Life around Hogwarts was anything but dull for Iain.
He had not officially enrolled yet and was only living in Hogsmeade for now, but he was already convinced Hogwarts was a lucky place for him. Deep down, Iain was exactly the kind of person who believed a place could boost your fortune. Otherwise, how else were you supposed to explain going for a walk in the woods and getting an absurd spirit drop off an ordinary stag?
"In Britain, the most common deer is the fallow deer. They only live around twelve years, so even getting a white-tier spirit drop from one old enough to count as a ten-year beast is already pretty rare."
"And I've been out here laying a lot of ingredients to rest lately, but only this one dropped anything. That means the drop rate for spirit drops really is insanely low."
"I wonder if magical creatures have better odds." Iain found nothing strange about any of this, because it fit perfectly with how he imagined a fairy-tale world should work.
Anyone familiar with fairy tales knew they were supposed to contain everything.
"A ten-year spirit drop is still a spirit drop. I'm not complaining. I believe that if I'm idealistic enough, it'll eventually grind hard and evolve itself into something legendary." Squatting on the ground, Iain clutched the transparent thing that looked half like jelly and half like smoke, trying with all his might to shove it into his wand.
The wand itself did not seem to mind. It was perfectly zen about the whole situation. For some reason, though, Iain had the distinct feeling the spirit drop simply would not go in.
He dug his fingers into the edge of the thing and pushed. It bounced, shrank back, bounced again, and shrank back again. He changed angles and tried feeding it in from the side. It still bounced. Then he planted the wand upright in the ground with the tip facing up and tried to drop the thing over it like he was putting a hat on a post.
"Get in."
It did not go in.
"Get in!"
Iain shouted this time. A single thin strand split off from the thing and slipped into the wand tip, but most of it stayed outside, like a melting marshmallow.
"Maybe it's because there's still a deer spirit inside the spirit drop?" Iain had read enough fantasy stories to know that kind of thing mattered. Frowning, he wondered whether he needed to make some kind of vow.
"Work with me here. You'll be my spirit drop from now on. Think of it as getting hired. Full benefits, retirement plan, the works. Sound good?" In this life, Iain had never once failed at talking something into cooperating.
He could sweet-talk tables and chairs into obedience. Naturally, he believed he could talk down a spirit drop too. Meanwhile, Voldemort's remnant soul remained curled inside those small hands.
It did not move.
"What was that force just now? Why did I suddenly feel compelled to dive into his wand?" Voldemort was furious and bewildered, though he understood none of Iain's promises.
He did understand one thing, however.
This child did not know who he was.
The boy actually thought he was some kind of "spirit drop," some unknown thing that, in the child's understanding of the world, belonged inside a wand.
Voldemort had no idea what a spirit drop was, but he knew this much: he was weak, unimaginably weak. At a time like this, the only thing he could do was hide and avoid discovery.
"Endure. Endure. I have to endure." Voldemort warned himself again. He was so fragile now that any random wizard could capture him and hand him to Dumbledore as a gift.
So he could not afford to be exposed. He could not let anyone recognize him, especially not this child who had clearly been chosen by Dumbledore to become the next Dark Lord.
"I have to survive. I have to rise again. Then I'll have my revenge. I'll show Dumbledore what playing with fire really means!" Voldemort, too, had a dream.
For the sake of that dream, he became the world's most patient serpent. He would curl up in the dark like something hibernating through winter and wait for spring to come.
The moment that thought settled, some of the resistance in his soul eased.
And then, in the next instant, he was shoved into the wand.
The wand tip became a vortex. Some unseen force seized him and dragged every wisp of smoke, every thread of awareness, every shred of soul into the narrow seams of the wood grain. Voldemort did not resist.
He did not have time to.
"What is happening!"
He was inside. Inside Iain's wand.
"What is this? This makes no sense!"
Voldemort could feel himself parasitizing the wand itself. That should have been impossible. Leaving aside a wand's own exclusivity, he was a human soul. At most, he should only have been able to possess another living creature, something animal, something biological. How could a wand become a host?
"I'm not a wand core!"
What kind of wizard had a Dark Lord's soul for a wand core? There was no precedent for that in all of alchemy. As someone who understood souls better than almost anyone alive, Voldemort was stunned on the spot.
Aside from creating Horcruxes, souls were not supposed to lodge themselves in ordinary objects. That was a rule he knew better than anyone. After all, he was the wizard who had made seven Horcruxes. He had always believed himself to be the greatest living authority on the laws of the soul.
And yet this had happened.
As the one currently stuck inside the wand, Voldemort could only conclude the situation had gone completely beyond the boundaries of his knowledge. The good news, at least, was that the possession itself had gone flawlessly.
It felt as though he had found the perfect place to nurture a damaged soul. He could already feel strength returning. At this rate, given a month at most, he would likely recover.
"But how is this possible?"
That part baffled him even more than the possession itself. Even someone as learned as the Dark Lord could not help thinking too much when faced with such a thing. The moment his mind started moving, his soul shuddered.
"This child... could it be... could his wand also be one of Dumbledore's alchemical creations? Bio-alchemy? Dumbledore turned a living human into a wand?"
That idea chilled Voldemort to the core.
He was simply too intelligent.
And because he was so intelligent, he could imagine such a possibility.
Honestly, it was not even unreasonable for the Dark Lord to think that way. His knowledge ran too deep, and among all the things he knew, he truly could not find another explanation.
At times like this, a legendary dark wizard's imagination naturally began to do its work. Imagination, after all, often decided the upper limit of a wizard's power.
Wizards were natural overthinkers. The stronger the wizard, the richer the imagination.
"No... I can't let him find out!"
"If this boy learns I'm not some spirit drop, he'll tell Dumbledore at once. And then who knows what Dumbledore will do to me in the dark?" Completely immersed in the terrible truth he had constructed for himself, Voldemort became cautious beyond belief.
He curled himself into the deepest part of the wand like a seed buried in soil. He did not move. He did not speak. He did not release even the faintest trace of his presence.
But from outside, the little wizard's voice still came through.
"Float."
The wand did nothing.
"Float, come on. You've got a bound spirit now. Why are you still not cooperating?"
The wand lay on the grass where Iain had tossed it.
It did not move.
"Maybe the spirit isn't compatible?" Iain muttered to himself. "Looks like I'll have to go ask Professor Dumbledore."
"He's the one who taught me a wand needed a proper bound spirit." Iain was actually speaking to the little skeleton beside him, which was busy butchering the stag and, while it worked, shoving deer bones into its own back.
The little skeleton did not respond. It stayed focused on stripping the carcass clean, even hooking the antlers over its skull like a crown. But inside the wand, Voldemort nearly had a complete breakdown.
"Of course! Of course it was Dumbledore! And he lied to the boy to trick him into doing this, just like he lied to me, just like he lies to everyone!"
"No. I cannot let him go to Dumbledore!" Voldemort panicked inside the wand, and in his frantic effort, the Dark Lord's once-in-a-generation talent finally showed itself.
No argument from the wizarding public was needed. The truth spoke for itself. Tom Riddle really was one of the most gifted wizards in history.
The wand rose from the grass and floated into the air.
"It's flying! It's actually flying!" Iain cried in delight. He was now convinced he had the makings of a true archwizard. Otherwise, there was no way he could have synchronized with his wand's bound spirit this quickly.
Dumbledore really never lied to people.
A wand with a bound spirit definitely was much easier to use.