Edited March 2021

Part One, Chapter Fifteen

"They're pink," Izar spoke, startled. "The spiders, they're pink." He waited, knowing that his companion sitting at his bedside would be most interested in this observation.

"Is that so?"

"So." Izar snickered. "They're dancing…with a Basilisk. Really…how strange is that?"

"I would say it's unheard of," the voice agreed dryly.

A cold hand ran through his wet locks, brushing them away from his face. Izar blinked away the vision of the spiders and turned to his bedside companion. A smile was already across his face, eager to know what his companion would look like next. Every time he looked at his friend, the man would appear different each time.

There were times in which his companion had painted lips and glowing pink eyes. There were other times his companion had fangs and horns… and there were times—like now—when he appeared like a normal human being.

"Dumbledore," Izar slurred, staring at the man with the long beard next to him. "You don't have your glasses—" Izar reached out toward the companion's face, wondering when Dumbledore started to wear black.

His finger was intercepted by hands that appeared strangely like frog feet.

"I am not Dumbledore," his companion spoke, irritated.

Izar snickered, pausing, before gasping. "No…" He watched as Dumbledore sneered before morphing into a toad head. "You're a bloody toad!"

"I beg your pardon?" his companion questioned dangerously.

Izar eyed the long black hair coming from the toad's head and stared at it quizzically. "When did toads grow fur? I never read about such a spectacle…"

The toad's eyes turned upward in exasperation. "Who knew you had such an overactive imagination, love?" The toad leaned closer, gently taking Izar's face in his flippers and placing cold lips to his forehead. Only, it wasn't as disgusting as Izar thought it would be. It felt like real lips—cold lips—but real nonetheless. "Go to sleep, Izar."

Izar caught blazing crimson eyes before his eyelids drooped.

"Tom…" Izar whispered hoarsely, dozing off, "don't let the toads kill me."

"Never."

Death of Today

All Izar could remember were colorful visions and hot and cold. He was never comfortable, and he was never without a vision of dancing creatures and talking toads. He had dreams that he and Voldemort purchased matching robes, robes that looked suspiciously similar to the ones Dumbledore wore at the Weighing of the Wand ceremony. Waving moons and all.

After what felt like ages, Izar opened his eyes, relieved to be grounded back in real time. There were no dancing Basilisks and Acromantulas, and most importantly, there were no matching robes.

Izar breathed deeply and let it out slowly. He blinked once again, examining his surroundings. It was horribly dark and dingy, a far cry from Hogwarts' infirmary. The bronze bed posts were rusty and covered with soot. The heavy, dusty drapes were pulled across the windows, blocking any sunlight that wished to glimpse through.

Leisurely, Izar sat up, his head spinning just a bit.

He eyed the water basin and washcloth situated beside the bed on the nightstand. Vaguely, he recalled his burning forehead being washed and soothing hands running through his hair. Without meaning to, he flushed as he recalled bits and pieces of his interactions with Voldemort. The Dark Lord had been taking care of him.

But why here?

Why him?

Oh Merlin.

He just prayed, to whatever god that was out there, that he hadn't said or done anything too horribly embarrassing.

Izar's bare feet touched the floor as he shakily stood from the bed. A simple black cloak dressed his frame and he wondered at the size of it. It pooled to the ground and the arms lengthened past his hands by a couple of inches. As he raised his hands, he noticed the ring that the Dark Lord had given him was absent from his middle finger.

Odd.

Izar furrowed his brows and slowly walked out of his room.

Using the wall as support, he shuffled down the long corridor. The hallway was just as dingy as the room he woke up in. It would have been pitch-black had it not been for the few lit sconces hanging from the walls. He found his attention falling on the oil painting down the hallway, absorbing the handsome and aristocratic features of the man.

That arrogant smirk looked oddly familiar…

"My father," a voice informed from the shadows.

Izar stiffened suddenly, a wash of cold sweat beading across his forehead. He searched for the figure he knew to be nearby, but could only see a faint outline of the Dark Lord in the shadows.

He couldn't even sense the man's magic. It put Izar on edge as he tried to remember what had happened.

Izar cleared his throat. "Your father?" he repeated hoarsely. He turned to look back at the painting, too afraid to admit that Voldemort looked remarkably like the man. If he admitted it out loud, the Dark Lord would surely hex Izar back into bed. "The Muggle father you killed when you were sixteen?"

A sinister chuckle sounded from the cloaked figure. "The very same," the man conceded. "Good memory."

Izar stared up at Riddle Senior, trying to gather his courage. "What happened at the Tournament, My Lord?" He turned away from the smirking portrait and toward the man who was undoubtedly wearing a mirroring smirk. "And why am I here and not at Hogwarts?"

And why are you hiding yourself?

"All good questions, Mr. Harrison, and ones I'm sure you have the ability to answer yourself. Severus was the only one able to identify the substance that had affected you, as both Dumbledore and I were ignorant, but I'm sure you can figure it out just as quickly as he had."

Izar grinned lightly before forcing himself to focus on the challenge presented before him. It was never easy with the Dark Lord, was it? A simple request of what had transpired resulted in Izar having to work to get his answers. In all honesty, he was relieved to have something to preoccupy his mind.

"I had just defeated the Acromantulas…"

"Rather brilliantly, may I add?"

Izar hated that his chest warmed at the praise. "Thank you, sir." His Dark Mark tinged pleasantly and Izar lowered his gaze. "I was about to collect my bag of vials when I felt a magical source approach me from behind."

"Because of your magical sensitivity," Voldemort stated. "Tell me, child, would you remember the magic if you encountered it again?"

"No." Izar shook his head. "The magic I sense varies by intensity, not necessarily by magical signature. Though the more time I spend around someone, the more I am able to become familiar with it. I can also tell someone's mood by their magic. If you're angry, I can feel your magic mirroring your emotions."

"It's a pity you wouldn't identify your attacker."

"It was too faint to make a lasting impression."

Voldemort cocked his head to the side. "Please, continue."

Izar shrugged slightly as his mind flashed back to the Tournament. "I turned to get a face full of dust, a lavender-colored dust." His brows furrowed and he tried to remember. "It was glowing, I remember that. I breathed it in because I was about to cast a curse, but after that…nothing." Izar paused before eagerly looking up at Voldemort. "The Watchful. Surely you all—"

"Your Watchful was manipulated and attacked. Rather conveniently, Lukas Steinar's Watchful blinked out moments before your own. We did not see anything worth mentioning."

Izar experienced a momentary spasm of disappointment, but then he focused on the pieces to the puzzle he did possess.

"The dust," he mused. "I've read about this sort of thing before." The side-effects were hallucinations and fever. The dust itself was purple and glowing, a rare magical color amongst plants with the exception of— "Devils Venenum," he exclaimed. "It explains the hallucinations and why I was brought to a Muggle residence." He hesitated. "If I hadn't told you that I was magic sensitive, I would be—"

"Dead."

The hairs on Izar's neck stood at the man's sharp tone. "And your lack of magic?" he asked. "The Muggle-friendly atmosphere also explains why my ring is missing. Only you would be able to take if off…"

"And it will be going back on as soon as you are healthy." Voldemort left no room for argument. "As far as my magical core goes, you are probably aware of the various spells involved in sealing one's magic. Upon arrival here, I had also sealed the magic surrounding your Dark Mark. It was the only option we had at the time."

Izar remained silent.

He knew how important magic was to Voldemort—how important it was to remain invulnerable—and he was truly grateful that the man had taken him under his wing. But Izar was also curious to know Voldemort's reasoning. Surely, Izar didn't impress Voldemort that much with his magical prowess that he'd go out of his way for a mere servant.

"I will be unsealing my magical core," Voldemort spoke, interrupting Izar's train of thought. "You appear recovered. If you find yourself reverting, do not hesitate to inform me. In the meantime, I want you to get back to bed. You need sleep."

Izar's sharp eyes watched as Voldemort stayed within the shadows, careful not to expose himself to Izar. It was uncanny. Could the man have been hiding something else under his glamour? Something Izar has yet to see?

Carefully filing the information away, Izar nodded and turned to shuffle back to his room.

He paused in the doorway, keeping his back turned toward the Dark Lord. "Thank you," Izar said quietly, "for looking after me. I'm sure you could have easily brought me to the orphanage."

"Think nothing of it." Only the Dark Lord would understand Izar's fear of returning to the orphanage. "At any rate, it was rather amusing to listen to you babble," the man's voice slowly faded as he moved down the corridor. "It kept me most entertained."

Izar glowered his way back into the bedroom. As he got into bed, he reassured himself there weren't that many things he could have said to Voldemort that were private. Unless, of course, he had rambled on about his experimentations with the Dark Mark. But if his assumptions were correct, Voldemort already had an idea of Izar's intentions with the Mark.

As his mind raced, Izar found himself falling asleep despite his refusal to surrender to slumber. Just as he was about to nod off, he felt a burst of magic ripple throughout the house.

A light smile played across his mouth as he fell asleep, comforted by the Dark Lord's magic.

Death of Today

"Don't look so gloom," Voldemort chided at dinner.

"I'm in last place, aren't I?" Izar looked at the Prophet settled purposefully in the middle of the table. He refused to read it, not wanting to read their exaggerated details of the attack. His eyes rose from the paper to glance at a scrutinizing Dark Lord. "How many points behind am I from the others?"

Voldemort humored him. "They were surprisingly generous given your circumstances. They counted the items in your possession at the time of the attack and estimated your travel time back to the Quidditch Pitch. You're in third place, but not by enough points that you cannot reclaim first place."

Izar offered a humorless smile. "The next Task has to do with dueling, doesn't it? Brilliant."

How could he win the bloody Tournament if he couldn't even duel?

"Your confidence is noteworthy," Voldemort said, matching Izar's cynicism with his own. "Typically, I must discipline my followers for their untoward arrogance. Must I punish you for your insecurity?" He bypassed Izar's glower. "From what I've gathered, you are doing well with Professor Black. Dueling comes to you naturally; you simply have no patience."

As if Voldemort was one to talk about patience…

"He's told you?" Izar hadn't thought Sirius Black and Tom Riddle were amicable enough to discuss the weather, let alone Izar's dueling progress.

"No." Voldemort chuckled unnervingly. "I've occasionally watched your lessons with him." His tone was impressively casual, as if spying on others were an everyday occurrence. And for Dark Lords, maybe it was.

Izar looked down at his plate to hide his horror. "Have you?" he asked calmly, if only to hide the dismay in his tone. He wouldn't even ask how the man was observing the lessons without detection.

"Naturally," the man drawled.

Naturally.

Right.

Izar studied the man through lowered lashes, reminded of his questions about the Dark Lord. The wizard was clearly hiding something about his appearance—something that he hadn't been able to control without his magic. It had to be charms under charms that he had placed on himself, but why? Was he truly not immortal?

The man looked up from his plate of dinner, catching Izar's inspection.

Izar recovered quickly.

"You're a celebrity," he commented lazily with a pointed look at the Prophet. He could see the photo of Tom Riddle smiling charmingly at the crowd. Izar, on the other hand, smiled awkwardly and appeared especially uncomfortable as he offered a feeble wave. "They think you are a saint for taking me in and nursing me back to health."

"A saint? What they don't know is that I took you away to have my wicked way with you." The Dark Lord offered a malevolent smirk before his eyes fell on Izar's plate. "Eat."

Izar found himself floundering at the comment, not naïve enough to miss—miss whatever that was. There was something there in the obvious remark—something like a seductive promise.

He lowered his gaze to his plate, picking up his fork and wondering why his stomach felt so hot, but also nauseous. He couldn't be…interested at the thought of the Dark Lord's words, could he? However shameful he felt, he couldn't deny the sheer excitement at the thought of the Dark Lord touching him intimately.

Sex was never at the forefront of Izar's mind as it was for the rest of his classmates.

He never had time to wonder what it would be like to have fun in that way. It had never interested him. But somehow… he felt a tight sensation in his stomach at the thought of having the Dark Lord close enough to place his lips on his neck, or having the man's skillful fingers linger across his skin.

It was sort of like a sick thrill.

But it also repulsed Izar.

The man most likely played with all his followers' minds and feelings, igniting a longing in his Death Eaters that made them only crave more. Little did they know they would never receive that intimate touch they forever craved.

Izar had to remember that he was favored, yes, but he also had to remember that he was only fifteen-years-old. The Dark Lord would certainly not be interested in him sexually.

At any rate, Izar wouldn't accept any advances from the older man. He was fiercely independent. He was already reminded of his enslavement to the Dark Lord through the Dark Mark and the bloody ring on his finger. Just thinking of allowing the man more leeway over his freedom in terms of sex would put Izar over the edge.

He would never do it.

"What's on your mind?" Voldemort taunted as he stirred his tea and searched Izar's expression.

"Nothing." Izar's expression closed entirely, unwilling to be a victim of the Dark Lord's mind games. "I only wondered at your political advantage for taking me in. A mere child. The poor, unfortunate orphan who was thrown into the Tournament unwillingly. Undersecretary Riddle comes to the rescue, nurturing the poor boy back to health at the risk of his own magic, his own vulnerability." Izar stabbed his potato. "You must be the bee's knees of many women."

The man appeared absolutely delighted. "Bee's knees, Izar? My poor child, you must be affected by the Headmaster's close proximity. Soon, I fear, you may be sucking on lemon drops and engaging Muggles in well-mannered conversations."

Izar grimaced at the imagery.

"But you are correct. To an extent," Voldemort agreed. "It took me many years to get to where I am today. I need to uphold my public image."

Izar gave a sharp nod.

It had been about appearances.

"Who do you believe was behind that attack?" Izar asked a bit too casually. "The Devil's Venenum is native only to Asia. It wasn't as if a bloody plant Apparated from Asia, walked up behind me, and accidently scattered the dust."

Voldemort gave a deep hum, his gaze contemplative. "That is certainly a fascinating picture you've painted." He looked up at Izar and feigned absolute ignorance. "I wouldn't know who attacked you."

Izar blinked, losing his appetite. The man knew something—perhaps everything—and he wasn't sharing it with him. "Is that so?" Izar was determined to get answers—any answers. "And when, exactly, are you planning to come out to the public, My Lord? Surely, with this Tournament, you have something in mind, something flashy and devastating."

Voldemort's crimson eyes focused sharply on Izar and a cool, eerie calm washed his features. "Mind your tongue."

His jaw clenched. "I think I have a right to know your plans, My Lord. After all, they involve me. Somehow, they know you had entered my name into the Goblet, and they think they can get at you through me."

Voldemort continued to gaze at Izar.

The tense silence was enough to alert Izar that he had stepped over the line. He slumped back against his chair, sealing his lips to any further accusations or entitled remarks. The Dark Mark on his left forearm was a steady burn, and the crimson eyes served to make him just as uncomfortable with their focused intensity.

"As I have told you before," Voldemort began softly, controlling his rage beautifully, "I don't need to tell you anything. Any plans I make do not need your approval. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, My Lord." Izar lowered his eyes in submission.

The Dark Lord's chair groaned as he stood. With slow, measured strides, Voldemort leisurely approached Izar. The younger wizard sat rigidly, flinching when a cold finger brushed his cheek. Voldemort clicked his tongue disapprovingly at his flinch before grabbing hold of Izar's jaw. The familiar shock at their contact ran the length of Izar's skin, but he was too familiar with it to react outwardly.

He was forcibly turned to meet Voldemort's gaze.

"Contrary to what you may believe, I do take your safety seriously." The Dark Lord's rage was slowly dissipating. "I've already told you why I entered your name, and it's not just to be mere bait. I want you to step out." He pointed at the Prophet and the god-awful photo of Izar. "I want to see you adapt to the attention and learn how to look normal in the eye of the public."

Izar clenched his jaw in an attempt to stop the angry, humiliated burn across his face.

That damn photograph waved mockingly up at him.

His expression schooled as Voldemort tapped his face in almost an affectionate gesture. "I want your head to be focused on the Tasks, not the plot behind the scenes." The man's magic then cooled. "Rest assured, you will be avenged for yesterday's attack."

As Riddle dropped his hand and turned, Izar observed his chilling smile.

"Now, finish your dinner. After which, we will return to Hogwarts."

Voldemort swept from the room, leaving Izar sitting rigidly in his chair.

It was evident the man knew what was transpiring with the Tournament. The man was all knowing, after all. So why couldn't Izar be told? Why did Voldemort continuously push and pull Izar? At times, he lets Izar get close, he even tolerates Izar's brazen cheek. He alludes to Izar being one of his favorites, and then there were these past couple of days where he personally attended Izar's recovery. Despite what he said about the recovery being for his public image, he could have found ways around that and asked a Muggle healer to attend to Izar.

But in contrast to those actions, Voldemort was quick to remind Izar of his place.

He was the master. Izar was the servant.

His eyes fell on his middle finger, studying the black titanium ring.

Mind games.

Sighing noisily, he placed his face in his open hand.

Sometimes he wondered why the hell he was putting himself through all this.

Death of Today

"He recovered magnificently," Riddle chorused charmingly in front of the reporters.

Izar blinked as the bulbs from the cameras flashed. A possessive hand curled around his shoulders, bringing him close to the taller wizard beside him. Despite Voldemort's clear dissatisfaction with Izar's earlier display in front of the cameras, Izar was finding it difficult to contort his expression to anything but a repulsed sneer.

Riddle was laying it on thick with the reporters, and he truly could not stomach it.

"It only took Mr. Harrison a handful of days to recover. It just goes to show how determined and resilient this young man is." Riddle tightened his hold on Izar, all but hugging him close. It was clearly a warning for Izar to smile or face the damn consequences later.

Izar lowered his lashes, gathered his strength, and looked back up with softened features and a coy smile.

The reporters all shouted questions at once. Rita Skeeter was among the group, appearing irritated with so many wizards talking over her. Izar watched in amusement as one of the other reporters' elbows flew in her direction. White curls sprang from her pins, and her bejeweled glasses were knocked askew as she tried to avoid the flying elbow.

The sheer look of appalled disbelief Skeeter wore was enough for Izar to change his opinion on the press.

They were an amusing lot.

He could see why Riddle found it entertaining to play with them.

One of the men's voices raised above all the others. "And you, Mr. Harrison, what is your take on the attack?"

Voldemort had warned him on the way to Hogwarts not to speak of the attack. Talking about the attack—the motives behind the attack, the suspects, and the consequences—would have to be done by someone with more skill in the political field. Voldemort had told Izar, quite bluntly, that he was not that skilled politician.

Yet.

The reporters' voices died down, their eager quills dancing in their fingers as they awaited Izar's comment.

Just as Riddle opened his mouth to intervene, Izar spoke. "I'm going to try to put the events of the attack behind me in favor of focusing on the Second Task. I'm just extremely thankful for Senior Undersecretary Riddle for having looked after me in my vulnerable state. I truly cannot express my gratitude for his excellent and professional care."

Sarcasm dripped from his tone, and despite Voldemort picking up on said sarcasm, the man looked down at him with a considering light. He nodded once in approval, his fingers tightening on Izar's shoulder.

At least Izar could still surprise the man's expectations. He wasn't entirely useless when it came to diplomatic responses.

"And in your opinion, Mr. Harrison, who do you believe is behind this attack?"

"I believe Mr. Harrison has had enough excitement for one day, ladies and gentlemen," a voice thundered through the crowd.

Izar caught sight of the vibrant yellow-and-black robes and knew immediately—even without the thundering command—that it was Dumbledore making his way towards them. Next to Izar, Voldemort gave a nearly inaudible hiss. Izar couldn't help but to compare it to the Ashwinder mother from the First Task as she guarded her nest.

Dumbledore had just exited the front gates, spurring a nightmarish palpitation from Izar. The Headmaster's robes reminded him of his hallucinations. There were a few smiling bumblebees flying about at the hems of his robes, visiting the array of blooming flowers.

"I'm sure Mr. Riddle will be happy to stay behind and answer a few of your questions."

The Headmaster reached over and gently guided Izar with a hand to his shoulder. He was forced to walk with Dumbledore to the gates of Hogwarts, though a funny feeling settled in his chest. He glanced behind him, searching for Riddle as the man was cornered by the press. Dumbledore purposely suggested Riddle stay behind…

Why?

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Harrison?" Dumbledore questioned with genuine concern as they walked to the entrance of the castle. It was dark outside, almost after dinner, and several of the windows were warmly lit.

"Much better, Headmaster, thank you. Undersecretary Riddle took good care of me."

Izar looked pointedly at the hand still on his shoulder.

He had never encountered a manipulative Dumbledore before. He had always heard the man liked to pull strings, but Izar had never experienced it personally. Looking at the man's weathered face and twinkling blue eyes, Izar could easily see him as being an incredibly skilled manipulator. The man came off as innocent and kind, a man whom someone wanted to trust.

"I would have believed your recovery would have taken longer," the Headmaster continued as they entered the castle. Its magic and warmth nudged at Izar, relaxing him. "Are you certain you are better?"

Izar inhaled deeply to steady his patience, subsequently smelling the odor of rich meats and baked bread. The sound of utensils clashing against dishware rang further down the hall, signifying that dinner was still being served. He thought of his nearly untouched dinner and wondered if he'd have a chance to partake.

"Sir, I understand your concerns, but if you're suggesting that Undersecretary Riddle was so impatient to absorb his magic that he'd neglect my full recovery, no, that wasn't the case. He even waited to see how well I adapted in the presence of magic."

Dumbledore appeared a bit startled at Izar's frankness. "That's not what I was suggesting, my dear boy." He smiled warmly. "I simply wanted to make sure you were fully recovered." The man patted his shoulder as he led him down an opposite corridor.

Izar looked forlornly over his shoulder as they left behind the Great Hall

"Where are we going, Headmaster?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'm afraid we must make a quick stop with the other judges, Mr. Harrison. They are concerned with your wellbeing, and they also want to discuss a few matters about the Tournament." Dumbledore's strides widened, and Izar tried to keep up without looking too ungraceful.

"Surely you want all the judges present," Izar suggested. "Mr. Riddle is back with the press—"

"Here we are."

Dumbledore opened the door to an unused classroom. Izar reluctantly entered the room, noticing how small it was. Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff stood at the back of the room, their expressions clearly revealing they didn't want to be there. The French Minister, Serge Roux, looked just as bored, but also a bit intrigued as he sat near the empty chair at the front.

And then there was a pacing Minister Steinar.

Bjørn abruptly stopped pacing when Izar entered, his expression livid.

Izar was unimpressed. He flashed the judges a cool look before walking toward the single, unoccupied chair. It faced toward the room, toward the judges, so he assumed it was for this… interrogation. He sat down gracefully, raising his eyebrows expectantly at the adults.

"Will this take long?" he asked. "I'm afraid I wasn't too hungry earlier. I'm absolutely famished now."

Dumbledore closed the door with a solemn expression. "We will not keep you long. We would just like to express our relief that you are well and recovered."

Izar shifted impatiently. "You already expressed that in the corridors, Headmaster."

"Get on with it, Dumbledore," Karkaroff prompted edgily. "Question the boy and get it over with."

Minister Steinar glowered across the room at the Durmstrang Headmaster before refocusing on Izar. "We've set up this meeting to question your motives, boy," he said. "That was very advanced magic you conjured during the First Task. Dark magic, but also very advanced."

Izar nodded, blank. "Yes, sir," he responded uninterestedly. "Is that all?"

Steinar's lip lifted. "Of course that's not all, you insolent—"

"Minister Steinar," Dumbledore interrupted calmly. He raised his eyebrows at the Norwegian Minister before coolly turning to gather two textbooks on the table near the door. He then slowly advanced toward Izar. "We have no intentions of intimidating or accusing you, Izar. We simply wish to ask a few questions."

Here, the French Minister snorted.

"My book!" Izar exclaimed furiously once he caught sight of the old leather tome. Dumbledore carried his book, the Eruditio. The very same one Voldemort had given him for his fifteenth birthday. "What are you doing with my possessions? Or more importantly, what gave you the right to snoop through my things?"

"You see, Albus, he even admits it." Bjørn's hand waved through the air in disgust. "He framed my son."

"Excuse me?" Izar questioned icily.

"A Durmstrang student found this book in Lukas Steinar's cabin, Izar."

Dumbledore handed the other textbook to Izar.

Izar stared at it uncomprehendingly. "I've never seen this book before," he declared. He flipped quickly through the crinkled pages, noticing it was a Dark Arts book. "And as much as you'd like to accuse me, I've never read it before either." He paused, considering. "However, I wouldn't mind reading it. I hardly ever come across a true Dark Arts book—"

"Liar," Minster Steinar hissed.

Dumbledore took the book back from Izar. "Said Durmstrang student was afraid to go to Minister Steinar with the book, so they approached me with it," Dumbledore said. "I looked over it and noticed a very peculiar observation." The Headmaster flipped through the pages until he came to a section where the corner of a page was bent.

Izar grimaced.

Why did people have to mutilate books like that?

Izar squinted as he leaned forward, peering at the open page. It was a summary of Devil's Venenum. Someone used a lot of ink to circle the article several times, a painfully overdramatic way to emphasize their point.

Izar was unconvinced.

Just as he was about to deny their allegations, he felt the shift of magic. The temperature change was miniscule enough that the others would not notice, but it was enough to give Izar goose bumps on his arms. He caught sight of the door quietly opening to emit Undersecretary Riddle. No one had noticed his entrance, and Izar wasn't going to point him out, either.

"A student found this in Lukas' room," Izar reasoned, more so to catch Riddle up to speed. "Someone had clearly circled the section regarding the Devil's Venenum." He chuckled. "And you're accusing me of what, exactly? Isn't it obvious that it was Lukas who had this book in his possession and had circled the section himself?"

"Not necessarily," Dumbledore started before Bjørn could interrupt. The Headmaster flipped a few more pages until he came upon another marked page. He revealed it to Izar. The Ravenclaw's heart skipped a beat. "The same spell you conjured during the Task is circled as well, faintly this time, yet it is still marked. The Inferorum animas."

Indeed.

It was the summary describing the Inferorum animas. A faint ink mark circled the passage, looking worn and studied.

"That isn't all," Steinar murmured passionately. "Dumbledore went through your things—"

"Minister, I will continue from here, thank you," Dumbledore's tone was sharp, reprimanding. Blue eyes turned back to a silent Izar. "After seeing this textbook, and hearing Lukas' vow that it was not his book, I believed it was best for all parties involved to search your belongings. I stumbled across this book in particular."

Here, Dumbledore held up the Eruditio.

Izar didn't understand why Dumbledore thought the book was pertinent to the topic at hand. The pages would be blank until the reader wished to study a specified topic. He or she would then tap their wand over the pages. And only then would the pages begin to fill with information.

By all reasonable means, the Eruditio's pages should be blank.

Dumbledore's face was grave as he passed the book over to Izar. "Open it, Mr. Harrison."

Izar studied the Headmaster a moment longer before opening the tome.

The pages were blank, just as he expected they would be, but the book fell unnaturally open to the middle. Izar frowned as he spotted the clear bag of dust. His fingers pinched the outermost corner of the baggy as he raised it eyelevel. Inside the small bag was the same purple dust that had scattered across his face during the First Task.

Devil's Venenum.

"I…" Izar trailed off in surprise before scoffing with disbelief. "I don't understand. I carry this book everywhere, surely someone could have planted it—"

"Lies," Steinar hissed.

Behind him, the other judges looked surprised and a bit upset.

"What the bloody hell do you think I did? Scatter the dust across my own bloody face?" Izar snapped angrily.

"That's exactly what you did." Bjørn smiled widely. "You want to frame my son and kick him out of this Tournament. My son's classmates conveniently found the book you placed in his bag. By all means, it looks as if Lukas was the one to commit the crime. But you didn't count on the possibility of Dumbledore finding the evidence in your belongings—evidence that you were the one to scatter the dust across your own face."

He turned and looked at the others.

"It's of no surprise Hogwarts finally decided to stoop so low to usurp Durmstrang. We've won every Tournament since it has been reopened."

A loud clapping sounded throughout the room before anyone had the opportunity to respond to Steinar's allegations.

"My, my, Minister, that is a good theory," Riddle droned. "Indulge me, please, how long did it take for you to come up with it? Or did you have some help? I imagine such a scheme would be difficult to invoke by your lonesome."

Bjørn's face turned brick red with anger. "What are you doing here? You weren't invited."

Mock surprise appeared on Riddle's expression as he glanced about the room. "I see my Champion here, who happens to be a minor, surrounded by adults willing to intimidate and corner him. Why shouldn't I be invited?"

"Mr. Harrison is the Hogwarts Champion, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said wearily. "My attendance is all that was needed."

Despite the seriousness in the situation, Izar couldn't help but to smirk. Dumbledore, the old fool, actually had some gonads. It was a rather brilliant remark to make against the seemingly arrogant Tom Riddle.

Just how would Riddle take it?

Riddle's eyebrows rose mockingly. "Yes, but he's also Britain's Champion. You only run a section of Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore, not Britain as a whole." He then looked at Bjørn. "Forgive me for the interruption. You were in the midst of the big reveal in your accusations against Mr. Harrison."

Izar snickered.

Bjørn rounded on Izar. "I bet you're in conspiracy with your Undersecretary, isn't that right, boy?" The Norwegian Minister turned to the group of judges. "He placed your name in the Goblet. I know it."

"Oh, for the love of Merlin," Minister Roux exclaimed at the change of topic. "We are discussing the use of Devil's Venenum, not pointing fingers at who entered who in the Tournament."

Steinar huffed through his nose, ignoring Roux. "Riddle placed this boy's name in the Goblet because he couldn't stand another year of Britain being the lowest ranking school, the lowest ranking nation. He configured a plan to set up the Norwegians to eliminate us from the Tournament, because clearly we are the superior school."

"Clearly the superior school?" The French Minister stood up angrily, becoming far more animated than Izar had ever remembered seeing him before. His pride was hit, after all. "And just how do you figure that, you arrogant Norwegian?"

Bjørn snarled. "You, Frenchman," the man spat. "You must be agreeable to Riddle's meddling. If this incident hadn't transpired when it had, you wouldn't be in first place at the moment!"

Roux appeared outranged. "You dare? We—the French—do not need to create conspiracy theories just to cover up the fact that we have lost a Task. No, that pathetic scheme lies with the Norwegians."

Izar sat back and happily observed the quarrel.

Madame Maxime and Headmasters Karkaroff and Dumbledore stood toward the back of the room, as if wanting to distance themselves from the argument between their Ministers. If it hadn't been evident before, it certainly was now. The Tournament was entirely political. It was no longer about friendly rivalries between schools, but about political bragging rights.

It was also personal, very personal.

He looked up at Riddle, noticing the man was already watching him. Riddle smiled thinly before holding out his hand. Bemused at first, Izar looked down at his lap, noticing the man was gesturing toward the Eruditio.

He passed the leather book to the Dark Lord, watching as the wizard removed the packet of Devil's Venenum. The older man eyed the substance thoughtfully before placing it in his pocket and returning the book to Izar.

"If I may interrupt," Riddle started, silencing the two bickering men. "Seeing as we are not addressing the concern at hand, I believe we should dismiss this…impromptu interrogation. There is no hard evidence. A student or an adult could have placed the Devil's Venenum in Mr. Harrison's book. As he has stated before, he carries it around everywhere."

Minister Bjørn Steinar seethed.

"As far as your Champion goes, Mr. Steinar," Riddle continued, "it could have been the same scenario. We don't have any concrete evidence or possible ideas as to why someone would want to create such an upset. This situation, however, does call for a closer eye on our students' safety."

"You are correct, Mr. Riddle." Not to be outdone, Dumbledore stepped forward, the bumblebees on his robes all buzzing merrily. Izar eyed them distrustfully. "Let us disband until further evidence is collected."

It was a race to get out of the classroom.

Madame Maxime zoomed out first, ducking her head before exiting the classroom. Minister Roux left shortly thereafter with Headmaster Karkaroff and Dumbledore at his heels. Minister Steinar hesitated, his features contorting fiercely. "I'm watching you two," the man vowed threateningly. Riddle simply smiled pleasantly. "You will not get at my son."

The man left in a flurry of robes.

Izar observed the judges all flee, hardly believing at the sad outcome of such an event. "That wasn't quite the welcoming reception I had anticipated, but oddly enough, it was far more entertaining than I could have imagined."

Riddle chuckled softly in agreement.

The man reached toward him again, only this time, Izar knew he wasn't asking for the book. Hesitating just momentarily, he placed his hand in Riddle's. The man curled his fingers around Izar's hand before assisting him to his feet. As Izar stood, he was more than aware of the larger hand still cupping his own.

"You need to get some sleep," Riddle ordered. "And I expect you to come to me if you start to relapse. Though…" trailing off, Riddle offered a knowing smirk. "Given how often you rambled about toads and matching robes, I wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore's new apparel triggers relapsing nightmares."

Izar grinned, glad to note he wasn't the only one who was disturbed by the old man's robes.

Riddle dropped Izar's hand in favor of reaching up and tugging on a stray curl near Izar's ear. "Despite the grim nature, I did enjoy our time together." His expression was unreadable as he focused on the lock of hair between his fingers. "Next time, do try to avoid poisoning yourself beforehand, yes?"

Izar stiffened at the intimate touches and the even more intimate admission.

Was Riddle playing him just as well as he had played the media? Did he get some sort of sick amusement out of playing on Izar's emotions like this?

He inhaled deeply and cocked an eyebrow, determined to remain unaffected. "I'll try to refrain from doing so. They may catch on after two poisonings. And we can't have them figuring out our plans, can we?"

Riddle dropped his hand upon Izar's wry remark and smiled uncannily. Izar was taken aback at the true wickedness behind the smile and the way Riddle's eyes sparkled excitingly. The older wizard tapped Izar's cheek with quiet victory.

"No. We can't have that."

With one last light tap to his cheek, Riddle swept from the room as silently as he had entered.

Izar stared at the spot where Riddle had once stood.

Merlin.