The moment Dumbledore stepped into the Chamber of Prophecies, the turmoil and worries of the outside world seemed to be completely shut out by an invisible barrier.
It was quiet here—not the silence of death, but a tranquil stillness.
Dumbledore looked toward the countless towering wooden shelves lining both sides of the aisle, densely packed with thousands upon thousands of faintly glowing Prophecy Orbs.
He did not search. Instead, he walked toward the cold magical presence, as clear as a lighthouse in the night.
At the center of a circular platform stood Voldemort, his black robes nearly blending into the darkness behind him.
His pale, slender fingers gently lifted a Prophecy Orb. His movements were elegant, as though he were admiring a priceless treasure.
"Good evening, Tom." Dumbledore's voice came from behind him, breaking the tranquil silence. "It seems I have come at a rather inconvenient time."
Voldemort slowly turned around. His face appeared even paler beneath the orb's faint glow. On that noseless face, a pair of scarlet snake eyes narrowed, though he showed little surprise. "Dumbledore.
You are still the same, always appearing just as the ending is about to be written, trying to play the role of a useless warning."
He elegantly closed his hand around the Prophecy Orb he had just acquired. "You have grown older."
His scarlet eyes fell upon Dumbledore's silver beard and wrinkles. "Your power has grown weaker as well."
Dumbledore approached at an unhurried pace. "Tom, power takes many forms. Some power is used to conquer and destroy; some is used to protect and create."
"Hah—" Voldemort sneered. "The mercy of the weak is nothing more than a stumbling block on the path of the strong. Dumbledore, all you protect is an old illusion doomed to collapse. As for me, I will