70 Chapter 70: Luck of the Gods!
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Harry had no time to get his wand from inside Voldemort, and so he snatched Voldemort's from his hands before he could react.
And then he did the only thing he could think off: ran towards the Portkey, ever praying that it was still working.
Even with Voldemort wandless, Harry didn't doubt he was no match for him—at least not with him not having his own wand either, when he could apparently survive the destruction of his his lung and continue breathing.
As if in accordance with his thoughts, a spell rushed through the air behind him and forced him to dive aside. When he turned, he saw that Voldemort already had another wand, one with a hilt of shining silver—Malfoy's by the looks of it.
There was only one spell Harry could see working. "Avada Kedavra!"
He had performed the spell before, when calm and using his own wand. Now, neither was the case, and all he produced was a pathetic shower of green sparks.
After being forced to dodge another spell, he tried again. "Avada Kedavra!"
This time, it worked, and the spell flew true, heading for Voldemort with deadly precision.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort dragged Malfoy across the graveyard and in front of the spell. It splashed against his chest, and Harry did not doubt he was utterly dead.
And then Voldemort truly began to try. Barrage after barrage of curses were let loose upon Harry, and he frantically dodged between them, shielded them or was forced to let them hit him.
He screamed as a cutting curse tore into his arm, and then another into his torso. If Voldemort had been using killing curses, he would probably be dead.
Hell, the only reason he wasn't was the spear through him, its magical energy probably the only thing keeping him from magically yanking it out.
The spell that came next from Voldemort was rasped more than hissed. It shouldn't have been possible for Voldemort to speak. It also shouldn't have been possible for him to continue living. He did both.
"Crucio."
Harry had no time to contemplate such matters as his world became pain. Thousands upon thousands of fiery blades were suddenly tearing themselves through each inch of his skin, carving themselves into his very soul.
'This magic is too powerful for me to numb with any amount of longevity.' Loki sounded scared. 'But he will not be expecting you to break free from it.'
'I'll only need a few seconds.'
'I hope you are right.' So did Harry.
As the spell relented, Harry was instantly up, three banishing curses flicking from his wand in just under a second and sending Voldemort tumbling backwards, head over heel.
He dived for the trophy, and in mid-air, yelled, "Accio Malfoy."
At the same time came, "Avada Kedavra!"
Voldemort's spell struck the already dead Malfoy, and then Harry was touching the trophy and was gone, his world once again spinning.
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Harry slammed against the ground and gasped for breath as the air was snatched from his lungs. The trophy slipped from his grasp, and he pushed himself away from the dead Malfoy he had managed to accidentally bring along for the ride.
He sent a silent thanks to whichever idiot had thought to make the Portkey go back to the arena—probably so that they could send his body back and strike fear into their enemies.
If they hadn't, he would've been in a much worse condition. And with his wand and sword lost, clothes shredded, and skin gashed, there wasn't much worse a state he could be in whilst still being alive.
'You have the luck of the gods,' Loki said.
Harry coughed up some blood and spat it into the dirt. 'No luck, just skill.' He coughed up some more blood.
He glanced up to see where he had landed, and found it not to be in the maze, but in a small stadium, crowds seated all around him.
They had been cheering, but most of that seemed to have vanished, probably a result of the black-cloaked corpse lying in the dirt next to Harry.
With a groan, he climbed to his feet, cracking his back and casting his gaze to Lord Voldemort's wand, still in his hand.
It was surprisingly fitting for him—much better than any other wand he had tried. Not his own, of course, but it was nearly as good.
He could feel Loki healing his body, and after a few moments, he guessed he would be able to speak without damaging anything too severely.
"Hello, audience," he said. "As you might have guessed from my ragged appearance—a state only the strongest of foes could inflict upon me—I just finished fighting the mighty Lord Voldemort."
The crowd was now silent.
"Anyway, although I totally and utterly kicked his arse, he still managed to resurrect himself, so he looks slightly less like a failed snake Animagus." Harry coughed up a bit more blood and wiped it across his shirt.
"I killed his followers though—I mean, he killed them, accidentally. I would never do anything so immoral."
He kicked the mask off of Malfoy's face.
"I will swear under oath that Voldemort killed this guy, something Malfoy." He reconsidered. "Actually, I won't swear any oaths for the same reason that the gods don't reveal themselves to you. I need you to believe me because of faith, not some easily faked evidence that happens to take the form of a dead Malfoy."
'Please stop rambling; I think you may have hit your head a bit too hard.'
"My imaginary friend says I should leave…so…yeah. Bye, I guess."
With that final defiant statement, he marched for the exit. No one attempted to stop him.
As soon as he was in the castle, Harry took off at a jog, heading for his room. He packed his belongings in half a minute, and then was heading out the door—and straight into Dumbledore.
He sighed. "Hello, Dumbledore."
"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore glanced to the backpack on his shoulder. "You're leaving, I presume?"
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