Some people didn't know how to develop or manage anything, yet still lived high on the hog. They did it by plundering.
As the saying went: "When the neighbors stockpile grain, I stockpile guns. The neighbors are my granary."
"When the neighbors plant the fields, I reap the harvest. Every day's a bumper crop."
At the low end, you called them bandits. A little stronger, and they were Dark Lords. Stronger still, and they were empires.
Everyone looked around at the scene with grim expressions. The Magic Corps was enormous, and their Magical Items were so powerful that it was downright despair-inducing.
Snape looked deeply at Jillian, regretting that he had let her accompany him to the moon. Clenching his fists, he whispered to Fiennes beside him, "I'm only confident I can kill one Voldemort!"
And that was only because he had reached the greater strength he possessed now and had specifically developed Potions to target Voldemort's Horcruxes. Only then could he say those words.
Even Grindelwald couldn't say that. He had been locked away in 'Nurmengard' for decades, and his body had quietly deteriorated to an extremely frail state.
All he could guarantee was that he wouldn't die.
Yes, and precisely because he was effectively carrying 'Nurmengard'—his prison—with him, he could proudly say he wouldn't be killed, even if there were seven Voldemorts, or more.
But that was all.
Voldemort himself was already so powerful, and there were seven of him.
Anton, who should have been able to defeat Voldemort decisively, seemed unable to free himself from the Ritual Magic so easily because of the spell's effects.
Voldemort had clearly seized his opportunity.
Dumbledore frowned deeply and communicated with him through Legilimency. "I think I have a way to deal with seven Toms. Yes, our Magical Research Institute has