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"Of course I don't," said Dumbledore. "And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose." Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage. "This is your final word." "It is," said Dumbledore, also standing.
"Then we have nothing more to say to each other." "No, nothing," said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. "The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom. ... I wish I could. . . ." For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.
Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.
"Why." said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. "Why did he come back. Did you ever find out." "I have ideas," said Dumbledore, "but no more than that." "What ideas, sir."
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