Why Was Dumbledore's Hand Black Mga Nobela at Kwento

I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t ignore the way everything felt off. The star-shaped bruise on my hand, the way my wounds had healed so quickly, Sibil’s interest in me—it was all too much to be a coincidence. “What if Darius learned black magic?” I whispered, almost afraid to say it. “What if that’s why he’s so strong now?” “It’s possible,” Seven replied. “But black magic always comes with a price. If he’s using it, he’s not invincible. There’s always a weakness.” A weakness. My mind raced. If Darius had dabbled in black magic, then maybe there was a way to defeat him. But I needed more information. I needed to know what he had done, and how deep it went.

With trembling lips, he said, “That’s dark magic… the spell that you also used to cancel our ultimate group enchantment. That is also dark magic.” Seeing the farthest corner of the room, Diana’s grin became even brighter and wider. Slowly, though her knees continued to lose their strength, she stood up straight and sauntered to the frozen warlocks. She opened her palm. On cue, the wisp of black mist swirled around it when it was supposed to attack its next victim. “You enjoyed torturing others, right?”