The sky faded from pale blue into deep indigo, while an endless sea of clouds unfurled like a painting, layer upon layer of fluffy cotton batting rising and falling into soft ravines.
Yet amid that pristine ocean of clouds, a black shadow suddenly appeared, tearing through it at tremendous speed and leaving behind a savage trail—like crude graffiti on a white canvas, like mold polluting pure cotton.
The shadow came to a halt, revealing Voldemort's figure.
A close-fitting transparent membrane enveloped him. He raised his head and looked around, as though confirming something. "Looks like this is the place... It's not that high or far after all..."
"Muggles actually have to huddle inside buzzing metal cans just to reach this place?" A trace of mockery crept onto his lips. "Wizards with magic don't need such ridiculous contraptions!"
He lowered his head, his gaze seeming to pierce the heavy clouds and see the bustling streets of Paris below, see Dumbledore presiding over the "International Confederation of Wizards Conference."
This was the moment Voldemort had carefully chosen. He had deliberately waited until after the International Confederation of Wizards Conference had begun before descending upon the skies above Paris.
From the moment he learned that the International Confederation of Wizards Conference would be held in Paris, he had begun preparing his plan.
And when he finally put the plan into action, he had made no effort whatsoever to conceal his tracks.
On the contrary, he had deliberately exposed himself and left clues, weaving an intricate spiderweb to guide Dumbledore and those retired Aurors step by step toward uncovering his intentions.
Voldemort murmured coldly, "Dumbledore, I hope that head of yours, hollowed out by rotten old notions, can still decipher the clues I left behind..."
There was a teasing malice in his tone, as