By the light cast by the flaming serpent, Voldemort continued to survey the battlefield from the corner of his eye.
His gaze caught sight of three phoenixes, all of them active on the battlefield.
The feathers of two of those phoenixes were extremely strange, almost entirely black, with only scattered flecks of crimson remaining, like two glowing lumps of charcoal that could go out at any moment.
The three phoenixes had clearly divided their tasks. One sang in the air, bolstering everyone present, while the other two flew toward the wounded and scattered drops of crystal-clear Phoenix Tears.
Phoenix Tears, such a precious magical ingredient, seemed almost cheap at this moment.
Anyone injured by Dark Magic could receive the healing of Phoenix Tears, then return to battle in peak condition.
Voldemort finally understood somewhat. No wonder the battle had developed into its current state. These three phoenixes had undoubtedly played a crucial role.
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 have treated the battlefield as a party, laughing as they dropped one Magic Firework after another, blasting unsuspecting 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, rapidly spreading from his spine to the crown of his head.
He could clearly feel a surging magical fluctuation plummeting at tremendous speed.
He abruptly looked up, his pupils shrinking sharply.
It was a fully formed bolt of lightning, tearing another dazzling silver-blue rift across the sky, which had been brightened by the firelight.
He instinctively glanced toward Dumbledore out of the corner of his eye,