The battle between Voldemort and Dumbledore was spectacular. Any one of the spells they used would have caused real casualties if it had landed on the battlefield nearby.
Even the Death Eaters and Order of the Phoenix members who had been fighting fiercely beside them tacitly moved away from the pair without letting up their own fight.
But a battle like this left little room for either fighter's strength to fluctuate.
Each was fighting at full power. Anyone they could defeat would die like the people they had casually killed earlier; anyone they couldn't defeat, they simply couldn't.
That was how things stood between Voldemort and Dumbledore now. On the whole, they were locked in a stalemate.
But Voldemort fought with wild, sweeping movements, his face twisted with rage. Paired with features Dark Magic had already warped beyond human recognition, it made him look less terrifying than hysterical, as though he had exhausted every trick he had.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, looked cautious. He moved his wand at an unhurried pace and attacked less often, but every attack pushed the battle line closer to Voldemort. Voldemort had less and less room to strike back.
The balance seemed to be tipping to one side, with no sign that the trend would reverse.
"Bagnold!"
Dumbledore called out suddenly. Bagnold—their Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts that year, and the only one to dodge the three Killing Curses Voldemort had cast on his arrival—raised his wand and sent a red magical firework into the sky.
It was a very simple spell with no other effect, usually used only to send signals.
At the sight of it, a stir ran through the Death Eaters. They had no idea what Dumbledore's side was planning.
"What are you panicking for? I'm here! At most, they've called in