"Wand, to me!"
With a single shout, the wand flew straight back into Iain's hand.
"Hahahaha! If heaven hadn't given the world King Iain, wizardkind would still be stumbling through an endless dark age!"
Clutching the wand, Iain felt his mouth start twisting into a grin all on its own. The smile spread from one corner to the other, and his voice rang out bright and triumphant.
"?????"
The little skeleton looked up at him once, then lowered its head and went back to cleaning bones. Iain did not care in the slightest. All he needed to know was that he finally had style.
If nobody appreciated it, that was their problem.
"One hand holds a wand, the other a sword. So Gandalf was me all along!" Iain was already thinking ahead. If a few more tests proved the Sword of Kings still would not cooperate properly, then he would just replace its bound spirit. Yes, he remained completely convinced the sword moved because it had one.
Now his wand had one too and could fly back to him on command. That only confirmed his theory from another angle, just like every other conclusion he had ever reached.
"Come on. Getting stronger is great, but we can't forget to live a little too," Iain said. Whenever he got bored, he liked to pass along bits of life wisdom to the little skeleton.
He glanced at the venison the skeleton had already carved up and bundled onto its back, bones included, then waved for it to hurry along after him.
Not far away, the little flower basket he had tossed aside earlier still lay on the ground. Mushrooms of every color had fallen all around it. Before long, Iain had picked them all back up and dropped them neatly into the basket again.
"Mushroom picking time! I'm the little mushroom boy and this is my skeleton sidekick!" There was, in fact, a reason he had come into the forest at this hour.
He had a serious craving for mushrooms, which was why he had come out to forage in the first place. Nature had everything. White ones, red ones, even wildly multicolored ones. The forest was generous.
Iain was not picky.
Very quickly, he filled the whole basket.
By the time he got back to the cabin, the sky had turned golden with evening. He dumped the mushrooms into the sink and washed them one by one, fully intent on putting his liver and kidneys through another heroic trial.
"Even if my potion still doesn't work, survival of the fittest will sort it out sooner or later. It's not that the mushrooms are poisonous. My body is just too sensitive."
Iain washed them three times, soaked them in salt water for ten minutes, then lifted them out to drain.
After that, he cut the venison into bite-sized chunks, browned them in the pot until the surface turned golden, then added water, mushrooms, salt, and the spices he had bought in Hogsmeade.
Bubble, bubble, bubble.
The mushroom and venison stew was soon simmering away. The broth burbled in the pot, giving off bubbles in every color imaginable. Watching them rise, Iain could practically feel his mouth watering.
By now he had enough experience to know that the more colorful the bubbles were, the richer and more delicious the final soup would be. If he had been a less ethical person, he might already have started writing a cookbook called Fantastic Beasts in Soup.
"Clack clack clack."
Nearby, the little skeleton was assembling wings. It had gathered old bones together with the deer bones and was now binding them with wire, weaving the whole thing into shape.
No skeleton in the world could resist a great pair of huge, snow-white wings.
While the stew simmered, the cabin felt especially peaceful.
Iain sat beside the stove and opened his research journal. Since he rarely bothered to keep things tidy, the cover was curled at the edges and the pages inside were stained with splashes of every possible color.
He wrote today's date on a fresh page, then started talking to the wand.
"I'm researching a revolutionary invention. Compound Number Five, Trial 420. Formula adjustment as follows: moonstone powder cut by half, unicorn horn powder doubled, sneezewort essence increased from three drops to five, and one new ingredient added: one drop of Iain's Smart Blood."
"Actually, make that half a drop. A whole drop might be too much brilliance for ordinary people to handle."
"There's no need to worry. Once this succeeds, your name will go right next to mine. Iain and His Wand. I'd never keep all that glory to myself."
Iain had his reasons for this patient instruction. He was trying to teach his wand how to brew potions. If that worked, he intended to teach it even more skills later on. Leaving aside the convenience of having something else do the work, Iain had always been this selfless when it came to sharing knowledge.
The wand, however, did not move.
"Well? Move. You're a wand. Brewing potions is part of your job description. You can't just sit there and freeload. Do you have any idea how many flashy wands and bound spirits out there would love to replace you?"
Iain kept trying to reason with it.
The wand twitched.
It rolled half a turn across the table, then stopped.
Inside it, Voldemort listened to the formula, though the truth was he barely understood any of it. Compound Number Five meant nothing to him. No potion book in existence mentioned it, and the ingredients clashed so violently in nature that, at one point, Voldemort genuinely suspected the boy was trying to brew explosives.
Then again... technically that was a substance too.
"Looks like the bound spirit is malfunctioning again..."
Before Iain could finish the sentence, the wand shot up into the air, floated straight to the cauldron, and began brewing the potion exactly as instructed.
"I really am a genius. I knew all along that potion brewing doesn't need a wizard. It just needs a wand." Seeing it work, Iain gave himself a thumbs-up.
Naturally, he did not forget to encourage the wand either. "Stick with me and your future is guaranteed. Iain never lies. Ask the magic skeleton if you don't believe me."
"When it first joined me, it slept on the floor. Now it has a coffin of its own." Iain pointed at the little skeleton, which was still fully absorbed in piecing together its new wings.
The skeleton was holding up one half-finished bone wing and admiring it from an angle. Hearing itself mentioned, it turned its head, opened and closed its jaw, and let out a series of sharp clacks.
It sounded suspiciously like swearing.
"..."
Inside the wand, Voldemort listened to all this and did not believe a word of it. This child was far too wicked. Even he, a wicked wizard himself, felt qualified to say so.
"Endure. Endure." Voldemort had long since lost count of how many times he had repeated those words. He kept hypnotizing himself with the same promise: once he recovered enough strength, he would seize this child's body, crush the boy's soul, and launch a wizarding war over Hogwarts.
He would make Dumbledore kneel before him, repent, weep, and beg.
"He'll regret it. He'll regret ever playing with me. He'll regret underestimating me." The more Voldemort thought about it, the more motivated he became, and the more smoothly he brewed the potion.
He was thirty years ahead of his time. Quite by accident, Voldemort had discovered the essence of dramatic revenge monologues. There was no helping it. At this point, little fantasies like this were the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door.
"Who's there?!"
Voldemort jolted in alarm, terrified Dumbledore had come calling.
"Don't stop. Keep brewing," Iain said, setting down the spoon before heading to the door and pulling it open.
Standing outside was Snape, the very man Iain had fooled earlier.
"Huh... it's this late already. What are you doing here?" Iain felt a stab of panic, afraid his lie was finally about to unravel. Outwardly, though, he put on his sternest, most commanding face.
"!!!"
Snape gave a visible shudder and dropped straight to his knees. As he did, he sneaked another glance at the Dark Mark on his arm, which was more active than he had ever seen it.
That was the sort of reaction it only had when Voldemort was very close by and in a highly agitated mood. It felt as though the mark might leap right out of his skin.
"My Lord... I only... I only came to report a matter of great importance!" Driven by instinctive terror, Snape spoke at once, his voice trembling.
Dumbledore might lie.
The Dark Mark did not.
As for the idea that Voldemort had been reborn in the body of some child from the Dumbledore line, Snape now had not the slightest remaining doubt.