Thanks for your reviews last chapter. Didn't get a chance to respond, but I was struggling with this chapter. Meh.

Chapter Seven

It felt like weeks—months— that he laid in the comfort of the silk sheets. Izar knew the Dark Lord probably didn't favor silk sheets, but decided they would be the coolest and most comfortable against Izar's fevered skin. From the quick and delirious glimpses he had given around the room, he noticed the sheets weren't just silk, but also white.

And in some distant memory, he remembered the Dark Lord expressing his enjoyment in seeing Izar in white. And now the man had the pleasure of seeing Izar vulnerable and laid out on the color.

Sick bastard.

And the man was always near. Voldemort's presence was like a flame to his murky and dim world. The closer the Dark Lord's proximity, the more the pain lessened. Though, Izar would never admit that to the man. The Dark Lord was already too smug for his own good.

During the brief periods Voldemort was absent, the pain was always at its highest. His blood burned, his skin seared, and his throat turned dry and scratchy. When Cygnus had possessed Izar, it had been painful, but this was real—not mental. As his body struggled through each tremor, he was reminded that this was for eternity, this pain was what was making him stay sixteen forever. And it made coping with the transformation so much more difficult.

He wished the pain was the only thing he was aware of. Except, there was more to his transformation then just pain and suffering. Through his fevered state, Izar felt oddly empty. Those hours of pain-crushing torment brought forward a terrible conclusion.

He was no longer magic-sensitive. Magic no longer tickled his skin and reassured him that everything would be just fine. It was gone, empty, and too quiet.

When Izar had realized this, he cried out in loss. His chest caved in and he had struggled to wake himself up from this nightmare. Voldemort had hovered, his hand falling like a weight on his forehead. Izar had twisted, seethed, and mentally cursed the Dark Lord for hours as he fought to turn away from the man's reach.

Magic was everything to him. Everything. He never took it for granted and always admired the beauty of it, even when it was of purity and not of darkness. The overwhelming realization that he could no longer feel his way around with magic came to him in form of a crushing blow. How could he judge the Dark Lord's emotions without seeing the man's aura? How could he see a worthy opponent who was really a diamond in the rough?

This realization likely set his recovery back a few days. He had thrown himself into the depths of unconsciousness and tried to resist the venom in his system. He had been suicidal then, the thought of continuing on without feeling and basking in magic made him pitifully weak.

Regrettably, the venom not only killed his body and stopped his pulse, but made him stronger—more resilient. His fever had died down and he no longer felt the hazy film around the edges of his mind. A part of him knew he would have to face the world, face Voldemort, but he closed his eyes against it all.

Until he felt the hand.

"I know you're awake," the voice mused from above him. "Your transformation completed yesterday. Now you're just being lazy."

Lazy? Lazy?

Izar feigned sleep, trying to ignore the hand centered directly over his naked chest. Long nails brushed against his skin and then traveled outward toward his left arm. Warm fingers curled around Izar's forearm, surprising the latter with the temperature. The Dark Lord's touch had always been cold, undead, but now that Izar was of the same species, Voldemort's touch was now as warm as his own.

"We have much to talk about," Voldemort continued the one-sided conversation effortlessly. His tone was borderline angry as it was teasing. "How you managed to transform your Mark…" the hand closed painfully around his forearm and Izar was proud of himself for not flinching. "The consequences of your four month summer jaunt. That… marvelous idea of getting married… which, by the way, I still find entirely amusing."

The fingernails running the length of his arm tickled like hell, but Izar kept his expression impassive in his 'sleep'.

"Of course, there are many more issues I can bring up, but I'm afraid I don't have the energy nor the patience to list them all."

Izar's chest burned with anger. The man was acting as if everything was typical and perfectly on schedule. Though, according to the man, it probably was. The Dark Lord had Izar's immortality planned for ages now. This incident with Cygnus just gave him the right to do it sooner. Little did the man know that Izar was far from happy with the arrangement. He lost his magic-sensitivity and he was damned as a sixteen-year-old forever.

Would he have to use a glamour like Riddle? The thought of wearing one for the rest of his life exhausted him.

"I know how much you hate being taken advantage of," the man persisted. "I just wonder if you secretly enjoy it. Otherwise, you wouldn't be lying here so… deliciously vulnerable." The hand took a sudden turn, slowly inching past Izar's waistline and lower… toward the junction between his hipbones.

Izar's eyes snapped open when he realized he was nude. He quickly struck out, grabbing the man's wrist in an unyielding hold before it could go any lower.

Crimson eyes widened in pleasure at the abrupt action. Quickly, as if to challenge Izar with speed, Voldemort stuck out and curled his hand around Izar's neck. With a sharp tug, the Dark Lord brought him into a sitting position. Flush against the man's thin chest, Izar could do nothing but meet the demanding lips. The kiss was just as possessive and dominating as the hold around his neck. Izar saw stars as he slammed his eyes closed, hating himself entirely at that moment for enjoying the rough act.

Suddenly, Voldemort let go of Izar's neck and pushed him back down on the bed.

The man stood abruptly from the mattress, turning his back on Izar's prone form. And Izar didn't need magic-sensitivity to know the man was painfully aroused.

The Black heir glowered as he pulled the white sheets further around his body. He sat up, watching the man's back critically. "What are you?" he demanded quietly. Voldemort had his glamour down for Izar's benefit, he knew. Otherwise, Voldemort was the type of wizard who would be disgusted with his creature status.

"You mean… what are we?" Voldemort pondered airily as he looked at Izar over his shoulder.

Izar tightened his hold on his sheets, noticing for the first time how… normal he felt. He was still breathing, as if it were second nature to him, though, he knew he didn't need the oxygen. His eyesight was sharpened as was his hearing. And the pulse in his chest was silent, no longer banging against his ribcage. Other then those small changes, Izar felt relatively normal. There was a slight sensation of being more powerful, more invincible, but otherwise, he felt just as human as before.

He would have thought he would be hungry, lustful of blood.

But his thirst was absent. His throat was dry, but it was bearable.

What had Voldemort done? Had the man… created this creature? Izar wouldn't put it past the Dark Lord. The man would always strive to be the best at everything.

"What are we?" Izar tried again, his tone deepening into one of resentment. "Not that I had any choice in the matter."

Voldemort paid his comment no heed as he turned fully around. For the first time, Izar looked at the creature with his own eyes. The man's black dress shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the loosened cuffs around the neck and wrists. Both of the vulnerable areas had a brushing of gleaming onyx scales. Izar was certain that the scales extended underneath the shirt, but he tried not to think too long as to where the other scales resided.

The man had his mouth closed, but Izar had seen the fangs that curved Voldemort's incisors. Suddenly, as if to tease Izar, the Dark Lord licked his lips, bringing the youth's attention immediately on the forked tongue.

Blanching, Izar swiftly reached up and touched his own tongue with his abnormally long fingernails. He let out a bemused sigh as he felt a rounded tongue, not forked like the Dark Lord's.

"We're different," Izar spoke hesitantly. He felt his fangs, noticing that they were much shorter and straighter than the Dark Lord's curved ones. He then felt around his neck for a brushing of scales, but found none.

"Your wrists," the man aided.

Izar looked down, observing the very few scales on his inner wrists. They weren't black like Voldemort's, but a soft grey. He felt them, both intrigued and disgusted at the same time. The man, the sick bastard that he was, probably observed Izar's unconscious body for his changes.

He narrowed his eyes on the tall figure, tapping his nails together in contemplation. He decided he would wait to engage the Dark Lord in a verbal assault regarding his decision to change Izar in favor of finding out what he was. As Izar studied the man, his attention fell on the man's ears. They would be considered pointed to some, but the tips were very minimal.

Dread twisted his stomached as he shakily reached up to his own ears. And to his horror, they were far more pointed than the Dark Lord's.

Giving an uncommon hiss, he reached for the hand-held mirror lying conveniently on the nightstand. Quickly bringing it up to his inspection, he finally locked eyes with his reflection. Gone were the charcoal and green irises. And in their place, a set of green-split eyes stared back. The green irises were exceptionally pale, unnaturally so.

"I have no control over what species dominated your outer appearance," Voldemort hissed out softly. "I did, however, have control over the chemical balance of your disposition. It should be the same as my own. I am the carrier of the same venom I injected myself with those many years ago. You, on the other hand, may not carry the same venom. I will need to test your bite."

Completely ignoring the hints he was being fed, Izar could only stare at himself. "I'm a bloody fairy," he seethed, throwing down the mirror and glaring heatedly at the man. "Fitting how you resemble a serpent, and I, a bloody fairy. I think you did have control over my appearance. You did this to spite me, didn't you?"

Voldemort looked unimpressed and only lifted an eyebrow in response.

Izar forced himself to calm his temper, realizing he sounded like a child going through a temper tantrum. If Izar looked at this rationally, he would see that he didn't appear drastically different then before. His ears were pointed, yes, his eyes may resemble a serpent, and he had fangs, but otherwise, he hadn't morphed into someone unrecognizable.

He was still the same. Only… only immortal with a few unique characteristics on his person.

"It fits you well," Voldemort continued on casually. "The size of your fangs and pointed ears are directly related to the elf or, as they like to call themselves, the Fae. They would be rather insulted if they heard you label them as fairies."

Izar knew this of course. He settled back down on the bed, adjusting his sheets around him in a secure cocoon. It was his shock that made him speak out in defiance. His new appearance complemented him and, if he may be so vain, made him a bit more handsome. He appeared unearthly, calm, and powerful. The tight waves on his head seemed to have become curlier and the fine lines on his face grew more aristocratic. He looked older than sixteen, yet there was an air of innocence around him.

Izar thought that was rather ironic. He was far from innocent; however, this deception was similar to the Fae. They were beautiful creatures on the outside and their enemies underestimated them because of it. Outwardly, they appeared serene and calm, but on the inside, they were just as cruel and sadistic as any other Dark wizard.

Voldemort was right. It did fit him. But it still didn't change the fact that he was immortal at sixteen and that he had lost his magic-sensitivity.

"You're a hybrid, like Cygnus believed," Izar whispered, subdue. For now. "Serpent and Fae?"

He looked up at the Dark Lord, noticing the man was watching him carefully. "A trihybrid," the man corrected, not inclined to elaborate on the type of creatures he merged together, but Izar was smart enough to guess.

Vampire, Fae, and serpent? Basilisk? All three venoms were highly toxic and lethal to experiment with. Izar knew that a few scholars had researched with one or more venoms for medical purposes. Their aim had been to aid the terminally ill and try to re-grow lost cells with the venom. The experiments hadn't gone too well and they promptly abandoned the project.

"Will you tell me why you chose a creature as means of immortality?" Izar disguised his plea in the form of an educational intrigue. He wasn't used to asking the Dark Lord for anything. "I presume you created this creature? You said you injected yourself with the venom, not that you were turned by another."

Voldemort turned his back on Izar once again and seemed to glide across the room and toward the leather armchair. With grace only a creature could possess, Voldemort sat and crossed his legs. With only silence between them, Voldemort stared at Izar. The Dark Lord's expression was impassive but the eyes were heated as they watched Izar from across the room.

The younger lifted his chin, trying to hide how much the stare affected him. It was bright in the room he sat in, yet somehow, shadows seemed to embrace the Dark Lord tightly, almost possessively. The stare was disquieting and watchful, causing knots to tighten in Izar's stomach.

Izar didn't say a word to the Dark Lord. He would let the man speak out first. He knew Voldemort was silently judging him, considering his options of telling Izar something so personal. And Izar didn't want to push him. He knew he did nothing to deserve such trust, but he felt inclined to hear Voldemort's past only because it also affected him.

"I was nearing past my prime when I realized I was running out of time in regards to my immortality," Voldemort began. He leaned back in his armchair, his eyes never leaving Izar. "The idea of a Horcrux was, in all ways, the simplest way to go about immortality. I have no qualms about killing in cold-blood and losing my emotions seemed to be a positive outcome. Emotions were for the weak."

Izar finally broke his stare from the Dark Lord and glanced down at the sheets. He was reminded vividly of Lily.

"After I came to this conclusion, I decided to create one Horcrux to begin with," Voldemort continued. Izar looked back up at the Dark Lord. The crimson stare demanded his absolute attention. "I took a temporary leave from the Ministry and traveled to South America. It was there where I decided not to go through the process of creating a Horcrux and instead, I began my research with different creature venom."

Izar raised an eyebrow. "And?" he pushed lightly. "What made you decide you didn't want to create a Horcrux?"

Voldemort's lips thinned and his fingernails drummed the leather armrest. The man offered a light shrug. "It was just a change of mind."

It was a lie. Izar had to clench his fingers around the silk sheets in order to keep his expression blank. It shouldn't have come to as a surprise to Izar that Voldemort didn't feel like opening up to him. Doubtlessly, Voldemort wasn't used to the idea of speaking to someone on an equal level. Opening up to Izar would take time and trust.

But trust would not come easily, if ever. Voldemort was a man who enjoyed taunting curious eyes by flashing his cards, but he would never show anyone his hand. Would he ever come to hold Izar in high regard?

"When I came to the conclusion that I would become immortal through means of a creature, I took a closer look at the wide range of venoms." Voldemort crossed his fingers together over his crossed knees. A disgusted curl lifted his lip as he considered Izar. "I find most creatures weak and pathetic and driven by primitive urges. If I was going to submit and become a creature for immortality, I was going to become the most superior creature. I would not settle for less."

Izar's lips quirked at that, but he remained silent.

"My goal was to create a creature that would be very similar to the human-mind. While the Fae have a tremendous life-span, they are not immortal, nor are Basilisks. I wanted the vampire's immortality without their bloodlust. I wanted the Fae's intelligence without their dependence for clans. I wanted the Basilisk's quick strike without their one-track mind. The largest hurdle I had to cross was trying to get the three venoms to co-exist without destroying the inhibitor."

Izar nodded, intrigued. Everything seemed to be pushed in the back of his mind in favor of learning something new. "I've read that most venom types are too dominant to co-exist with each other. How did you manage to make it right?"

Voldemort's expression softened and a true smirk settled across his lips. "Trial and error."

Izar matched his smile. "And how many lab rats died before you got it right?" Lab rats, otherwise known as human guinea pigs. It must have taken quite a few humans to experiment the venom on. Voldemort would have had to get the correct percentage of all three venoms until they could co-exist together. After which, he would have needed to adjust the level of venom in terms of how he wanted the toxin to work inside the human, which creature he wanted dominant and which dispositions he wanted to erase.

Perhaps one day the Dark Lord would allow Izar to look at his notes on the experiment. Now that Izar had… an eternity to live, he could do many of the experiments he's always imagined doing. And that included mimicking many of the experiments already recorded. Just to see if they had been done correctly and what he could do to improve on them.

The Dark Lord stood gracefully from his chair. His form-fitting black pants and shirt exaggerated his overwhelming height. "Whoever said I didn't get it right on the first try, child?"

Izar's eagerness extinguished completely, and in its place, a dark gloom settled. "Don't call me that. Ever."

Voldemort lifted his eyebrows in interest, likely trying to identify Izar's issue with the pet name he had used since they became acquaintances. It didn't take long for the mastermind to identify the issue and its source. "Ah," he breathed. "Your intrigue over my experiment with immortality has fallen prey to your anger at being frozen in time."

"Anger?" Izar whispered, his tone painfully frigid. He offered a bitter grin as his long fingernail traced the white sheets. "You have underestimated what I feel about this situation."

"Your anger is unjust," Voldemort replied just as coolly.

"Unjust?" Izar scoffed, turning to look up at the Dark Lord. He knew he was inching on dangerous grounds. "You have turned me at the age of sixteen! How can I ever feel confident about myself if I'm stuck in this… this pubescent body! You can't even begin to imagine my anger. It is certainly not unjust."

Long fingers curled underneath his chin, making certain his attention couldn't waver from the angry stare. "The only one who finds something wrong with your body is yourself. I see nothing wrong with it."

"I call your bluff," Izar snarled quickly. "If I were you, I'd certainly be embarrassed to be seen with a teenage boy for eternity."

Voldemort was silent for a long moment, his crimson eyes slowly bleeding a dark brown. The scales on his neck and wrists absorbed into his skin, as did the fangs. Long black hair disappeared into his skull and grey too premises throughout the thick hair. The last of the evidence of Riddle's creature to leave were the fingernails.

The man nicked him deeply underneath his chin before pulling away. "Then you have underestimated my regard to you," Voldemort replied quietly as he turned away and became Riddle. The Undersecretary flung out a hand toward an open closet. A dark cloak met his hand. "You claim you can never feel confident about yourself because of your body? I find that rather pitiful. Perhaps I should lower my regard of you to match your own self-image. Then, I'm sure, I will be embarrassed to be seen with you."

Izar flushed. Whether it was out of anger or embarrassment, or both, he did not know.

He watched as Riddle twirled on the cloak, fastening it beneath his chin. The man hardly spared Izar a glance as he walked toward the door of the bedroom. "I'm off to the Ministry. Britain will vote this evening for their new Minister. I expect you to stay in the house. We typically don't need blood, but as you are a newborn, I would suggest sipping on the goblet in the refrigerator."

Izar sat back, feeling something ugly twist in his chest as he watched the Dark Lord leave him behind. Discarded.

Almost as if sensing his inner turmoil, Riddle paused at the door. The man looked over his shoulder at Izar. "Would you like to accompany me as Tom Riddle's political heir?"

Izar blinked, looking down at his left hand. The first thing he noticed was that his fingerless glove was absent, revealing the black Celtic ring that bound him to the man standing before him. But it wasn't what stopped him short.

Wide eyes stared at his left arm, his forearm in particular.

Gone was the scantly-clad female and in its place, the Dark Mark sat.

Rage, so sharp and hot, spread across his vision as he looked up at the Dark Lord. His body trembled with suppressed energy, surprising even himself with the intensity of it. A dry heave escaped his mouth before he took hold of the mirror on the bed and hurled it across the room at the tall figure. He screamed in anger, hating the man more than ever.

"Go to hell!"

The mirror shattered just above the Dark Lord's shoulder. Izar was expecting the man to shake his head and calmly close the door behind him. Instead, an unnatural light appeared in Riddle's expression as he stalked forward with jerky movements, yet oddly enough, they still came across as graceful—lethal.

Izar hunched his shoulders, his claws flexing defensively at the ready. From the man's expression, Izar had gone too far. And as soon as the man got within reaching distance, he lashed out, the silk sheets pooling around his hips.

Riddle caught his wrist with surprising intensity before lunging forward, flattening Izar to the bed. The man draped himself across Izar, his weight crushing. Riddle was breathing heavily, as if he had a pulse once again, but they both knew otherwise.

With a painful hold to his wrist, Riddle pushed Izar further into the mattress, his anger coming off him in tangible waves. Thrusting his face closer to Izar, Riddle breathed, "A simple glove and tattoo are not what defines you!"

Izar became limp with the man's heated words. Never before had the Dark Lord spoken out of passion and anger.

"When will you let those petty objects go and start defining yourself by your actions? You're better than this, Izar. Start acting like it." Riddle pushed Izar harder into the mattress before climbing off. The man moved quickly toward the door, his anger still visible. "I want a wizard beside me who does not rely on objects to give him strength."

And then the door slammed shut, leaving Izar lying limply on the bed.

{Death of Today}

It took him a long while before he could move.

It took him an even longer time to bring himself to think.

Izar leaned his forearm against the large window in the living room, staring out into the backyard. It wasn't so much a backyard as it was an enclosed garden. Izar was surprised when he had looked around Voldemort's home. The interior was bright, most the walls were taken up by wide bay-windows that permit the sun to leak through. The home was all one-level and built in the shape of a square. In the middle of that square, a pool sat outside, surrounded by lush greenery. No flowers, but Izar didn't expect Voldemort to have any flowers.

This must have been the home Voldemort had wanted to bring him to after the Triwizard Tournament last year. By the beach, he said. It was isolated and according to Voldemort, no one knew where it was.

Izar took a sip of the goblet with his opposite hand before leaning his forehead once again against his raised forearm. Through lidded eyes, he watched the water ripple across the marble pool. Sunlight washed inside the room, soaking his hard skin up with pleasant warmth. After taking a shower, Izar had magically shrunken a pair of Voldemort's black trousers and left his torso bare. Having the sunlight bathe his body did wonders to him.

He wondered if this was a side-affect of the creature now residing in his veins. Serpents enjoyed the warmth. Vampires despised it.

Izar's lips thinned as he looked down at his goblet. Lazily, he swirled the red liquid, watching as a drop jumped from the rim and stained the wood floor at his feet. Did he feel disgusted he was drinking someone's life source?

Oddly enough, he didn't feel any disgust or regret. It soothed the itch in his throat and chest, settling him. The blood didn't control him either, he controlled it. He was more than fine with sipping it at a leisure pace. He felt no need to gulp it down and search for his next victim.

There were worse things he could have been turned into. Voldemort… had done an incredible job balancing out the creatures to his own manipulation.

Scoffing, Izar pressed his eyes into his forearm. He finally felt at peace. It had been awhile since he felt this relaxed. Even this summer, when he had been on the run with Regulus and Sirius, he had always felt… rushed, uptight, and guilty.

Standing in Voldemort's private home, Izar realized that this was an intermission to his life. His struggle for maturity, his knowledge of Cygnus' Curse, the mystery with Voldemort, the Triwizard Tournament… they were all past him now. He had matured greatly over the summer, only, things had gone too quickly since he got back from Britain to really prove to Voldemort that he had grown up—matured.

Cygnus' possession had made Izar appear weak and vulnerable in Voldemort's eyes.

Him turning into a creature, turning immortal, had come as a shock to Izar. And because of that, he had let his composure slip, making him appear desperate and pitiful in Voldemort's opinion. But Izar couldn't find any fault for how he had acted. It was understandable that he was upset for being sixteen forever. And it was understandable that he was irate and shocked. It was unfortunate however, that Voldemort had to be the one to witness Izar's first reaction to this mess.

Yes, he still harbored a slight grudge against Voldemort for turning him so abruptly. But then again, the Dark Lord was doing what he thought would save Izar from Cygnus. He had no idea that a part of his mother's soul was inside him, willing to sacrifice herself for him…

No.

He wouldn't think about Lily just yet.

Izar dropped his forearm from the window and nursed his goblet against his chin in contemplation. What Voldemort had said earlier about his glove and Mark had… affected Izar more than he had hoped it would. He had never seen those objects as his life-force. But now that he looked back on it, he was using them to define himself. He believed, because he wore a leather glove that he was his own person. He believed if he transformed the Dark Mark that he was free.

He could be both those things without having possession of the material objects. And Voldemort knew this as well.

It frightened Izar at how much Voldemort knew him. But that deep knowledge was also vice versa. There were many times Izar would claim he didn't understand the Dark Lord, but he knew more about Voldemort than many of his servants. The two of them were a lot alike.

Perhaps Izar just felt a bit overwhelmed for having such a powerful wizard romantically involved with him. Their… relationship would never be sweet, nor would it be easy. They both thrived on challenging one another and they would always be eager to point out each other's weakness.

He felt insecure at times, fearing he would never be good enough to keep Voldemort's interest. But the man's declaration today in the bedroom made Izar realize that Voldemort was interested in just more than his appearance.

And there was also…

Izar cocked his head to the side, squinting into the sun.

Basilisks did not have mates. Fae did not have mates. Vampire had mates, but none of the other two did.

Which meant that Voldemort chose that particular trait to keep in his own creature. It was positively absurd to think that Voldemort wanted a mate. That he would allow for such a weakness. But Izar was certain that the serpents and Fae did not have life-long mates like the vampires. Izar would never mention his knowledge on the subject, but it intrigued him to ponder on why a Dark Lord would want someone so close to him.

The best conclusion he could come up with, would be because Voldemort wanted someone he could trust above all the others. Perhaps not trust, but rely on to succeed in the orders he gave out. Or maybe it was more than that, and Izar just didn't want to even think that Voldemort wanted a companion. It wasn't incongruous, but it was unrealistic. Voldemort wanted someone close to him to challenge him, to remind him when he was slipping.

That was why he wanted a mate. All the other followers would be killed or tortured if they so much as breathed a word of disrespect.

But the mate pull they shared was very dull. Izar could feel it now that he was a creature. He felt more comfortable with Voldemort's presence than before, almost if the man were familiar to him. There had always been that sexual pull, but it had increased slightly since his transformation. Though, it was dull enough to resist. Easy to resist. Izar wasn't ready to allow Voldemort to dominate over him like that just yet.

He concluded that the pull was weak because Voldemort made it that way. If Voldemort's mate turned out to be someone not worthy enough, the Dark Lord could just turn his shoulder and ignore them.

It made Izar realize he had something to live up to. Voldemort thought he was worthy enough to remind him when he was slipping. And Izar wanted to be that wizard who would keep Voldemort in line, the wizard who would remind Voldemort his boundaries and his limitations. And he especially wanted to be the wizard who challenged the Dark Lord.

A sly smile stretched across Izar's lips. Yes, he could do that.

He crossed his arms over his chest when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone apparating outside the door. Voldemort was back early. Perhaps the man felt hesitant to leave Izar alone. Did the man underestimate Izar and believe he would have run from the home in a childish rage? Destroy his property?

The two still had many things to talk about, but Izar was content for now.

Relaxed in a lazy pose, Izar watched the man enter the home through the reflection on the window. He could see the Dark Lord hesitate when he saw him standing next to the window.

"I see you're still in one piece," Voldemort mused before shutting the door.

Izar hid his grin behind the goblet as he finished the rest of the blood. Licking his lips clear of the excess blood, he turned around. "No need to worry so much about me, My Lord," Izar spoke slyly. After all, he finally harbored a secret about Voldemort that the man didn't know he possessed. It felt exhilarating.

Riddle's eyes narrowed on Izar suspiciously. "What are you scheming behind those pretty eyes of yours, child?"

Izar looked away, setting down the goblet on the table. Slowly, he prowled forward, knowing all to well that Voldemort's attention was on the trousers riding low on his hips. Izar stopped a few inches from Riddle, his stance relaxed. The man's eyes danced across Izar's hips and naked torso and finally to the Dark Mark that stood out painfully against his porcelain skin. A possessive light entered Riddle's eyes as he studied his Mark on Izar before finally looking up to meet his eyes.

Let him see, let him crave.

Izar could barely control his wicked smirk as he reached forward and laid a hand on Riddle's black-clothed attire. "I'm thinking…" Izar trailed off, stepping closer and running his fingernail along the man's strong jaw line. It clenched under his touch, thrilling Izar. "More like wondering…" he leaned closer, their lips almost brushing. "When you're going to give me those Occlumency lessons we agreed on."

With that, Izar dropped his hands and turned from the Dark Lord, a sinful smirk to his lips.

A menacing hiss followed at his heels as he escaped from the room.

Playing with the Dark Lord would always be his favorite and most dangerous pastime.


{Notes} A lot more Voldemort/Izar interaction next chapter. ;) They'll be talking about politics, the Death Eaters, Izar's loss of magic-sensitivity, how Voldemort saved Regulus, Izar's "marriage" to Daphne… though, that part won't be a very civil conversation. :D