|
"Certainly," said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. "I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —" "Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some. Of others, you remain . . . forgive me . . . woefully ignorant." For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.
"The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore." "Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore.
"Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts." said Voldemort. "Will you let me return. Will you let me share my knowledge with your students. I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And what will become of those whom you command. What will happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor has it — the Death Eaters." Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort’s eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.
"My friends," he said, after a moment's pause, "will carry on without me, I am sure." "I am glad to hear that you consider them friends," said Dumbledore. "I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants."
 |  |
|
