The air grew heavy. Harry, lying on the cold ground, found it hard to breathe. He could not imagine how this first-generation Dark Lord named Grindelwald had found the courage to face more than a hundred people alone.
In wizard battles, numbers did not necessarily determine strength, but quantitative change always led to qualitative change. Harry felt that even if Dumbledore were here, he could not remain so calm while facing so many Death Eaters.
Was the first-generation Dark Lord truly unafraid of death? What had he come here for? To reclaim the title of Dark Lord that Voldemort had stolen from him?
And what was going on with Mr. Malfoy? He had actually deceived Voldemort. Was it because Draco spoke well of him at home every day?
Harry was not the only one completely baffled. Voldemort clearly could not understand the first question either.
"How dare you? How dare you?!"
Voldemort's gaze swept over the patches of black ash on the ground nearby. He felt no sympathy whatsoever for his dead subordinates, only a faint regret at the loss of tools. More than that, he hated Grindelwald for interrupting the first show of his glorious return.
"What gives you the nerve to face so many of us alone? Old man, if you kneel and apologize now, I might be merciful enough to let it go."
Grindelwald stroked his mustache and kept shaking his head as though he had heard an unfunny joke. He looked at Voldemort with regret, as if he were worried about the intelligence of the man who had inherited his title.
"Who told you I was alone?"
"Oh? Are you relying on your 'Acolytes'? Their teeth have probably all fallen out by now, haven't they?"
Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. The Death Eaters gathered