A/N

Falmouth Falcons, CHASER 1

Round prompt: Word Restricted Team Pride

Prompt: Falcon, 1501-1750 words

Words: 1647

Extra Prompts:

2. (genre) parody

7. (word) destiny

10. (dialogue) "There's no such thing as magic!"

. . . .

When asked about his greatest dream in life, Harry Potter would spitefully reply that it was to not die because it seemed like everybody wanted him to die. This long roll call of enemies included: the Dursleys, Dumbledore, Harry, half of Hogwarts; hell, even Tom sometimes.

But Harry did not want to live either. No, quite frankly, Harry had begun to embrace the concept of suicide when Uncle Vernon died. His death was the catalyst; but one by one, like dominoes, or like a complex Rube Goldberg machine, all the events in Harry's life would lead to his death. He was sort of like an ordinary person that way.

Harry had been cooking a cholesterol-laden bacon for Dudley when his uncle died, so he didn't exactly see him kick the bucket.

There was just a bloodcurdling scream from Aunt Petunia, which made him turn from the stove and place the pan on the table.

Silence. For a moment, the whole household was fixed on Uncle Vernon's corpse.

But Harry's arrival seemed to be the trigger, and Aunt Petunia stopped her banshee shriek. She turned towards him. It was a rather eerie act—her neck was jerking like a demented puppet.

"Oh, Dudley! Whatever should we do?" Aunt Petunia asked dramatically in her characteristically false falsetto. She was eyeing Harry all the while. Nine years of living with Dudley had taught Harry that such a hungry stare was not beneficial for his continued existence. Dudley had worn that look while concocting the first Harry Hunting.

"I don't… know?" Dudley replied, confused and pale.

Harry, too, was the same complexion and mental state.

"The Finnegans are coming over to sign a contract next month; with your father dead, it's essentially null!" she wailed—still staring, thought Harry vaguely. It must be the shock coming at last, for Harry felt like his head was full of cotton. Suddenly, his face turned green and he vomited the piece of bacon he had eaten.

While Aunt Petunia ranted, Harry gazed at the sight of Uncle Vernon's plump, puce face and nearly vomited again. The Hitler Mustache looked truly awful. He'd never had the chance to take in its horrification for long because he'd get beaten.

Really, the Hitler Mustache would make a brilliant Dadaist work of art.

Indeed, a voice said dryly.

"W-whut?" Harry asked in astonishment.

If it had become the poster boy for War protests, the Dadaists would have succeeded in their pacifist campaign, the voice continued. Any opposers would have been blinded by the utter hideousness of the Muggle's mustache.

"Muggle?" Harry questioned. The hair on his neck prickled when Petunia's eyes sharpened like a falcon about to strike.

Yes, non-magical beings.

"B-but," Harry stuttered, "There's no such thing as magic!"

"INDEED THERE IS!" Aunt Petunia interrupted cheerily, wringing her hands. "In fact, we'll need you to use it, thank you very much -"

"What?" Dudley, Harry, and the voice shouted.

"All you have to do is get rid of the body and pretend to be Vernon for a while-"

"No," Harry said instantly.

YES, the voice hissed. Imagine the money and freedom you could have as Vernon.

"But-"

Plus, you'll get to lord over Dudley, the voice added.

"Oh. That's alright then." Harry turned to Aunt Petunia - Pet, he corrected. Might as well get into the role now. "We accept."

"Congratulations Dudley, Harry's your new father!" Petunia tried to pick up and twirl Dudley but failed. She settled for a hug.

"I guess that's alright…. I still want my bacon," Dudley mumbled.

To avoid any uncomfortable questions about Uncle Vernon's work and whereabouts during this time, The Voice taught Harry to forged a medical certificate claiming that Mr. Dursley had contracted Syphilis. The Voice was astonishingly knowledgeable on that.

Over the following weeks, The Voice also instructed him on how to use Imperio and Confundus on people. Even though Harry was of unremarkable intelligence, he picked them up quick enough; because, Magic, of course. And when the Finnegans came over, they were easily confounded into signing a check for twenty-seven million dollars into Vernon's bank account.

It was hilarious to inform the Dursleys that they would not be receiving a cent in Vernon's will. This lifted Harry's spirits a tad. He just felt a little guilty and weary of—of lying all the time.

He felt exhausted.

Henceforth, the Dursleys, the Potter, and The Voice plundered their way across millionaires using the mystical power of magic. Somewhere in the depths of the Ministry of Magic, someone would be monitoring them. Of this, The Voice was certain. But for now they were protected by a special type of incompetency unique to wizards only, so they would burn that bridge when they came to it.

The Voice just hadn't expected that day to come so soon.

"OPEN UP ER DOOR!" The giant boomed.

"NEVER!" Harry roared—or was it The Voice? Harry really didn't know nowadays.

He didn't care to care. He just really didn't want to die—or worse, kiss a Dementor.

The Dursleys, and Harry, were gathered in their basement which had been built last year in case the Ministry came knocking. They were all glancing nervously at the surveillance screen until the door was torn off its hinges and they didn't need to.

The giant stumbled in. Glancing around, his gaze landed on Harry who resigned himself to his arrest and was instead enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. What a cruel and unusual torture, Harry thought in agony.

A puppy peeked out of the giant's beard and Harry screamed. The Voice hated puppies.

The giant paid him no heed and exclaimed jubilantly, "YER A WIZARD, HARRY!"

Joy? Such an obvious proclamation? Ridiculous. They were trying to get his guard down, to trick him into confessing. Well, The Great Vernon - no, The Great Harry - was not going to fall for their good-cop routine.

"There's no such thing as magic!" Harry shouted quickly, cowering behind his leather armchair. "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WITH NO MAGIC!"

"O' cours' yer did!" the giant cajoled. "Yeh defeat' the greatest Dark Lord o' all time when yeh were but a babe."

Harry—or is it The Voice?—chortled. "Of course, I am amazing aren't—" He shrieked. "NO! NO! There's no such thing as magic!"

"Right, right, I s'ppose I'll have ter call Dumbledore in…." Hagrid mumbled, ducking his head and exiting the room. "Poor sod must have been terribly abused and brainwashed..."

The emaciated Dursleys squatting in a corner chanted and prayed to Supreme Leader Harry's portrait in the meantime.

"Why - " Dumbledore paused, eyes twinkling. "Nevermind."

Hagrid nodded in agreement with Dumbledore's wisdom and lovingly pet an ant.

The Dursleys gave them an odd look and resumed chanting.

"Harry," said the old wizard, who had introduced himself as Dumbledore. His eyes twinkled."You must attend Hogwarts."

"No." Harry clenched his fists. "You're going to send me Azkaban!"

"Why would you ever think so?" said Dumbledore, puzzled. Dumbledore looked surprised—and wary? Harry was surprised. From the incoherent, faintly frightened ramblings of The Voice, he'd have thought that Dumbledore was omniscient.

"Err—nothing," Harry replied lamely.

"Wonderful! Hagrid will take you to purchase your school supplies, then."

The next few years at Hogwarts were not enjoyable; he had been sorted into Slytherin.

Every year he lived and did his best to avoid death, he discovered that life was even more overrated than it had been last year, and would inch a little closer to death. (In Second Year, he almost jumped off the tower after Hagrid—who was a surprisingly good friend—was dragged away.)

Though he was revered, respected and held the partiality of most of the Professors, he had no friends. Dumbledore he frequently visited, but that man could hardly be considered an ally, much less a friend. Their visits were amicable, but Tom—Harry—Tom—Harry?—knew that meant nothing.

Dumbledore had that eye. The twinkling, starry-eyed sort, that was so brimful of Ideals and Dreams that he could not see the truth beyond the stars. He saw Harry as a symbol, whether mortal or celestial, not as a person. Symbols were easily discarded for the greater good of actual people.

One day, Tom thought grimly in Third Year as he slit the throat of a rat, the corpse of a Grimm inches away, Dumbledore would kill them.

Seventh Year; they were atop the Astronomy Tower, the wind whipping their cloaks frantically. Tom—Harry's—Tom's narcissistic side was pleased. It was the perfect climax, the best death he could ask for, really.

"Harry, you must die. It is your destiny," Dumbledore said serenely.

"No. Why does everyone keep saying that?" Harry—Tom—said tiredly, his hands curling.

It was meaningless, but Harry continued because there was the inexplicable feeling that he had to follow the script. Tom had already attempted to wrest control multiple times, but Harry wanted the pretending to be over. He wanted to feel alive again, even if it's only in his final moments and even if he had to die to do so.

"I won't die, I won't! I'll become immortal, you'll see!" Tom shouted reluctantly.

Thank you, Tom.

Immortality - that seemed to be the wrong and exactly the right thing to mention. They'd meant for it to be. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed until the electric blue twinkles in his eye were all Harry could see.

The ideals, the scales—a symbol weighed against the fate of the world—were all Dumbledore could see.

Harry smiled. Tom was silent for once.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, grave eyes forever twinkling like stars. "Avada Kedavra."

"Goodbye, Tom."

They stood at a train station, a young boy with black hair and mirthful green eyes waving from the window of a scarlet train.

The deformed baby on the platform sniffed like a Malfoy. "It's Voldemort to you."

His cold, red eyes flashed green for a moment.

Then the train started.

Harry died, and without a will, not a cent of Mr. Vernon's money went to his remaining relatives.

Happily ever after.