The sky shifted from pale blue into deep indigo, and the boundless sea of clouds spread out like a painted scroll, like layer upon layer of fluffy cotton batting, its undulations piling into soft grooves.
Amid this pure sea of clouds, however, a dark shadow suddenly appeared, tearing a savage trail through it at tremendous speed, like a crude scrawl across a white canvas, like mold staining pure cotton.
The dark shadow stopped, revealing Voldemort's figure.
A close-fitting transparent film wrapped around him. He raised his head and looked around, as if confirming something. "Looks like this is the place... It's not even that high or that far..."
"Muggles actually have to curl up inside buzzing iron cans to reach this place?" A trace of mockery crept onto the corner of his mouth. "Wizards who possess magic have no need for such laughable things!"
He lowered his head, his gaze seeming to pierce the heavy clouds and see the bustling city of Paris, to see Dumbledore presiding over the "International Confederation of Wizards Congress."
This was the moment Voldemort had carefully chosen. He had deliberately waited until after the "International Confederation of Wizards Congress" had opened before descending over the city of Paris.
From the moment he learned that the "International Confederation of Wizards Congress" would be held in Paris, he had begun preparing his plan.
When he officially put that plan into action, he had no intention of hiding his movements.
On the contrary, he had even exposed his whereabouts and left traces of his own accord, like weaving an intricate spider web, guiding Dumbledore and those retired Aurors step by step toward uncovering his intentions.
Voldemort whispered coldly, "Dumbledore, I do hope that head of yours, eaten hollow by stale old notions, can still understand the clues I