Voldemort's voice abruptly rose. "I remember—the turning point when a person begins to grow old is when they start reminiscing about the past, believing it was so wonderful. Just like you are now!"
His voice was filled with malice as he stared fixedly at Dumbledore's face, hoping to see even the slightest flicker of hesitation on that wrinkled visage.
To his disappointment, Dumbledore's expression remained calm.
Dumbledore was looking at him as well, his gaze carrying a rather complex meaning. Most obvious of all was... pity!
This stirred a surge of anger within Voldemort. Even at a time like this, Dumbledore had still failed to grasp the situation entirely—or rather, he still refused to acknowledge just how dire it was.
What was more, Dumbledore was even showing him compassion, as though he were some pathetic wretch in need of sympathy!
Dumbledore's condescending manner at this moment made him feel more sickened 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 not ordinary cold, but a bone-deep chill that could pierce the skin and seep into one's marrow.
The Dementors draped in tattered cloaks surged in from the horizon in a dark mass, like a breached flood swallowing every last trace of light.
The night grew even dimmer, to the point where one could barely see one's own hand.
The night wind swept over the grass, and even the lawn seemed infected by that chill. The once-lush blades lost their color, as though every trace of life had been drained from them, withering and curling up bit by bit.
The Ministry of Magic staff felt it even more directly. When they looked up and saw