Voldemort's voice suddenly rose. "I remember that the key moment in a person's decline is when they begin reminiscing about the past, thinking it was so wonderful—just like you are now!"
His voice was full of malice as he stared fixedly at Dumbledore's face, hoping to see even the slightest hint of wavering on that face covered in wrinkles.
To his disappointment, Dumbledore's expression remained calm.
Dumbledore was looking at him as well, and the meaning in his eyes was quite complex. Most obvious among it was... pity!
This sent a surge of anger churning through Voldemort's heart. Even at a time like this, Dumbledore still had not grasped the situation at all—or rather, he was still unwilling to acknowledge just how dire it was.
Not only that, Dumbledore was even showing him compassion, as though he were some pitiful wretch in need of sympathy!
At this moment, Dumbledore's condescending manner disgusted him more than any mockery or insult ever could!
That damned old man was still looking at him with the same eyes, even now!
Just then, the night wind brushing past him suddenly turned cold.
It was no ordinary cold, but a bone-deep chill that pierced through the skin and seeped into the marrow.
The Dementors, wrapped in tattered cloaks, came flooding in from the horizon in a vast black mass. Like a burst dam, they swallowed every trace of light.
The night grew even darker, nearly to the point where one could not see a hand in front of one's face.
The wind swept across the grass, and the grass itself seemed infected by the chill. Its once-vibrant blades lost their color, as though all Life Force had been drained from them, withering and curling up bit by bit.
The Ministry of Magic employees felt it even