a tone that suggested he thought this was the most reasonable decision anyone could make.
"Is that even allowed?" Hermione asked, sounding both horrified and fascinated.
"Don't know. Didn't ask," Harry said with a shrug.
Ron, still chewing on a Chocolate Frog, leaned in closer, eyes wide. "Blimey, Harry, that's bloody brilliant."
Hermione's look of shock didn't fade. "But… but why?"
Harry sat back, resting his hands behind his head. "Well, you never know what's out there, do you? Trolls, dark wizards, possessed teachers… Just seems smart to have a backup plan."
Hermione crossed her arms. "That's ridiculous. Magic is the answer to everything. You're at Hogwarts! There's no need for that kind of… barbarism!"
But Harry just grinned. "We'll see."
And with that, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, leaned back in his seat, ready to face whatever challenges Hogwarts threw at him—with a wand in one hand and a Colt Peacemaker in the other.
Updated: 09/23/24
Guest chapter 1 . Sep 22
Harry stood on Platform 9.
Should be Platform 9 3/4.
Ah, that is correct. Thanks for catching that!
