Harry Dresden was not amused on a number of levels.

"I didn't mean…" the boy began.

"Shut up for a minute," Harry said. "I'm getting a headache."

The boy scowled. "No! If you'd just listen…"

"I said shut up," Harry snapped, and massaged his temples. "Okay. So. This Voldemort guy waltzes into Chicago, decides it's an easy target, goes about wreaking havoc. You're apparently his archrival so you come to defeat him by an epic duel, igrnoring any and all other possibilities. Am I right so far?"

"Yeah, but…"

"So," Harry said, overriding him, "when my buddy Murphy got the bazooka and killed him dead with minimal damage, did that or did it not have an effect equal to an enormous heroic self-sacrifice that killed untold numbers of innocents?"

The boy opened his mouth, and shut it again.

"I thought so," Harry said. "Hell's bells! Think before you go off being epic! What do they teach them in school these days?"

"I'd like to know what else you'd've done," the kid said, pouting.

Harry did not slap the boy upside his sulky head, though it took some effort. "Rule number one of wizardry, kid!" he said. "They never expect bazookas!"