Snape, Will You Give Me a Hand?

Just then, a tremendous explosion obliterated everything—the nuclear explosion rang out once more.

Traces of Time, one of Anton's greatest achievements in the field of Gray Magic.

In the middle of the time loop, there was a brief stretch of time during which the nuclear explosion was not happening...

Britain, Little Hangleton, the old Riddle Manor.

In the bathtub used for the Resurrection Ritual, Voldemort slowly sat up. He let Bella help him put on his Wizarding Robes, his gaze fixed on Snape, who was bowing before him.

Voldemort had known for a long time that this subordinate was dangerous.

He didn't know whether Snape had deliberately studied Occlumency or whether he was simply dead inside, but most of the time, his mind was almost completely blank.

It was as if he were constantly submerged in a faint, elusive sorrow, unable to escape.

Voldemort had never hesitated to assume the worst of others. He believed Snape was a master of Occlumency.

At least, Bella had once told him that when they were students, she had taught Severus Snape, her underling at the time, the advanced version of Occlumency treasured by the Black family.

Suspicion was enough. Old Voldy was a shrewd man. He knew how deeply killing Lily Potter had wounded Snape.

But so what? No matter how much you hated me, you had to swallow it. You weren't even allowed to show it!

Voldemort had no qualms about using people. Lucius was a two-faced opportunist who couldn't make up his mind. Snape harbored a grudge and might stab him in the back at any moment. His loyal Barty Crouch Jr. and Bella were crazy enough to be half-insane. None of that mattered, as long as they were useful.

"I'm going to prepare an even more advanced Resurrection Ritual. In