{Notes} I really liked this chapter for some reason. *shrug* Perhaps because I was inspired by a wonderful person named, rh34. She drew me a fantastic picture of Izar. If you'd like to see it, there is a link on my profile.

A special thanks to those of you who reviewed. It means a lot to me and I always enjoy knowing what you like and dislike about the story ;)

Chapter Ten

Izar hadn't been this interested in an individual for what seemed like ages. His first interest had been Minerva McGonagall as she sat on the edge of his bed, explaining the wizarding world to him. After that, he didn't know if Snape or Dumbledore came next, but both were fascinating specimens in his eyes. And of course,Voldemort had been Izar's last and most recent interest.

He had a feeling Rufus Scrimgeour would take a special place in Izar's radar.

The hand grasping his own hand was strong, sure, and the Minister patted Izar's bicep with his opposite hand. Mutual interest passed between them with a heated stare, Izar out of sadistic glee at having a worthy opponent and Rufus out of true intrigue and suspicion.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Scrimgeour."

Rufus gave a smile full of ragged teeth. "The pleasure is all mine," the man insisted as he dropped Izar's hand and took a step back to survey him properly. "You've grown since the last time I've seen you." Next to him, the forgotten Owen nodded in agreement.

Izar lifted his eyebrows in mock consideration. "Last time, sir?" He couldn't remember ever meeting the man personally. Izar would remember meeting Rufus Scrimgeour.

He hated that the rumors were, indeed, true about this notorious ex-Auror. Izar wasn't favored to sharing the same opinion as the rest of the public, but when an impressive wizard carried this air about him, he was likely to get notice.

Rufus offered a deep chuckle, his attention never wavering away from Izar.

Oh yes, Izar enjoyed this. But how much did Rufus know? Was he on good terms with Albus Dumbledore? Did Rufus know about the Order of the Phoenix, the Death Eaters true motives, the Dark Lord? Was the ex-Auror able to identify that Tom Riddle had his own sly plans beneath those fake brown eyes and sparkling cheater glasses?

Rufus Scrimgeour was a blank canvas for Izar. He would be looking forward to painting it.

"I attended the Triwizard Tournament last year, each one of the Tasks."

Izar could almost feel his small smile sour at the man's statement. The Triwizard Tournament and the Tasks weren't his best show of power. But then again, it was always a decent idea to make his enemies underestimate him. As if sensing his train of thought, Rufus gave a pleased growl in his throat, clenching his teeth in a way that resembled an amused lion. The man's mannerisms mimicked the Gryffindor mascot to a tee. On the outside, he was graceful with both cautious and vigilant movements. But Izar knew, on the inside, beneath the skin, Rufus was longing to lunge with a brutal strike.

The lion, in all ways, was similar to the serpent. They both watched their prey, tasted their prey, before going in for the strike. And that strike would be quick and precise, a lethal blow. But there were also differences between the two species. The lion was arrogant, tempered. He would underestimate most of his prey because he was the king of his species. The serpent, on the other hand, grew defensive and frightened of the proximity of a greater threat. It would likely strike out of desperation in order to defend itself.

Rather interesting that Voldemort resembled the inner lion more than the serpent. Though, he had both qualities. He was favor of striking, but the lion's overconfidence was something that blinded him. Arrogance wasn't a characteristic of the creature-species Voldemort created. No, it was just inbred in Tom Riddle as a child, and that was one of Voldemort's faults.

Izar pondered what species Rufus resembled on the inside. The outside was all lion, yes, but was there a serpent on the inside, desperate to strike?

"You did a job well done," Rufus continued, as if to calm Izar. "You were fifteen, correct?" His yellow eyes glanced at Owen for conformation. With a nod in return, Rufus turned back around. "You were pressured into the Tournament. For being so unprepared, you did remarkable." Rufus paused briefly before continuing just as quickly. "Owen tells me you have a knack for inventing things, a true prodigy, its no wonder Undersecretary Riddle scooped you up so fast as his political heir."

As the man said this, his eyes rose a few inches above Izar's head.

Izar felt a bit disappointed that Riddle found him so quickly. He wanted to analyze Rufus a bit longer by himself, but it didn't surprise him that Riddle had zeroed in on his location. The man had probably watched him closely as he danced with Lily and Daphne.

A hand fell on his shoulder, tightening painfully as Riddle took position next to him. "Mr. Scrimgeour," Riddle droned in greeting. "I see you've already met my heir."

The two shook hands, Riddle never removing his left hand from Izar's shoulder. The Black heir watched the exchange between the two powerful politics and couldn't help but to notice the strained smiles and the tightening around their eyes. They hated each other. Only, the two would never admit it out loud.

Riddle seemed more amused than irritated whereas Rufus seemed to grind his teeth in impatience and a desire to attack.

So, how much did the man know? Was this a simple dislike between the two, or did Scrimgeour know that Tom Riddle was, in fact, a rising Dark Lord? Izar believed it was the earlier. The man likely felt that something was off. He was using his intuition to tell him if he should trust or distrust Tom Riddle. If Scrimgeour knew Riddle was the man behind the Death Eaters, Izar believed Rufus wouldn't allow Riddle to stay in office. After all, the Minister of Magic had some power over the Undersecretary.

Rufus smiled thinly, watching as Riddle and Welder shook hands. The Head Unspeakable seemed smitten with Riddle as he gushed out a warm greeting.

"I have," Scrimgeour responded briskly to Riddle's inquisition. "In fact, Owen and I were just discussing Mr. Black and the rest of the Unspeakables." Izar raised his eyebrows in curiosity, but Rufus continued smoothly. "I know Cornelius wanted to turn a blind eye to the Unspeakables' work. He's allowed a considerable amount of free reign over their experiments. If I am elected into office, I would like a firm hand in the operations and knowledge of findings."

Izar looked discreetly at Owen Welder to gauge the man's expression. Just as Izar thought, Owen was trying to hide his distaste for such a spectacle. Unspeakables were confidential employees and enjoyed keeping their work private. They worked with objects and artifacts that most average wizards and witches would find complicated to comprehend. Work limits would mean disaster.

Looking down to stow away his aversion, Izar looked back up with a crooked grin on his face. "Do you believe there is some unethical research being done, Mr. Scrimgeour?" he said it teasingly, as if to ridicule the man and his fears. "Because I can reassure you that we are not exactly the people the public paints us as. In short, we're the children in school who didn't fit in quite well. We're… harmless nerds."

Next to him, Owen barked out in laughter, clutching his plate of slathered meatballs. "Well said, Izar, well said."

Riddle remained a silent body next to Izar, watching. He knew the man was here to examine how well Izar could handle Rufus. And Izar was inclined to show the man that he could handle himself just fine.

Rufus chuckled quietly, cocking his head to the side to study Izar in a new light. "And yet, you're accompanying a high-end politician as his heir."

Izar smiled. "I couldn't pass up the opportunity for free lunches." Owen howled out another chuckle, yet Izar remained inexpressive as he watched Rufus rear his head back in a gesture that resembled an uptight horse.

The Minister candidate was sizing him up just as Izar was sizing him. Rufus wanted to know what to think of Riddle's new heir, whether he was a threat, or someone to turn a cold shoulder on. Although Izar wanted it to be the latter, he secretly wanted Rufus to see something in him that would return the man's attention for later.

Yellow eyes examined him closely. "Sometimes, intelligent minds are the most dangerous. Tell me, Izar, what are you? An experimenter or an inventor? Owen tells me you are both, but most don't excel in both."

Izar never missed a beat. "I believe one must excel in both, sir, in order to be good at what they do. One cannot invent, if they have not experimented. And one cannot experiment if they have not invented something on the path to their results."

"Impressive," Rufus agreed sharply. He ran a hand through his hair, bringing attention to his thick tawny mane. The top of his head seemed slick with either gel or grease, but from his ears down to his shoulders, tight curls resided. "That is a very impressive viewpoint. But the issue still stands, Mr. Black. Inquiring minds need sating, and in turn, such a mind needs restrictions. What's saying your colleagues will not experiment on human beings? What if they plan on ways to destroy communities with a single blow?"

Riddle's hand slid down Izar's back and briefly touched the small of his back before coming to a stop at the man's side. Izar knew the Dark Lord was pleased with him so far. And while Izar wasn't dancing with Rufus for Riddle's favor, it did help matters.

"There are many ways to construct such a destructive force, Mr. Scrimgeour. But most inventors and experimenters, like myself, enjoy the art of creating something new, something that would manipulate the very laws of physics and magic. They aren't interested in total destruction. At any rate, it's already been done before by Muggles." He hated to reference Muggles, but it was relative to what he was trying to get across.

Destruction was simple, even Muggles could do it. Rufus should have nothing to fear for Unspeakables to mimic the same effects.

An odd light entered Rufus' eyes at Izar's comment. "Muggles, extraordinary folk, don't you agree, Izar?"

It was an abrupt change of topic, but Rufus seemed oddly interested in Izar's response. The man was likely trying to gauge Izar's true feelings on Muggles and Muggle-borns. Or perhaps it was something a bit more. Either way, Izar would give the truth, or… at least half the truth. After all, Riddle would find it pathetic if Izar just agreed completely with Rufus' statement.

"Extraordinary despite their circumstances, sir, but overall, they're just frightened of power and those who wield it." Rufus raised his eyebrows at his answer, but Izar didn't allow the man to interrupt. "They created the atomic bomb out of fear and revenge. They will continue to fear those who hold more power over them. Their response will, and always will be, predictable if they find out about magic and those who wield it. Destruction."

A wary grin stretched Rufus' face. "And who said they would find out about our world?"

Muggle-borns. The answer was as simple as that. The more Muggle-borns who were born and allowed to live in both worlds would soon become too large to control. They would talk and they would have too many attachments in the Muggle world.

Instead of retorting this to Rufus, Izar only smiled thinly. "I'm afraid that we could go into this debate for hours, Mr. Scrimgeour. However, I think I've taken up too much of your time. You seem to be wanted elsewhere." He waved a careless hand toward the hall, having felt the piercing stares on the side of his face for awhile now.

Scrimgeour turned, spotting the guests staring at them politely and inquisitively. With a chuckle, Rufus turned back around and stepped closer to Izar. "I see that I've lingered far too long, though it's been a very pleasurable conversation, Mr. Black. I hope to continue our discussion sometime in the near future if Undersecretary Riddle is willing to share you?"

Lord Voldemort does not share. Izar thought Rufus' inquiry was humorous, but he nodded sharply. "I look forward to it."

Rufus shook hands with Owen and Riddle before giving one last handshake to Izar. "I hope I have your vote?" The man asked lightly, yet seriously.

Izar gave a sinister smile full of teeth. "If I were old enough, Mr. Scrimgeour, you would have my vote, yes."

His statement seemed to take the man off guard, as if he had forgotten Izar was only sixteen. With a low bow at the waist, Rufus turned and limped off to the rest of the hall. Izar watched him go hungrily; knowing he had secured Rufus' interest and knowing he now had a worthy opponent.

"Very good, child," Riddle purred into his wine glass. It was low enough that anyone passing or hovering nearby wouldn't pick up on it. With Izar's improved hearing, he could distinguish it with clarity.

A heavy hand clasped his back. "I hope this means you'll be returning to work on Monday? Full time?" Owen grumbled, balancing his plate of meatballs with his free hand. "We've missed you around the Department, Mr. Black."

"Hopefully not because you have more Time-Turners for me to do…" Izar murmured silkily.

Owen chuckled. "We have a new recruit for that, Mr. Black."

"I'm afraid he will not be returning to you full-time, Mr. Welder," Riddle intercepted smoothly.

Izar sent him a pointed look, struggling not to voice his opinion.

"With Izar's status as my political heir, I will need him nearby," the man continued flawlessly. He lowered his glass of empty wine on the buffet table and leveled Owen with a stare. "Might I suggest we trade him every day after lunch? Mornings will be spent with the Unspeakables, after which, he'll be accompanying me."

Izar leaned against the table, staring at the guests mingling about the hall. Due to the late hour, there were fewer occupants inside, but a handful was staying behind in hopes of speaking with either Rufus Scrimgeour or Pius Thicknesse. Without real interest, Izar considered the dancing couples as he waited for Welder's response.

He couldn't find fault in Riddle's arrangement. It could have been easy for Riddle to just remove Izar from the Unspeakables, but the man had offered something halfway—a rare occurrence. But was it an act of generosity on Riddle's part? Or an act that fit Voldemort's schemes? As far as Izar knew, the Dark Lord only had one other spy within the Unspeakable ranks, Rookwood.

"Part-time," Owen grumbled before grunting. "As long as he shows up on time in the mornings, I can find nothing wrong with the arrangement."

Izar looked at Riddle from the corner of his eye and noticed the man's sickly sweet smile.

"I'm glad it's settled," the man whispered. "We will be taking our leave, Owen. A pleasure to see you again. I will make certain Izar will be at work on Monday at eight o'clock sharp."

Izar barely got a nod out before Riddle was steering him across the hall and toward the exit. "My father—"

"Can wait," Riddle responded.

Izar growled low in his throat, knowing all to well that the man heard it. He was led out the hall and into the long stretch of corridor where the guests deposited their outer cloaks, coats, and purses.

"Tom, Tom!" A distant voice called after them with a winded desperation.

About to turn around to see who was calling out Riddle, Izar was halted by two hands landing heavily on his shoulder, urging him forward. "Keep walking, quickly," Riddle exhaled in his ear.

Izar grinned, realizing the Dark Lord wanted to avoid an encounter with whoever was calling after him. But just as they were about the cross the threshold of safety, a figure cloaked and draped of brilliant pink stepped right in front of Izar, blocking their path.

The Black heir blinked at the apparition in front of him before issuing a horrified gasp and backing abruptly into the Dark Lord behind him. The man let out an annoyed grunt, his hands becoming painful on Izar's shoulders.

The woman… she had to be part toad.

She smiled thinly, resembling a conniving and scheming toad. Izar hissed at her between his teeth, fearing the beady brown eyes and the smile that stretched for miles across her squat face. She was his nightmares personified.

"Hem-Hem," she blinked at him sweetly. "Are you okay, dear?"

No, he wasn't. Izar peered up at Riddle. The man met his stare, his lips pressed in a thin line that expressed his exasperation. It was a childish weakness, to be frightened of toads and frogs as much as he was. But Izar wasn't so much frightened of them as he was unsettled. He could handle them just fine if it came down to it; he just… found them…

Disquieting.

Before Izar could recover, the male voice that had been calling Riddle had finally caught up to them. Izar was surprised to see Cornelius Fudge panting, out of breath and red in the face. "Tom," Fudge breathed. "I had hoped to catch you before you took your leave."

A box was held in the Minister's hand and Izar studied it with intrigue, using it as means to ignore the woman in pink who had stepped smugly next to Fudge.

"Oh? And what couldn't wait until Monday, Minister Fudge?" Riddle inquired.

Fudge smiled warmly at Izar, giving a sharp nod in greeting before passing the box to Undersecretary Riddle. "I wanted to give these to you as a gift, Tom. We've worked together for a few years now, and I think you could benefit greatly from these."

Everyone seemed to lean in close as Riddle slowly opened the lid of the box and revealed… a pair of pointed purple boots. Izar's lips curled inward in order to stop his laugh, especially at the expression Riddle was too slow to hide. Utter disgust. It was gone quickly and most likely too fast for Fudge or the toad-woman to spot.

"I can't take these, Minister," Riddle tried to dig his way out of it.

Oh… but Izar would not allow the man to do so. He considered this as part of his revenge for last night's… facial.

"Nonsense, Mr. Riddle," Izar stepped in with an air of smugness and took out a boot from the box. He held it up, examining the purple leather and leaning closer to Riddle. "These are crafted richly and of high quality. It's a very generous gift, Minister. I think it will add a bit of color to Undersecretary Riddle's wardrobe."

Izar completely ignored the stare he was receiving from Riddle and focused on Fudge's split grin. "Exactly, my boy. That is what I had in mind when I purchased these boots for Tom."

The Black heir nodded, smiling as he placed the boot back in the box and pushed it further into Riddle's hands. "I will make certain Mr. Riddle will wear these boots on Monday," he added with a wide smile.

{Death of Today}

A few minutes later found Izar and Voldemort sitting across from each other, the box of purple pointed boots abandoned in the far corner. They were currently residing in Lord Voldemort's base, a few miles south of London. Many of the Dark Lord's trusted followers knew its location, specifically his Inner-Circle Death Eaters. Because Bellatrix and a few other Death Eaters were warranted for arrest, the base was also their home.

The Dark Lord had his own wing reserved at the base with multiple of rooms locked and blocked off from anyone entering. Privacy was the man's high demand when he constructed this base, and that was what he got.

It was, by no means, as luxurious and refreshing as his private home on the beach. The atmosphere here was cold, dark, and dingy, everything expected of a Dark Lord. But because the base was mostly underground, it was to be expected that sunlight didn't reach the inhibitors.

Izar sat stiffly across from the Dark Lord, watching him through hooded eyes as the Dark Lord sipped on a rather large brandy. Crimson eyes watched him just as intensely from over the rim of the tumbler. Despite the man's praise earlier this evening at the Ministry ball, Izar could feel the displeasure coming off Voldemort in waves.

"May I retire?" Izar questioned softly, smothering a palm down his white robes. Earlier, after tailoring his robes, Izar was shown the base before they left for the Ministry function. He was shown a room in Voldemort's wing and knew exactly where to go.

"No," Voldemort replied simply.

Settling further against the plush leather couch, Izar's slit-eyes lazily traced the sloppy collar of the Dark Lord. As soon as they had stepped foot into the privacy of Voldemort's chambers, Riddle's glamour had melted away and converted back into the infamous Dark Lord.

Izar was quick to notice the Dark Lord didn't reveal his fangs, ears, or scales, only the red-slit eyes. It was obvious the man disliked his creature side, despite having invented it himself. To counter the man, Izar had dropped every one of his own glamour spells. He could feel his pointed ears brush against his hair and his eyes felt refreshed, almost as if a dry film had been removed.

Izar wanted Voldemort to see his creature side, to remind the man of what he was even if the Dark Lord wasn't willing to expose himself.

"If this is over the purple boots…" Izar began, wanting to get this discussion over with. He was exhausted, and arguing with the Dark Lord was the last thing he wanted to do.

"You did a remarkable job with Scrimgeour," Voldemort contradicted, completely forgoing the purple boots. They both knew that wasn't what the man was upset about. Red eyes narrowed. "Almost too well."

Izar gave a grim and dark smile, amused. Was the man jealous that he had found a new interest? The man should know that no one could replace him, but Izar refused to tell the man as such. It would only inflate his ego. "I find him interesting," he confessed. "He's a fascinating character, a worthy opponent— as you would say."

Voldemort didn't respond for some time, favoring scrutinizing Izar instead. His fingernails tapped his glass as he contemplated deeply. "You remind me of a kitten," the Dark Lord murmured. "Batting a ball of unwoven yarn. It is not wise to play for too long or you will end up tangled."

Izar tipped his head back, baring his neck to the man as he grinned up at the ceiling. "You do it all the time," Izar countered.

"I do not allow my emotions to rule me," Voldemort hissed out. "You will do well to note Scrimgeour as a worthy opponent and abandon all sense of respect and intrigue. It will only dig you deeper into his hold. How do you know that Scrimgeour is not playing on your interest? What's saying he isn't using you to get to me?"

"He does not strike me as a man who uses underlying methods to deceive. Rufus Scrimgeour is blunt and obvious with his attacks after patiently studying his prey," Izar responded smartly as he remembered the man's mannerisms during the Ministry function.

Voldemort held his glass with his fingertips, twisting it gracefully in a continuous circle. The fire residing in the black-stone hearth caught the man's silver Celtic band, making it glow. "Don't be too sure, child," Voldemort warned.

The two lapsed in silence, the cracking wood in the fireplace the only means of sound between the both of them. Izar stared at the flames, angry that the Dark Lord thought so little of his observations. He was relatively good at reading people and Voldemort said himself that Rufus' strategy relies on direct force. Scrimgeour was a Gryffindor and an Auror. Both were bred to attack directly and quickly.

"What did you talk about with your mother after your… astounding escape from my side?"

Izar looked at Voldemort, hiding his surprise well. The Dark Lord was never known to ask very personal questions and Izar wasn't experienced in this territory. Regulus and Sirius were the only two who really knew Izar and his personal experiences, and even they didn't know most of it.

"She wanted to know about Cygnus' attack," Izar murmured calmly. "She wanted to know how I was able to defeat him and to remind me that the custody battle was still in place." Licking his lips, Izar offered the man a wary grin. "I told her that with your mastery in Legilimens, I was able to drive out Cygnus."

A lie.

And Voldemort sniffed it out quickly and expertly.

Abruptly, the Dark Lord stood from the couch and walked a few feet away, examining the wet bar. "Interesting," he rolled the word across his tongue. "You see, I've had misgivings about your mother the day of Cygnus' attack. Funny… at the Ministry she seemed to know exactly what was going on without prior warning. She also seemed to want Cygnus to reach the Veil, as if she had her own plan of attack as soon as he merged fully with the rest of his spirit."

Izar stood up, too anxious to sit. He paced the front of the fireplace, heat licking his clothed legs. Why was he—

"Why are you defending your mother, silly child?" Voldemort mimicked his own thoughts. "The woman who conceived you in order to bait your father. The woman who dropped off her mistake at a Muggle orphanage—the very same orphanage that put you through hell." Voldemort continued to face away, a curl to his lip.

"Many mothers give up their child if they feel as if they have no where else to turn," Izar murmured. "She was young and so twisted by Dumbledore's manipulations. Aside from guilt, I believe she put me up for adoption in order to hide me from the Headmaster's reach."

Voldemort whirled around, his expression contorted into repugnance. "You are pathetic."

Izar saw red. He lifted his lip and bared his right fang as he threw his arm out in fury. "I think holding on to my anger is pathetic. I forgive her for putting me up for adoption, but I will never forget. Just as I will not forgive her for what she did to Regulus." Izar breathed deeply, his human actions too ingrained on his mind to realize he did not need the oxygen.

He didn't want to think of Lily right now. His mother was dead and all that remained was a cold shell of the former woman. But how had she gotten that way? Simply because she made a Horcrux to protect him.

He felt no guilt. He could and would never. But he harbored something akin to respect for the woman. His emotions were too twisted, too unclear to see what he truly felt about his mother and the situation she thrust them in. He held no love for her, Lily Potter, never would, but what he really felt for her would remain a mystery until he sat down and thought on this.

Until that time, he didn't want to talk about her or her Horcrux.

"I don't want to talk about this," Izar relayed to Voldemort before the man could retort. "She is a topic that will remain untouched for now."

Voldemort smiled aggressively. "Fine," he nodded. "Then we will speak of that blond…thing… that witch." A pale hand waved carelessly through the air as if Voldemort thought so little of the topic of Daphne.

Izar glowered across the room at the Dark Lord. He supposed now was the time to discuss the arranged marriage. The Dark Lord was already peeved, angry, and Izar was too exhausted to try to be subtle about it. "Daphne Greengrass, as if you hadn't known," Izar murmured in amusement. "I think an arranged marriage would benefit all three of us."

Suddenly, the air grew cold and Izar took a small step back as he felt and saw the Dark Lord's magic for the first time since the accident. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same, only because it was the Dark Lord's anger that made it possible for Izar to see it again. The pulverized diamond dust seemed to warm a coal orange-red and its usual settled and lazy motions were angrily swimming around Voldemort.

"Benefit all three of us?" the Dark Lord mimicked back. Shadows clung to the man's form and expression, all evidence that the man was far from happy with the suggestion. "The only one I would see benefiting from this is that wretch, no? She climbs the social ladder as the wife of the heir to the Black family."

Izar stepped forward, stubbornly poking the enraged serpent. "She doesn't see me as a romantic suitor and I see her platonically. She respects my privacy and has even suggested that we don't need to live under the same roof. She—"

"I see you have already planned this romantic getaway between yourselves. It's precious, truly, but it will never happen." Voldemort murmured back in clipped-tones.

Leaning back on the heels of his feet, Izar examined the Dark Lord's stiff back and closed off expression. How far could he push? The man was clearly furious already, but the Dark Lord was known for his short temper. How far until the short temper soured into lividness? The man wasn't even allowing Izar to finish or explain his side rationally. It irritated him that the man had to be so bloody stubborn.

"I already told you there is nothing romantic about it," Izar continued quietly in a controlled voice. "I believe that it would be another added protection to our true… relationship. If anyone grew suspicious of my proximity to you, a… fiancé on top of my status of your political heir would—"

Voldemort held up his left hand, showing off the Celtic band. "This is reason enough. If there are more suspicions involving our true relationship past our political ties, then the one who suspects will be slain— killed. You will not be touching her or this subject again, is that clear?"

He said it almost calmly. Izar debated for a moment, pondering if this was a sign of Voldemort's temper dying down or if it was simply the calm before the storm?

Izar's body grew stiff as he prepared himself to dodge anything that came to him. "As Black heir to a pure-blood family, I am expected to marry and continue on the line…"

Perhaps mentioning an heir wasn't the best course of action, especially when the Dark Lord probably wasn't thinking of adoption but of sexual intercourse with Daphne. Voldemort snarled, pitching his glass of brandy at Izar. The speed was incredibly fast but Izar's reflexes were just as honed. The lithe wizard dropped in a crouch as the glass shattered over his head, spilling its contents all over the floor.

Izar hissed in defense as he stayed crouched, eyeing the Dark Lord warily.

"If you try to challenge my order," Voldemort began icily. "You will feel what its like to be on the other end of my wrath."

There were no games this time. The conversation was done and the decision was in shades of black and white. Voldemort was left standing, holding the playing field in his favor. Izar accepted this, accepted that there would never be an arranged marriage with Daphne, but it angered him that the Dark Lord was so set against it, that he hadn't given Izar a chance to explain his side properly.

"Is that a threat?" Izar whispered.

"That is a threat, yes."

Izar bowed his head, clutching the ground with his fingernails. He struggled to reign in his own temper, knowing all too well that if he met the Dark Lord with his own fury, the man would continue to turn a deaf ear and try to match his anger.

"You know that I would never commit infidelity, My Lord. The thought never and will never cross my mind."

Voldemort remained silent, a brooding figure across the room.

"I suppose our… relationship will never be based on trust, though. You will never trust me. And I will never trust you. But you want this, don't you, My Lord?" Izar looked up at the man through the fall of his dark bangs. "You want someone to be a challenge for you, but you will never accept them as your equal—an equal that can hold your trust." Izar's eerie pale eyes met Voldemort's crimson. "I am nothing but a mere possession to you, something that amuses you at times, but something you can easily discard."

Izar stood up stiffly from his crouched position, crossing his arms over his chest. "In time I hope you realize that I'm a loyal person," Izar continued silkily. "I can be a challenge to you while also holding your trust at the same time."

Voldemort's lip turned downward. "You may think you have me figured out, child, but your perception is far off its base."

The Black heir gave a noise of disbelief in his throat, but otherwise, did not comment on the man's declaration. "Is that all, My Lord?"

Voldemort's crimson eyes surveyed Izar closely before the man waved his hand, slamming open the door as answer. Izar crossed the room, passing the Dark Lord. But before he could exit, a hand struck out and grabbed him by the elbow. Suddenly, he was turned and a hand cradled his face, turning it just the right angle for the lips to take his mouth captive. Voldemort didn't have to bend down so far to meet Izar's lips like he used to in the past.

Izar remained stiff in return, not inclined to meet the kiss tonight.

Voldemort pulled back, keeping his hand still curled around Izar's elbow and cheek. "No, that isn't all," Voldemort murmured. "I'd like you to share my bed with me tonight. Every night."

The request took him by surprise. It was also a show of vulnerability on the Dark Lord's behalf. It was a move that proved to Izar that Voldemort didn't want him to leave angry and with the wrong assumptions. "I'm tired," he responded feebly.

A sly smile curved Voldemort's lips. "Usually when you sleep, you are tired, child. I am not asking you to have sex with me. I want you in my bed with me."

Izar remained guarded as he studied the man closely. Without his permission, his stomach clenched hotly at the thought of sleeping in the same bed with the Dark Lord. Not sex, nothing but sleeping.

Finally, Izar gave a tense nod.

Voldemort inclined his head. "You know where my bed is. I will be there in a few minutes."

Izar glided from the room, nearing the Dark Lord's bedchamber. As he crossed the threshold into the dark bedroom, Izar realized something he hadn't thought of as soon as the request was given.

Voldemort would be sleeping, rendering himself vulnerable and exposed. Such exposure meant that he was comfortable with Izar next to him, that there was a semblance of trust between the two of them.

Despite the man being a bastard, Izar was ready to admit that his perception of Voldemort might have been wrong.

{Death of Today}

He was dreaming. Izar didn't dream very often, but when he did, his dreams were generally about nothing in particular.

Next to him, a man stood studying a portrait. It was an artistic portrait, something made from the wizarding world. There weren't many wizards or witches who chose art as an occupation, but when they did, they excelled beautifully at it. Izar took little interest in the portrait and instead favored the man next to him.

The man was wrinkled, appearing in his late sixties. Black hair was streaked with grey and a few peppered-strands had evidence of curls. A rough goatee painted the man's aristocratic features while sparkling charcoal eyes searched the moving portrait in front of him.

"Regulus," Izar murmured, pleased. His father had aged well. Incredibly handsome and dignified.

Regulus turned to him with a bemused smile. "Regulus? I haven't heard that name in years, Izar." Charcoal eyes, so like Regulus', traced his face.

"Why?" Izar asked. "You're Regulus Black aren't you?"

The man frowned, suddenly losing his good nature and turning serious. "Regulus was my fourth great grandfather, Izar."

Something turned cold in Izar's stomach as he stared at the man. He must have been a descendant of Regulus'. And if he was Regulus' many-times removed grandson, then that meant the man was Izar's… grandson as well. The Black heir's mouth grew dry as he studied the old man before him almost obsessively. This couldn't be… this was too bizarre.

"Look," the man pointed at the portrait across from Izar. "Look at the beauty, the timeless beauty. Forever Frozen, they call it."

Izar slowly turned away from the man and looked at the portrait. Only, it wasn't a portrait but a mirror. Izar stared at himself, forever sixteen.

His descendant peered into the mirror, his wrinkles clashing with Izar's flawless skin. "Odd, you look much like a Black," his descendant murmured. "I'm surprised we aren't related. Though, for all we know, you could be a distant nephew of mine."

Izar turned away from his reflection, staring at his young- but old descendant. The man's statement was answer enough to his questions. Izar would forever be a bystander to the Black family line after he was 'dead'. He could never get too close, in fear of discovery, in fear of attachments. He would be forced to keep watch from afar, contact scarce.

Immortality never seemed so desolate.

Izar awoke, his mind and head still thick with sleep. Subconsciously, he was aware of the tight arms around him, holding him from behind. Izar rolled around, facing the body next to him and searching for the one that harbored the same curse as his own.

He pressed his chest against the only other body that shared his same temperature, the one that was also absence of a pulse, but still brimming with life…

In return, the arms tightened around him.

And suddenly, immortality didn't feel so alone.


{Notes} No, the dream does *not* mean Izar is going to have a child. :)

Next chapter, there will be a Death Eater meeting and a Regulus/Izar and Draco/Izar interaction—(hopefully) And perhaps an Occlumency lesson between Voldemort and Izar.