Marquas discovered that preparing to meet the Dark Lord was much like preparing for a performance review with a particularly unstable boss, if that boss could read minds and kill you with a stick. The summons had come via Lucius Malfoy's elegant owl: a gathering at Malfoy Manor that evening. Black robes, masks required, existential dread optional.
"Well, this should be fun," Marquas muttered, examining Snape's Death Eater mask with distaste. The thing looked like it had been designed by someone who'd heard the concept "intimidating" described third-hand. All swooping lines and melodramatic contouring. "Nothing says 'I make good life choices' like showing up to a terrorist meeting in coordinated outfits."
Still, he had to admit there was a certain sick brilliance to Voldemort's branding. The masks, the tattoos, the ominous name that no one was allowed to say, it was cultish psychology 101. Create an in-group, develop secret symbols, foster fear both within and without.
"Minus the magic, this is basically a goth MLM scheme," he snorted, setting the mask aside.
Getting ready for the meeting required careful preparation. First, Marquas spent three hours practicing Occlumency, which thankfully came somewhat naturally with Snape's muscle memory, though it took conscious effort to maintain. He constructed mental walls around his true identity, creating a surface personality that was essentially "Snape Classic" bitter, servile to the Dark Lord, and obsessed with dark magic.
Behind those walls, he established a second layer of false memories, things Voldemort might go looking for if he was suspicious. Carefully crafted images of Marquas-as-Snape brewing potions for the cause, researching dark spells, and nursing his grudge against James Potter. All plausible, all consistent with what the real Snape would have been doing.
Only behind a third, heavily fortified mental barrier did he keep the truth: that he was Marquas Wilson, software developer from 2025, currently hijacking the body of fiction's most problematic potions professor.
"It's like nesting dolls, but with trauma," he murmured, massaging his temples. Mental compartmentalization was exhausting.
His second preparation involved potions, lots of them. He'd brewed several that might prove useful: a subtle strengthening solution, a mental acuity draught, and most importantly, an experimental concoction he'd developed himself, designed to minimize the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Because if there was one thing Marquas was certain of, it was that hanging around Voldemort eventually meant getting tortured.
"Just a typical Saturday night," he said grimly, tucking the vials into specially designed pockets in his robes. "Meet evil wizard, try not to die, make it home in time for a nightcap."
The final touch was his appearance. While he was tempted to show up with his newly improved hair and tailored robes, he recognized that suddenly looking fashionable might raise unwanted questions. Instead, he applied a temporary charm that made his hair appear slightly greasy again (though nowhere near the environmental hazard it had been), and wore one of the old billowing black robes he'd salvaged from the fire.
"Know your audience," he reminded himself. "Death Eaters aren't ready for style upgrades."
At precisely eight o'clock, Marquas Apparated to the designated arrival point outside Malfoy Manor. The grand house loomed against the darkening sky, all Gothic splendor and aristocratic menace. Peacocks strutted across the manicured lawns, their white feathers ghostly in the twilight.
"Of course Lucius has albino peacocks," Marquas muttered. "Probably magically engineered to match his hair."
Other black-robed figures were converging on the manor, their faces hidden behind silver masks. Marquas slipped his own mask on, adjusted his mental shields, and joined the procession, keeping his stride confident but not arrogant. In this circle, body language could mean the difference between favor and punishment.
Inside, Malfoy Manor was exactly as ostentatious as he'd expected. Crystal chandeliers, priceless artwork, antique furniture that probably cost more than most wizarding families earned in a decade. The gathering was being held in a grand ballroom, where house-elves scurried about with trays of drinks, looking terrified.
"Severus," a smooth voice greeted him. Lucius Malfoy, recognizable even with his mask by his distinctive white-blond hair, approached with two glasses of what appeared to be very expensive firewhisky. "Right on time, as always."
"Lucius," Marquas returned coolly, accepting the drink. "Charming venue. The house-elves look particularly miserable tonight. Special occasion?"
Lucius chuckled, a sound entirely devoid of genuine mirth. "Our Lord has been in excellent spirits lately. A successful raid in Cardiff has yielded valuable information."
Marquas made an appropriately impressed noise, mentally filing away the information about Cardiff. Something to pass to Dumbledore later.
"And how goes your work at Hogwarts?" Lucius inquired, his voice lowering. "Has the old fool suspected anything?"
"Dumbledore sees what he wishes to see," Marquas replied with just the right amount of disdain. "He's convinced of my... reformation. As if a few pretty words about redemption could sway true loyalty."
It was fascinating, really, how easily the lies flowed when necessary. Marquas had never considered himself a particularly good actor, but inhabiting Snape's body seemed to come with certain performative advantages. The deep voice, the sneer, the subtle inflections, all tools in crafting a convincing Death Eater persona.
"Excellent," Lucius murmured. "The Dark Lord will be pleased. He values your position greatly, Severus."
Before Marquas could respond, a hush fell over the room. The assembled Death Eaters turned as one toward the grand doorway, where a tall, thin figure had appeared.
Voldemort.
Marquas had prepared himself for this moment, but reality still hit differently. The Dark Lord wasn't yet the noseless, corpse-like creature he would become after his resurrection. In 1979, he still retained some vestige of Tom Riddle's handsome features, though distorted by dark magic, skin waxy pale, eyes already beginning to show a reddish tint, movements unnaturally fluid. He was terrifying not because he looked monstrous, but because he walked the uncanny valley between human and something else.
"My faithful followers," Voldemort said, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly across the silent room. "How pleasing to see you all gathered here, united in our sacred purpose."
The Death Eaters sank to their knees in unison. Marquas followed suit, keeping his eyes downcast and his mind carefully shielded. This wasn't the time for heroics or clever plans. This was reconnaissance.
"Rise," Voldemort commanded after a moment of silent obeisance. "Tonight, we celebrate progress. Our influence grows. The Ministry weakens. Those who would stand against us cower in fear."
What followed was essentially a business meeting from hell. Reports were given. Assignments distributed. Failures punished, Marquas winced behind his mask as a Death Eater who had apparently bungled a simple intimidation mission writhed under the Cruciatus Curse, Voldemort's wand pointed lazily at him as though he were merely conducting an orchestra.
Throughout it all, Marquas observed. Not just Voldemort, but the dynamics among the Death Eaters. Who stood where. Who spoke up. Who remained silent. The hierarchy was complex and fluid, with Bellatrix Lestrange clearly vying for the position of favorite, while others like Lucius Malfoy maintained influence through more subtle means.
"And now," Voldemort said, his gaze sweeping the room, "Severus. Step forward."
Marquas felt a cold jolt of adrenaline but kept his external composure as he approached the Dark Lord and knelt again.
"My Lord," he murmured.
"How goes your work on the potions I requested?" Voldemort asked. "The enhancements to Veritaserum?"
Thankfully, Marquas had found detailed notes on this project in Snape's laboratory and had actually made some progress on it, though certainly not in the way Voldemort intended.
"It advances well, my Lord," he replied. "I've identified the binding agent that limits Veritaserum's effectiveness against strong-willed subjects. Another fortnight should yield a prototype for testing."
Voldemort made a soft humming sound of approval. "Excellent. Your intellect continues to serve our cause admirably, Severus." He paused, then added, "And your position at Hogwarts? The old fool suspects nothing?"
"He believes what he wishes to believe, my Lord," Marquas responded, echoing what he'd told Lucius. "Dumbledore sees redemption in everyone. It is both his greatest weakness and my greatest advantage."
Voldemort laughed, a chilling sound that raised goosebumps on Marquas's arms.
"Stand, Severus," the Dark Lord commanded.
Marquas rose, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered but not submissively downcast. A subtle balance.
"Look at me," Voldemort said softly.
Here we go, Marquas thought, bracing himself as he raised his gaze to meet Voldemort's. Immediately, he felt a pressure against his mental shields, not a brutal attack, but a subtle probing, like fingers testing the strength of fabric.
He allowed Voldemort to see carefully selected memories: brewing potions late into the night, reporting to Dumbledore with calculated misinformation, private moments of apparent devotion to the Dark Lord's cause. All fabricated or heavily modified from Snape's actual memories.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, Voldemort withdrew from his mind with a satisfied expression.
"Your loyalty is admirable, Severus," he said. Then, with a slight smirk, added, "Though I see you've finally discovered proper hair care potions. An unexpected development."
Several Death Eaters tittered nervously. Marquas felt his face warm slightly behind the mask. Of course Voldemort would notice that.
A test, then. How would he respond?
Marquas decided to go with honesty cloaked in subservience. "Appearances can be useful tools, my Lord. The more Dumbledore believes I've... reformed, the more he trusts me with his precious Order's secrets."
Voldemort studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Indeed. Cunning, as befits a true Slytherin." He turned to address the wider group again. "Take note, all of you. Dedication to our cause takes many forms."
Marquas allowed himself to breathe again as Voldemort moved on to address another Death Eater. The interaction had gone better than expected. He hadn't been tortured, killed, or exposed as an imposter, a definite win in his book.
The meeting continued for another hour, during which Voldemort outlined his vision for the coming months. It was, Marquas had to admit, disturbingly coherent for a megalomaniacal dark wizard. Voldemort wasn't just powerful; he was strategic. He understood politics, psychology, and the art of incremental conquest. No wonder the wizarding world had nearly fallen to him.
As Voldemort droned on about pureblood superiority and the corruption of magical traditions, Marquas found his attention wandering slightly. The Dark Lord's monologue had all the hallmarks of a villain who loved the sound of his own voice: grandiose declarations, historical revisionism, and an impressive ability to reframe "I want unlimited power" as "I'm doing this for all of you."
Marquas began mentally counting logical fallacies, a game he used to play during particularly tedious corporate meetings. Ad hominem, false dichotomy, slippery slope, appeal to tradition...
He was up to seventeen when Voldemort suddenly paused mid-sentence and looked directly at him.
"Does something amuse you, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked softly.
Shit. Had his expression changed? Had Voldemort sensed his wandering attention?
The room went deadly silent. Every masked face turned toward him.
This was it. The moment of truth. Panic or strategize?
Marquas chose the latter, dropping smoothly to one knee again.
"Forgive me, my Lord," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I was merely reflecting on the elegant simplicity of your strategy. While others might employ brute force, you wield influence like a subtle poison, unseen until it's too late." He paused, then added with deliberate precision: "My loyalty is as pure as your soul is intact, my Lord."
For a terrifying moment, silence reigned. Then, unexpectedly, Voldemort laughed, a genuine sound of amusement that seemed to startle even the other Death Eaters.
"Well said, Severus," the Dark Lord remarked, a thin smile playing across his lipless mouth. "Your wit has always been among your more... valuable attributes."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled Death Eaters. Bellatrix looked murderous behind her mask, clearly displeased that someone else had earned the Dark Lord's approval.
Did I just successfully troll the most dangerous dark wizard in history? Marquas thought incredulously. And he... liked it?
The rest of the meeting passed without incident. When Voldemort finally departed in a swirl of black robes, the tension in the room visibly eased, though no one dared express relief openly.
"That was quite bold," Lucius commented as they collected their cloaks afterward. "Few would dare show such... verbal flourish in the Dark Lord's presence."
Marquas shrugged elegantly. "The Dark Lord appreciates intelligence, Lucius. Unlike some, he doesn't require constant simpering to recognize value."
As he Apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts, mask tucked safely away in an inner pocket, Marquas allowed himself a moment of genuine reflection. He had survived his first direct encounter with Voldemort. More than survived, he had navigated it successfully, establishing himself as valuable, loyal, and just interesting enough to be worth keeping around.
It was a precarious position, certainly. One misstep and he'd be Avada Kedavra'd faster than you could say "plot twist." But for now, he had established a foothold in this dangerous new reality.
Back in his quarters, Marquas poured himself a generous measure of firewhisky and pulled out the journal he'd been keeping since the Lily resolution.
Day 8: Attended Death Eater meeting. Didn't die. Trolled Voldemort with a Horcrux joke he didn't even get. Need better material for soulless audiences.
He smiled grimly as he sipped his drink. Tomorrow he would need to meet with Dumbledore, report what he'd learned, and begin the delicate dance of double agency in earnest. But tonight, he would celebrate the small victory of surviving his first encounter with the Dark Lord.
And maybe start planning how to sabotage Voldemort's plans without getting himself killed in the process. Because while trolling the Dark Lord had been unexpectedly satisfying, Marquas had no intention of becoming just another casualty in this war.
He was going to rewrite this story, one sarcastic comment at a time.