By the light of the Flame Serpent, Voldemort continued to survey the battlefield from the corner of his eye.
His gaze caught sight of three phoenixes, all three actively moving across the battlefield.
The feathers of two of them were extraordinarily strange, nearly completely black, with only scattered specks of crimson remaining, like two glowing embers that could go out at any moment.
The three phoenixes had clear divisions of labor. One sang in the air, bolstering everyone present, while the other two flew toward the wounded and scattered drops of crystalline Phoenix Tears.
Such a precious magical ingredient as Phoenix Tears seemed so cheap at this moment.
As long as someone was harmed by Dark Magic, they could receive the healing of Phoenix Tears and return to battle in peak condition.
Voldemort finally understood somewhat. No wonder the battle had developed into its current state—the contributions of these three phoenixes had been indispensable.
No wonder Fawkes had left earlier. So this had been Dumbledore's idea.
Damn Dumbledore!
It was always Dumbledore!
What angered him even more were the two students riding Flying Broomsticks.
They seemed to regard the battlefield as a party, laughing as they dropped Magical Fireworks one after another, blasting the caught-off-guard Dark Wizards to the ground.
Voldemort raised his Wand and aimed it at the two students on Flying Broomsticks.
Before he could cast a spell, a chill struck without warning, swiftly spreading from his spine to the crown of his head.
He could clearly sense a surging magical fluctuation plummeting down at tremendous speed.
He abruptly looked up, his pupils contracting sharply.
It was a fully formed bolt of lightning, tearing another dazzling silver-blue rift across the sky, already brightened by the firelight.
He instinctively glanced toward Dumbledore from the corner of his eye, only