71 Chapter 71

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"Yes, I think it would be best to go on a little vacation whilst Lord Voldemort knows where I am." He smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Not that I'm running or anything. I, a fourteen-year-old, am totally a match for him—who survived a spear through the chest, I might add."

Dumbledore sighed. "Hogwarts is—"

"—the safest place on Earth," Harry finished for him. "Someone just happened to manage to divert my Portkey to a graveyard in the middle of nowhere."

Dumbledore peered at him over his glasses. "I was actually going to admit that it is probably not the best place to be until I have had time to further investigate what went wrong."

"Oh," Harry said. He went silent for a moment. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll be leaving. I'll send a letter with the details of the encounter later."

"Of course." Dumbledore stepped aside. "But if you don't mind, how many Death Eaters were there?"

Harry walked past him and did not look back. "Fourteen," he said. His lips twitched up into a smile. "You won't have to worry about those ones—not unless you have a much bigger problem with ghosts than I originally thought."

'I see my thorough beat down hasn't damaged my badass lines.'

'Of course not,' Loki said, 'but I somehow doubt those will help against Voldemort.'

Harry snorted. 'Time for a training montage?'

'Time for a training montage.'

'I should probably get a new wand and sword, too,' Harry mused. 'Hey, you think I'm worthy of Thor's hammer?'

Five minutes later, Harry walked up the stairs to Dumbledore's office, dragging the body of who appeared to be Alastor Moody in tow, his head bumping against each stair. He would have levitated him, but he was annoyed at the man—whoever he was.

The gargoyle standing guard to the office's staircase slid aside at an intimidating glare from Harry, and he continued up yet another set of stairs. He shoved Dumbledore's doors open and left the body in the doorway so the doors shut against it.

Dumbledore eyed the body oddly, probably looking to see whether or not he was still breathing. He was.

Harry marched over to the chair and sat down. Only now did Dumbledore see the wand spinning between his fingers and started.

"No," Harry said, "I'm not Voldemort. I just stole the bastard's wand. He stole mine, too."

Slowly, Dumbledore nodded, and then glanced off towards the apparent Auror on the floor. "I assume there is a reason you have come back and brought Professor Moody with you."

"Well, I decided that I needed to come back so you could give me a Portkey to Pompeii—you know, so I could find some ancient volcano magic to defeat Voldemort—and he decided to jump me; I beat him up."

Harry aimed his wand at the body and flicked it, bringing a flask flying across the room and into his hand. "It's got a potion in—I decided not to try and drink it—but I've got no idea what it is."

Dumbledore popped off the lid, sniffed at the contents, and frowned. "Polyjuice."

Harry recognised the name; it was a shape-shifting potion, one that Loki had explicitly warned him off using, lest he face the same fate he had whilst experimenting with shape-shifting. He glanced over to "Moody," who apparently wasn't Moody, just very angry, judging by the nasty things he had been yelling earlier.

Flicking his wand, Dumbledore levitated the body and brought the person hovering over to the desk. He conjured a chair and bound them to it. A spell later, and their features were contorting, shifting into another's.

The man was rather handsome, his features vaguely familiar.

'He similar one of the tournament officials from the Ministry: Barty Crouch.'

"Barty Crouch Jr; he is a follower of Voldemort, and is supposed to be dead," Dumbledore murmured, confirming Loki's guess. He waved his wand and woke Barty up.

He gasped for air and his eyes frantically leapt around the room. He laid eyes on Harry and spat at him.

Harry raised his wand and sent it flying back into his eye. "Be careful," he said, "or the next thing to find its way into your eye will be a knife."

Barty screamed and was silenced a moment later by Harry. "For God's sake, man." He waved his wand about in front of Barty's eyes. "You recognise this?"

Barty did, judging by the rising intensity of his silent screaming and increasing volume of spittle flying from his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. We all know just how much you want your dark lord's wand up your arse, but I killed him and took it from his cold, dead hands, so it's gonna be my wand up your arse if you don't answer our questions." He frowned. "When I say, 'my wand up your arse,' it's not in the way you're hoping."

"Yes, Harry," came Dumbledore's voice before he could say anything further. "I do not believe any more input is needed from you."

"So rude," Harry muttered. "Now can I have that Portkey?"

One of Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "I would've thought you would've wanted to stay for this."

"Yeah, yeah." Harry chuckled. "You clearly don't know me very well. I would stay, but I can't be bothered to torture anybody, and you're probably a hell of a lot better than me when it comes to invading people's minds."

Normally, he wouldn't be so open with Dumbledore, but he now likely thought of Harry as far more powerful than he had before: Harry had fought Lord Voldemort himself and survived—a feat that most could not claim. When you took into account that he had killed fourteen Death Eaters at the same time, it became all the more impressive.

No, Dumbledore would be a fool to go against him with the information he currently had. If he knew the true story—that Harry had run away as soon as possible—it would be very different. Alas, he did not, and Harry planned to keep it that way.

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