Voldemort was about to drink a potion that would be the first of many steps toward protecting his body from all manner of things. Sure, he was immortal, and a glance at his array of horcruxes assured him of that, but that didn't mean he would be careless with his body.
He seethed angrily as he felt the twinge in his arm that meant one of his Marked servants was calling him. The Marked of course knew better than to call him unless it was direly important. Fortnately, the potion would wait.
Voldemort apparated to Lestrange Manor, mere feet from Jacob. His face was full of anger.