Snape shook his head, making it clear he couldn't help.
The reason the Dark Mark didn't affect him wasn't because he was "innocent"—it was because after his soul had been transformed into Origin Glintstone, his control over his body had strengthened across the board.
With that level of control, Snape had simply peeled the Dark Mark off his arm.
And even if he could help—
Why would he?
Arthur's Origin Glintstone Knife wasn't Snape's to give away in the first place.
And even if it were, Snape still wouldn't lift a finger for Karkaroff.
That man had sold Snape's name to save his own skin—one more spit of testimony to claw his way out of Azkaban.
Snape had been bailed out by Dumbledore and never went to prison, sure—
But that didn't mean Snape had forgotten.
He'd never been the forgiving type.
Karkaroff saw the refusal, didn't dare keep begging, and swallowed his humiliation.
He clutched his arm through the pain and forced himself to keep watching the scene in the sky.
At the Riddle graveyard, Death Eaters Apparated in one by one.
But even after the Dark Mark in the clouds faded away…
Voldemort had only managed to call in seven.
The rest?
Most were rotting in Azkaban.
Some had been killed during the post-war hunts.
And a small number either resisted the call—or were too far away to reach in time.
Arthur watched the pitifully small group and honestly felt laughter threatening again.
Compared to Grindelwald's "Greater Good" movement…
Voldemort's "Death Eaters" sounded more dramatic, sure, but in terms of presence?
They were embarrassing.
And Arthur was willing to bet: among those seven, almost none were truly loyal.
Because the ones still walking free in daylight were either:
hiding under new names while continuing their cruelty in the shadows, orlike Lucius Malfoy—using wealth and connections to scrub their image clean and "prove" they'd been forced.
Voldemort clearly wasn't happy either.
This was nothing like what he'd imagined.
In his mind, his return would be greeted like a thunderclap—followers falling over themselves to kneel.
Instead, there were barely ten people in the circle total.
That count included Harry.
If you counted Hermione—still hidden—then it was eleven.
But no one had found her yet.
Voldemort swept his gaze over them, voice thick with contempt.
"Welcome, my friends. Thirteen years… and yet you stand before me as if it all happened yesterday."
His tone turned colder.
"But I must admit… I am disappointed."
"None of you tried to find me."
Then he began to call names.
"Crabbe."
"Macnair."
"Goyle."
"…"
Each name made another Death Eater flinch and lower his head, unable to meet Voldemort's eyes.
And every name caused a wave of shocked gasps back in the Hogwarts stadium—
especially from the Slytherin section.
Because the names Voldemort was speaking weren't strangers.
They belonged to fathers.
Families.
Bloodlines.
Crabbe and Goyle's sons—Draco's two thick-headed followers—stared as if their brains had crashed.
They didn't believe it until Voldemort ripped off masks one by one and exposed the faces beneath.
Only then did it truly sink in:
Their fathers were Death Eaters.
Arthur almost wanted to ask them—
What did you think your families were doing, spending all that time with the Malfoys? Playing gobstones?
Voldemort tore off the sixth mask.
Then he stepped to the seventh.
His voice sharpened.
"Even you did not, Lucius."
Draco heard his father's name and didn't react with the same shock as the others.
Lucius had already spoken to him about it.
Old pure-blood families weren't always the strongest—but they were often the best investors.
They bet on the era's rising star to ensure their own survival.
Lucius had bet on Voldemort in the previous era.
And now, for this era, he had advised Draco to bet on Arthur.
Still, Draco's face tightened with worry.
He pushed his way toward Arthur, quietly asking if there was any way to pull his father out of this.
Arthur only motioned for him to calm down.
"If it comes to it, I'll step in."
Draco exhaled—just barely—and turned back to the sky.
Lucius, meanwhile, proved exactly why he'd survived.
The moment he sensed Voldemort's displeasure, he dropped to one knee, voice smooth as silk.
"My Lord… if I had seen any sign, any signal—any rumor of your whereabouts…"
But Voldemort cut him off like a knife.
"There was a signal, my cunning friend."
"And not merely rumor."
He meant the Chamber of Secrets incident.
That second-year chaos had been loud enough that even Voldemort—hiding far away—had felt the ripple of what his diary Horcrux was doing.
Voldemort didn't believe for a second that Lucius hadn't known.
And yet Lucius had done nothing.
No attempt to recover the diary.
No attempt to reach Voldemort.
Just silence.
Lucius realized flattery alone wasn't going to work, so he switched tactics—
not explaining, but pledging.
"I swear to you, my Lord… I never abandoned our cause."
"But without you, I had to wear another face before the world."
"A mask."
"Now that you have returned, I have come at once—just as you see—ready to serve."
It was the perfect speech.
The kind that sounded loyal without ever admitting guilt.
And right then, someone couldn't stand being upstaged.
Pettigrew lifted his remaining hand, desperate to remind the world he mattered.
"But I returned first! I served before the Dark Lord's full return!"
Voldemort turned slowly toward him.
"You did so out of fear," he said softly, "not loyalty."
Pettigrew's face drained.
Then Voldemort's voice shifted slightly.
"But… these past months, you have still been useful, Wormtail."
Like a master tapping a dog with a stick and then offering it a treat.
Pettigrew's terror twisted into trembling joy.
Voldemort raised his wand and flicked it over Pettigrew's severed wrist.
A hand—silvery, mercury-smooth—formed, joint by joint, until it was complete.
Pettigrew stared at it, overwhelmed.
"Thank you, my Lord!"
Voldemort barely acknowledged him.
His attention slid to the one person he cared about most in that circle—
Harry.
"Oh… Harry," Voldemort said almost warmly. "I nearly forgot you were still here."
"You're standing on my father's bones."
His expression curdled.
Because the moment he thought of his body's earlier… issue…
he couldn't help wondering if it was tied to that filthy Muggle skeleton.
The idea alone made rage bloom behind his eyes.
If someone had tampered with those bones—
He wanted them torn apart.
(Arthur, watching from far away: Enjoying the show. Don't mind me.)
Voldemort continued, voice dripping with mockery.
"And you needn't introduce yourself."
"I've heard your fame is nearly as great as mine."
Arthur nearly laughed again.
Voldemort really had no idea how the world had moved on.
Harry had some heat right now because Rita Skeeter had been milking the Triwizard story.
But Voldemort?
If he hadn't returned today, most of the wizarding world would've happily left him as a dusty bedtime warning.
And the biggest name in the stadium at this moment wasn't Harry—
It was the brilliant witch about to win the Triwizard Cup: Hermione Granger.
Back at the graveyard, Voldemort tilted his head.
"The Boy Who Lived," he said lightly. "A legend built on lies, Harry."
"Shall I tell you what truly happened that night thirteen years ago?"
"Shall I tell you what caused me to lose my power?"
"Shall I?"
Harry, gagged and pinned, wanted to scream.
Maybe start by removing the spell on my mouth, you deranged snake-faced lunatic—
Voldemort clearly didn't care.
Maybe he noticed and enjoyed it.
Maybe he simply liked hearing his own voice.
"It was love," Voldemort went on, tone thick with contempt. "That foolish woman—Lily—"
"She sacrificed herself."
"And she placed upon him the strongest protection."
"So strong… that I could not touch him."
"A very old magic," Voldemort said softly.
"One I should have foreseen."
His eyes gleamed.
It was obvious: in all those years hiding, Voldemort hadn't done nothing.
He had studied.
He had learned why he failed.
And more importantly—
He believed he'd found the way around it.
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