Voldemort was very angry.
No, anger was far too shallow a word to describe what he felt at that moment.
It was a mixture of utter humiliation, the panic of having his very foundations shaken, and the fury of having been thoroughly toyed with.
Douglas's face reading had peeled away all his disguises, layer by layer, laying bare his deepest fears and resentment before all his servants.
An unstable Life Palace, a dim Parents Palace, a leaking Wealth Palace, a lightless Property Palace...
He had spent his entire life fleeing his lowly Muggle origins, trying to escape the name "Tom Riddle," a name branded with shame.
He had split his soul, distorted his appearance, and pursued ultimate power and immortality, all to become an entirely new, unrivaled "Voldemort," a god wholly severed from his past.
Yet the man before him had merely studied his distorted face and effortlessly reduced all his efforts to "a lack of love," "a lack of security," and "never finding a home his entire life."
It was more vicious and more hurtful than any jinx.
But he forced himself to calm down, just as he had forced himself to survive through pain and weakness thirteen years ago.
After that extreme fury, a cold rationality befitting a ruthless overlord regained the upper hand.
He realized that the more the other man said, the more he revealed.
Why did this man know his past inside out? Why could his blood resurrect him? There had to be some enormous conspiracy behind this that he knew nothing about.
He had to find out.
Right now, he needed answers.
Voldemort's snakelike face, twisted with rage, suddenly grew eerily calm. He even forced out an ugly smile.
He fixed his scarlet eyes on Douglas and asked hoarsely:
"So, how did you do