I didn’t need magic—I had a Remington 870 and a bad attitude. While Harry was busy waving a stick and shouting Latin, I was out back rigging the Burrow with claymores and testing whether dragon hide could stop .45 ACP (it couldn't). The moment Death Eaters apparated onto the lawn, they were met with a wall of hot lead and me yelling, "Get some!" from behind a sandbag bunker. Bellatrix Lestrange tried throwing a Cruciatus my way—unfortunately for her, lead moves faster than sound. Voldemort might’ve had Horcruxes, but I had a belt-fed M240 and enough enchanted incendiary rounds to turn his entire bloodline into a footnote in wizarding history. Hogwarts didn’t need a Chosen One; it needed a designated marksman.