Shaking where he knelt, Snape still kept his body pressed low to the floor.
He could feel the Dark Mark on his left arm burning, throbbing, flickering. Voldemort had to be furious right now. For all Snape knew, one wrong word would end with a wand raised and his life cut short.
The Dark Lord had always been temperamental. Being disturbed in the middle of the night could not possibly have improved his mood. And while Snape's thoughts ran wild, Iain did, in fact, frown.
"Why are you kneeling?"
Iain did not like people kneeling to him. It made him feel like some kind of tyrant. He much preferred admiration. That, in his opinion, was the proper treatment for the future supreme ruler of the Western Hemisphere.
"Cold knees make for a cold heart. I don't want surface-level loyalty. I want you to follow me because we actually share the same ambition."
After all, Iain had once been a bright-eyed college student, so naturally his sense of moral awareness remained unusually high. As he spoke, he bent down and pulled Snape up off the floor himself.
"?????"
If the Dark Mark on his arm had not been proving it in real time, Snape never would have believed those words could come from Voldemort. Wasn't Voldemort supposed to enjoy groveling, fear, submission?
Could it be... that after being reborn with a healthy new brain, his thinking had become less twisted too?
Snape could not help wondering.
And, strangely enough, the words did warm him a little. If reason had not been screaming at him that this was still the murderer of the woman he loved, he might almost have been moved.
"What was so important it had to be reported at night?" Iain asked when Snape still did not speak. Then understanding dawned on him. Being very socially aware, he invited Snape inside.
"It was too important to delay."
Snape answered at once.
He sat in the chair Iain pointed out for him and watched as the boy turned and walked into the kitchen.
His gaze swept the room, and he froze in confusion.
A cauldron sat over the stove, its contents bubbling away. Snape had seen that thing before. It was a truly terrifying stew of potion ingredients gone mad.
What made him stop dead this time was the wand.
The wand was brewing the potion by itself.
Every time the tip dipped into the liquid, a trail of silvery bubbles rose to the surface. When those bubbles burst, the whole cabin filled with a sharp, acrid smell.
And somehow it still had not exploded.
The process was under perfect control.
The otherwise ordinary-looking wand was handling the cauldron like a master potioneer.
A sharp breath escaped him.
"To enslave a wand and force it to brew potions... what kind of monstrous Dark Magic is this?"
Snape's pupils widened as another huge wave of shock rolled through him.
What Snape did not know was that while he was staring at the wand, the spirit inside the wand was staring right back.
Voldemort was practically exploding with rage.
Of course he recognized Snape.
This had once been his servant, the man he had planted at Dumbledore's side. And now here he was, calling someone else his master. Voldemort may not have understood love, but even he knew when he had been completely humiliated.
"Traitor. Traitor!"
His soul roared inside the grain of the wood.
He had thought Snape was one of his most loyal hounds. Instead, the man had secretly pledged himself to the next Dark Lord.
"That turncoat! I should have killed him back then too!"
Voldemort's killing intent flared exactly as violently as ever. He wanted nothing more than to fire off an Avada Kedavra and erase Snape from the world.
Unfortunately, in his current condition and current surroundings, he could do neither.
So once again he chose the one path he knew best.
Endure.
Still endure.
"I endured all those years. I can endure this a little longer. Once I recover all my former power, every last traitor will pay."
At this rate, Voldemort was one step away from enduring himself into sainthood.
Grinding teeth he no longer possessed, he continued controlling the wand. Stir three times clockwise, once counterclockwise, wait, then three times clockwise again.
Snape noticed none of that fury. He was still lost in dazed, heavy thoughts. Watching Dark Magic he had never before understood, his mind churned with mixed emotions.
Back then, he had followed Voldemort precisely because he wanted to learn magic like this.
Who could have guessed he would end up reaping exactly what he had sown.
"Soup's on!"
"Come try my masterpiece. It's incredible. I'm calling it Deadly Delicious Meat Broth. Perfect for making Deadly Delicious Noodles!"
Iain was not really being hospitable. Earlier, when Snape had clearly come with business but kept dancing around it, Iain had already seen through him. The man plainly wanted to stay and get fed.
Who said gifted college-kid prodigies did not understand how people worked?
"Drink the soup. Consider it a personal favor."
Iain had not forgotten he was pretending to be Voldemort, but he also knew he was only pretending to be Voldemort. So he pushed the bowl toward Snape.
He did not force it into his hands.
"?????"
Snape's fingers curled involuntarily.
Whether the soup was delicious or not, he had no idea. What he did know, with absolute certainty, was that if he drank that bowl tonight, he would most likely die.
His potioneer's nose only needed one faint breath to pick up more than ten species of highly poisonous mushrooms, every single one of which had no business anywhere near human food.
"My lord, I came to report something," Snape said at once, terrified, eager to prove that work still came before all else.
He was trying very hard not to drink the soup.
"Oh? About what? Does it involve Professor Dumbledore... I mean, that old schemer?" Iain's hand paused.
The moment Snape nodded, Iain's thoughts immediately sprang to life.
"Did you discover where that old fox hid his treasure? I mean the Philosopher's Stone. I know he already took Nicolas Flamel's Stone."
Iain's eyes lit up, though he still kept his voice deliberately low and cold.
Inside, however, he was anything but calm.
Professor Dumbledore had spent a lifetime with no wife and no children. There was no way all he had left behind was the gold in Gringotts. Surely he had priceless collections too, the sort money could not buy.
Iain, personally, wanted very much to provide Dumbledore with an excellent retirement plan.
"I... no, not that," Snape said, lowering his eyes and fixing them on the grain of the wooden table. "I still don't know where he hid the Philosopher's Stone."
Originally, he had expected Voldemort to curse him as useless.
Instead, the little wizard simply reassured him.
"It doesn't matter. It's only the Philosopher's Stone. Forget it. Your safety matters more. Even without it, I... I, Voldemort, can still stand unrivaled in this world."
Iain let out a dismissive little laugh.
Part of that was just for the act, of course. Part of it was genuine concern for Snape. After all, it never hurt to leave yourself an escape route for the future. Iain needed to think ahead to the day his disguise eventually collapsed.
"Wait... my safety matters more?"
Snape had never heard the Dark Lord show concern for him like that.
His heart lurched despite himself.
Back then, the man he had willingly chosen to follow, the great wizard who had promised to lead them all to glory, had once been exactly like this: brilliant, confident, and unexpectedly gentle with his own people.
It was only later that everything had changed.
And now...
Perhaps what had returned was not only the Dark Lord who made the wizarding world tremble.
Perhaps the man who had come back also carried a sounder mind and some trace of the convictions he once held.
Perhaps he had truly returned.