Summary: Harry Potter never gets the chance to fulfill his destiny: When magic won't kill The Boy Who Lived, Voldemort resorts to a Muggle method. Short one-shot (no pun intended), tragic, an ending.

Author's Notes: This story sucks, so read "The Man Who Lives"! Yes, shameless advertising.

Disclaimer: The best flattery is imitation, JKR, so consider this a compliment, not a crime. No money has been made from this fanfic, though writing is considerably more valuable. Rating: semi-PG, please write reviews and send anything else to the email address below.

Scarred For Life

PenPatronus

Never ever in Harry Potter's life had anyone (even remotely!) bothered to so politely knock before entering "his" bedroom at number 4, Privet Drive.

Thoroughly annoyed, The Boy Who Lived slowly unfastened his eyelids and squinted from where his cheek indented the pillow. Harry groped for his glasses, groaning when he realized it wasn't even dawn yet, which he could tell half-blind or not. The knock, three consecutively crescendoing knuckle-taps on the wooden door was so exasperatingly polite that it drove him to mutter an aggravated "Accio" and, though his wand was not in his fist, Harry's glasses were suddenly in his hand, then on his nose after a forefinger guided the levitation spell. The only thing he wanted to be woken up for was a barrage of birthday presents. But for now the 16-year-old wizard's door was being rapped on like a nervously pecking owl. Hedwig hooted with annoyance from her cage. It occurred to Harry that Hedwig's guttural voice had never sounded like a warning growl before. The image of a black watchdog flashed across Harry's mind, and not for the first time (that minute) he ached for Sirius.

"Come in?" Harry grunted. Vernon Dursley shouldered open the door, his wide body an ominous silhouette that elongated shadows twisted around into Harry's room, crisscrossing like a chicken-wire cage around the bed. Hedwig suddenly nipped at the bars of her own cage, and in Harry's head, the animagus' black fur stood on end.

"Well good morning, Harry! Happy birthday!" Vernon planted himself at the foot of Harry's bed, arms crossed at the chest and a wide-lipped grin on his face.

Harry considered himself a very mature, resourceful and capable wizard with more (humble) experience with surprise than every Muggle in the world (combined). But nothing in his Muggle and Magical life had ever prepared him for the uncharacteristic glee of his uncle. Considering the most acknowledgement of his birthday Harry had ever received from Uncle Vernon before was a single tissue, he was naturally suspicious. And bloody irritated as well.

"Can't this wait 'til morning, Uncle Vernon?"

"Nonsense!" Vernon glanced down at his wristwatch. "It's exactly 4:12am! You're officially 17!" Voldemort patted the side pocket of his pajama pants where something made a dull thump against his thick skin.

"You've never wished me a happy birthday before, let alone told me what time I was born."

"Oh I keep track of these things, Potter," Vernon said as his smile, as if it were possible, lengthened all the more, down to the tips of his mustache. "I've watched you since the minute you were born."

The Death Chamber's coliseum seats were overcrowded like a rowdy Olympic audience. Harry was so close to the Veil that he could feel Sirius' presence just inside it. Hermione had been stunned and was lying still on the dias. Ginny was slumped against the wall behind Harry, the blood deepening to claret in her rosy hair. The room was echoing with Ron's screams as the Cracticus curse only intensified with time, and Ron had been under it for a least a quarter of an hour.

And Harry was watching Voldemort, as the sea of black hooded Death Eaters cheered, yanking on the wavy, wrinkled black fabric from top to bottom, and the sensation of Sirius' soul faded as Harry's heart was ripped along with the Veil.

The absurdness of that statement only fogged Harry's brain to the point of indifference. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep until Pig was tap-dancing on his chin. He told his uncle as much, then lay back down and pulled his sheets up past his untidy black hair. Harry was about to remove his glasses when the thin fabric was snatched off of the teenagers' shirtless upper body. Fists were suddenly angled at his head. He's finally graduated from emotional abuse to physical, Harry concluded. If Molly were still alive, she'd have a stroke.

"You've annoyed my family long enough, Potter. I won't have you endangering us anymore." Now that sounded more like Vernon Dursley. "On your feet, boy. So I can kill you properly. That's an order."

Harry was not amused. "Don't threaten me, Dursley, I've rolled over and gone back to sleep in front of scarier things than you. And don't you dare try to tell me what to do. You're not my father."

"Ah yes," Vernon sighed. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his pajama pants and left it there. "Unfortunately, dear James is dead, but if he and that bitch were still alive, I'd kill them too…again." Vernon's smile was so rare that it only had a three minute lifetime. It had been replaced by an infuriated glare. He continued before Harry could voice his facial expression. "And I have a message from a friend of yours, by the way. Charming fellow. Odd eyes, but dashingly good looks. He asked me to tell you something."

Hedwig growled and attempted to flex her wings. "What?" Harry finally demanded, nearly tripping over his own word with fury. He swung his feet onto the floor but didn't waste the energy to stand up. "What was his name?" Harry's wand was sitting helplessly on the windowsill.

"Tom, I believe it was. Yes, that's it. Tom."

Suddenly the wand was in his palm. Hedwig had crowed with surprise as it sailed past at the wizard's unspoken command. Harry was on his bare feet, the wand pointed at Vernon's hairy nose. Vernon's hand twitched in his pocket.

"Get away from me." His voice was unblemished, impatient. Harry blinked when Vernon stood his ground. "I will use this. I won't let a bloody Muggle like you kill me, not when the entire world might depend on me staying alive."

"Oh please, Potter. I could kill you before you can say 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' three times fast."

Hedwig chirped helplessly.

When the multi-colored smoke finally dissipated around Riddle Mansion, Harry Potter spit out the grass in his mouth and raised his green eyes dizzily at the sight of a red-haired boy crawling towards him. In the background, Dumbledore and Lupin were shouting orders to the Aurors and Order members. Oliver Wood, covered in sweat and blood, sat on the half-burnt front porch steps of the mansion and stared at Draco Malfoy's dead body. Arthur Weasley kissed his wife right before she Disapparated away.

Harry blinked up at his best friend, "I knew you'd come."

Ron Weasley grinned. "No you didn't you bloody liar."

"I had faith you'd come?" Harry rubbed his chest where a brand new lightning-shaped scar throbbed.

"No, you just know me well enough." Ron coughed; there was blood on his lips.

"Then I know you too well."

"And I love you too much."

Ron reached Harry just as Harry reached up for him and only when their hands clasped did they both sigh with relief.

Seamus Finnegan was suddenly beside them, "This was a diversion! They're attacking somewhere else!"

Harry's stomach clenched. The Twins' "joke shop" had been destroyed by Lord Voldemort, along with the majority of Diagon Alley. "You wouldn't say 'Weasley' with a straight face if your dinner depended on it." Harry's frown deepened. "No…my uncle wouldn't.". His grip on his wand was suddenly unsteady. He noticed the full moon outside and thought about his godfather, hoped he was comfortably sleeping, hoped he'd had a smooth transformation. Maybe he would visit for Harry's birthday. Yes, I'm going to see my godfather, I'm going to see Remus again…Harry swallowed he could finally speak his voice sounded not unlike Dobby's.

"You're not my uncle."

"I'll understand if you say no, Harry," Remus Lupin said, not taking his eyes away from Sirius' memorial as the two wizards stood over it. "You already have a father, you already have a godfather, I'm not your professor anymore, or your bodyguard or your best friend or your brother, and I'm not your legal guardian—"

But Harry suddenly wrapped his arms around Remus and hugged the remaining Marauder fiercely as he gasped into his chest,

"Please let me call you godfather."

"Your uncle is merely a tool, Potter." As Harry watched, his Uncle Vernon's face contorted manically into a gruesome smirk that appeared vaguely familiar. When he spoke, his voice was deep and hissing. "A tool not even Dumbledore thought to completely harness. A tool that will end the war and begin my life."

Harry's vision narrowed on Vernon's pocket. "You can't kill me, Voldemort, even if that is a wand. Not even you can use Imperius to transfer magic through a Muggle." Harry raised his wand and rehearsed the killing curse in his head. Any guilt he would've experienced at using an Unforgivable had been lost along with his innocence a year ago.

"I don't need to use magic." Voldemort's rehearsed speech continued through Vernon's lips. "The first time we met, Harry Potter, I told your mother that I would kill you."

Ron… Remus… Hermione…

Harry inhaled shakily.

"And then I promised you that I would kill you."

Harry exhaled more than the words, "Av—"

"And so I have."

Harry suddenly dropped to his knees. His scar seared with fire, unmercifully muting and blinding him as his thoughts screamed in pain even before the handgun was aimed at his scar, and fired.

Hedwig's white feathers were doused with crimson.

Miles away, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger simultaneously screamed in their sleep. They were awakened by their own voices, and sat upright in their respective beds. Outside their windows, a green glow began to shimmer where the moon drooped in the sky. The echo of a gunshot seemed to bounce off their own walls, their foreheads throbbed, and their hearts ached.

Albus Dumbledore woke up as if from a horrendous nightmare. For a moment the wise old wizard blinked repeatedly, struggling to convince himself that it had only been a dream. Any other option was utterly inconceivable.

But then the light from the full moon in his bedroom window began to flutter in the numbing darkness, and rain started crying ice-cold droplets down onto Hogwarts castle and froze into scattered teardrops that muffled the moonlight. Gathering storm clouds spewed out green tinted lightning.

Somewhere in the distance a werewolf howled like a tortured banshee.

Albus Dumbledore felt something foundational shatter within his soul. He put his face into his palms, and wept.

Mischief Managed