Chapter 34
A week later, Harry found himself in Dumbledore's office again.
"Were you not supposed to be going into hiding whilst I tracked down the Horcruxes?" Dumbledore said.
"Well, I think I was actually meant to be in your Order of the Phoenix safe house, but following the rules isn't a habit of mine—especially when they include staying in a house full of people who like me about a hundred times more than I like them, and even the supposed mass murderer isn't an actual mass murderer."
"Most people would be pleased to discover their godfather hadn't betrayed their parents and killed a dozen people."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Most people aren't me—and mass murderers are much cooler than people who spend over a decade wallowing in guilt and literally licking their own balls. I think Sirius is one of the few people I've met who's almost as weird as me."
Dumbledore peered down at him over his spectacles. "I'm sure. Now, is there another reason you wanted to speak to me, or did you simply come to gossip?"
"As much as I enjoy talking to you, Albus—it's refreshing that you're not as fanatically in love with me as your followers—there was indeed another matter I came to discuss." Harry glanced around the room. "I know where Voldemort is, and I'm planning to take him down."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "He still has his Horcruxes."
Harry smiled maliciously. "Don't worry—I don't need to kill him. I'm just going to imprison him in a place that he'll never be able to escape from."
He was absolutely sure of it—well, near absolutely sure of it. What he was planning to do to Voldemort, nobody—no human, at least—would escape from.
"Can you elaborate?"
Harry leaned forward and grinned. "Now, tell me Dumbledore," he said, "what do you know of Norse mythology?"
Loki's memory was nigh-on eidetic. Even in the dark, with Harry fighting a dozen assailants and later Lord Voldemort himself, it hadn't been hard for him to pick out a few names on gravestones. From that, it had only taken a bit of internet research, and Harry had found the town of Little Hangleton.
He had, of course, later learned that Dumbledore had already known that Voldemort had once been called Tom Riddle and once used the Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton, so all of his searching had been a complete and utter waste of time. Still, it made him look independent and therefore responsible, which he counted as deceiving people and therefore not a waste of time.
Since his discovery of Voldemort's location—Riddle Manor—he had been planning and plotting his attack. He didn't want to wait for Voldemort's Horcruxes to be destroyed—to allow Voldemort to regain his power and practise with any new magic he might have stumbled upon due to Harry's blood.
No, striking as soon as possible was the best option with the prophecy hanging over Harry's head. He most certainly didn't want to die and stalling for any longer risked just that. And so he and Loki had devised a way of eliminating Voldemort that did not involve the long and tedious process of going around and systematically destroying soul-containers.
Then they had put their plan into motion. For a few days, they had spied on Riddle Manor; the coming and going of people dressed in black robes had confirmed Lord Voldemort's presence. In the meantime, both Harry and Marco's men had tracked down a few Death Eaters to interrogate and kill.
Their testimonies had ensured them that their intelligence was correct.
Marco hadn't brought many people—only a dozen: others hadn't exactly volunteered, and a lot of Marco's "employees" actually worked for his father.
And that was why, as well as the dozen members of the Order of the Phoenix, there were fifteen men dressed in black combat gear, assault rifles slung about them.
Dumbledore sighed, looking over them. And then said to Harry, "Have you no regard for the Statute of Secrecy?"
"Oh, relax," Harry said. "These people are professional mercenaries. They don't tell other people stuff…except maybe if they get paid more." He glanced at them. "I haven't told them about Obliviation or anything, so you can do it to them afterwards. I wasn't planning on killing them, or anything."
For once, he was telling the truth. The organisation he had hired the men from wasn't one that you messed with. They specialised in the hunting and or elimination of superhumans and had many government connections. Harry didn't want to find himself going up against airstrikes. Or private armies made to kill people with superpowers, for that matter.
Dumbledore was still looking at the men, or, more specifically, their guns.
"Don't tell me you're morally opposed to guns!" Harry shook his head. "They're basically big metal wands with only one spell."
'By that definition, most things are big wands.'
'Quiet, you big wand.'
Dumbledore glanced at Harry, eyebrow raised. "I think you'll find, by that definition, most things are simply big wands."
'What the fu—'
"Anyway," Dumbledore continued, "this is not the time to be debating such matters. Lord Voldemort's fall will save many lives, and, as much as I resent admitting it, the killing of some of those who have chosen to join him is inevitable."
Harry decided not to mention that Dumbledore had just copied Loki's wording. It was a coincidence—probably, a coincidence…
He cast a slightly nervous glance at Dumbledore before looking to the horizon, where Voldemort's mansion was. "We might as well get going, then."
No more fighters would be arriving. There were probably about an equal number with Voldemort; no others would be able to get in once Dumbledore had torn down Voldemort's wards and brought up his own.
Harry nodded to the commander of the mercenaries, who went to rally his troops. Marco and Dumbledore followed the procedure with their own fighters. The wizards would be arriving by broomstick, whilst the muggles would be taking cars.
Harry leaned back against a wall. 'So, what do you think happens if I die?'
'You're not going to die,' Loki said. 'You're far too much of a coward for that—no wards will stop your escape. And then there's your massive amount of good luck.'
'Yes,' Harry agreed, 'good luck basically makes one immortal. Me being the Chosen One also probably has something to do with it; if there's a prophecy about me, that means I'm probably the protagonist of the story, so have lots of plot armour and can't die. That might explain how I pull off stuff I probably shouldn't.'
'What if Voldemort's the protagonist?'
'Na.' Harry shook his head. 'Protagonists are always attractive—snakes are decidedly unattractive, whereas I am basically an Adonis.' He paused. 'If the prophecy's true, I wonder if that means I am literally incapable of dying unless Voldemort kills me. If I can't die, perhaps I should just run away and assume a new identity.'
'Even if you cannot die, you can still end up being encased in concrete and dumped to the bottom of the Mariana Trench.'
'Yeah, that would be bad.'
Harry was wrenched from his thoughts as someone placed a broomstick in his hands. He glanced down at it, still not entirely trusting that it would send him plunging downwards mid-flight. He had practised with it before, but who knew what would go wrong with wizarding engineering?
A few minutes later, the operation had begun. Twenty-six wizards rose into the air almost as one and engines rumbled. And then the wizards shot forwards into the sky, Dumbledore at the lead. They flew low, as not to be seen by any lookouts. It was the dead of night, and in a town like this, there weren't many people out; any who saw them would be dismissed as maniacs.
They neared the mansion in less than any minute, and hovered just outside where the wards were. Dumbledore waved his wand over them.
"They are strong, but not so much so that I will not be able to handle them." He narrowed his eyes, as though he could actually see the wards where there appeared to be nothing but air. "They will detect us as we pass through, and if they are not taken down now, they might be turned against us once we get inside."
Harry nodded. "Will they detect inanimate objects?"
"No, only magic or humans."
"Very well."
All conversation halted as too people came strolling from a side door of the mansion, clad in black robes. They would see the wizards, no doubt, if they looked even slightly to their right and upwards. The wizards flattened themselves to their brooms and stayed as still as possible.
Ever so slowly, Harry moved his hand to his ear, pressing a button on his earpiece. "Hawk, do you have eyes on?"
"Eyes on," Hawk, leader of one of the four teams the mercenaries had split into, answered. "Permission—"
"Permission granted."
A second later one of the Death Eaters fell. His friend turned to him, and after a moment found herself matching his position, a matching bullet hole in her chest. With how far away Hawk had been, Harry had barely heard the crack of his suppressed rifle, and the subsonic ammunition hadn't broken the sound barrier.
With a slight grimace, Dumbledore set to work, his wand carving intricate patterns into the air as his brow creased in concentration.
Harry marvelled at the sight. His knowledge of wards was…limited, to say the least. He wouldn't have had a chance at breaking those of a wizard as powerful as Voldemort. That said, Dumbledore didn't seem to be having an easy time with it, either. Sweat had begun to trickle down his forehead.
After doing this, Harry didn't think the elderly wizard would be able to match Voldemort in a fair fight. It was a good thing that Harry didn't fight fairly, then.
Ten minutes passed. A few more muffled gunshots cracked through the night, only just able to be picked up by Harry's enhanced hearing. He didn't see most of the victims. Everyone was tense. The cars carrying the mercenaries who were to come in with them had pulled up long ago.
And then Dumbledore finally slumped on his broom, breathing deeply. "It is done," he practically gasped.
The wizards moved forward, through where the ward had been and touched down gently on the grass, ditching their broomsticks. Ten armed men moved up behind them, the rest of them spread about on rooftops with high-powered rifles, ready to take out anyone in a black robe who decided to flee.
Dumbledore reached into his satchel and produced a wardstone, a slab of rock, smooth but for the matrix of runes carved into it. They were weaker than wards, more expensive to produce and far easier to destroy—you just had to damage the stone—but they were far easier to erect hastily, and Voldemort had probably already sensed something was wrong.
The runes of the stone glowed with a gentle blue light as it activated, and Harry felt a barrier form, stopping him from any attempts at apparition or Portkeying.
As soon as it was up, yelling started within the mansion. The fighters took that as their cue. They moved forward, the mafia, the Order and the mercenaries each forming their own groups, instead of sticking together like they were supposed to.
Harry and Dumbledore lagged behind.
"Are you going to be able to fight him?" Harry asked.
Sweat gleamed on Dumbledore's face under the pale moonlight. He nodded. "I should be able to…for a while, at least. I sincerely hope that will be long enough for you to do what you must."
A few more suppressed gunshots sounded again, undoubtedly picking off any Death Eaters who had dared step outside.
The fighters ahead began to mutter spells, disintegrating the wall—and then one of them was caught in the chest by a beam of sickly purple that tore straight through him.
Harry let the yew wand slip into his right hand, and his left found the replacement sword sheathed invisibly at his hip. Excitement mingled with nervousness and tingled its way up his spine.
The battle had begun.
