Yes, I changed the Third tier masks from nickel (or was it copper?) to charcoal. It has come to my attention that nickel is very similar to silver, no? And silver is the color of the Second tier. I'm an idiot. So I changed it to charcoal.
As a warning, I'm going through a horrible writers block right now. I'm trying my best to push through it, but this chapter was painful for me and I'm not sure how the following ones will turn out. Just know that I'm thankful for all of you who are reading…I don't want to let you down with any of the chapters.
Enjoy!
Chapter Twelve
Izar's splayed fingers curled into claws across Regulus' waist as he looked at the man through the slits of his mask. His tongue was heavy, unable to form any coherent reassurances and his head was swimming with possible solutions as to why Lily would drop the case.
At the Ministry function, she had refused to drop the custody battle when Izar threatened that he wouldn't keep her Horcrux a secret. When Izar had threatened as such, she stayed strong in her rebuttal, claiming that she could not drop the case—that it wasn't possible. But… when Izar had persisted, saying that she would need to drop the case if she wanted forgiveness—redemption— her expression had hardened and became unreadable. Looking back on it now, Izar wondered if that was the reason for her actions.
That she just wanted peace between her and her son. That this was an act of desperation for his forgiveness.
No.
No, it couldn't be that. She was an empty shell. Lily even admitted she wasn't the same woman, the same mother Izar had met in his head. But what was the extent of her emotional damage after she split her soul? Was she as really as callous as she let on? Or was she trying to smother her emotions, ignoring them in order to fit her own needs?
There had to be something underhanded going on. Izar couldn't accept that Lily would drop the case just to make herself look better in his eyes.
He knew it wasn't to keep her Horcrux a secret. That much he was certain. They both had a silent understanding that Izar hadn't wanted to tell anyone about her sacrifice. He felt uncomfortable with telling Voldemort or Regulus and even admitting it out loud. Perhaps it was because he, himself, couldn't even accept it and ponder about it. Or maybe it was because he knew Voldemort and Regulus would tarnish the selfless sacrifice of his mother and try to pass it off as something she did out of spite.
The knowledge that Lily gave herself to save him was something Izar wanted to keep to himself. He wanted to bury the knowledge deep and conceal it from greedy fingers. He needed Lily's act to be untarnished and his alone.
"It's nothing," Izar murmured, his fingers loosening from Regulus' side. He continued supporting Regulus down the cold corridor, facing forward and squinting suspiciously into the shadows. His magic-sensitivity was absent again, but he still felt the shift in atmosphere. It was familiar to him, both cold and alluring… and utterly sinister.
Voldemort was near and he wasn't feeling generous enough to allow Izar time alone with his father. After all, this wing was the Dark Lord's ground; he would do whatever he pleased. And that included eavesdropping.
"Izar," Regulus continued. "It had to be something."
Izar swept past Voldemort's magical wards, feeling the slight nudge against his skin as it recognized him and inspected his guest. "We danced last night at the Ministry, Regulus. She seemed… different from the last time I talked with her and I tried a different approach with her. I asked her if she wanted redemption and forgiveness she would need to drop the case." Izar turned to look at the man once again. "And she dropped the case."
It was the truth. Izar felt better that he no longer had to lie. The Horcrux was just unwarranted information. Leaving it out wasn't lying to Regulus, it was simply stripping the truth.
Regulus seethed through his teeth, spit escaping past his lips. His charcoal eyes turned several shades paler as he ripped himself from Izar's grip. "She is not capable of redemption nor forgiveness."
The man stumbled without Izar's aid and collapsed to the floor. Regulus breathed deeply, shakily, and dragged himself upward in order to use the wall to crutch his back and head. Sweat coated his face, bringing attention to how pale and waxy his complexion was. To the human ear, Regulus' breathing sounded heavy and quick, but to his ears, Izar took notice of the catch with each inhalation and exhalation, almost if it were paining him to breathe.
"I'm sorry," Regulus murmured, using a gloved hand to wipe his face. "I didn't mean to shout at you."
Izar stood before his father, surveying the man grimly. "I'm not as sensitive as you believe, Regulus," Izar replied humorlessly. "I agree that Lily does not deserve forgiveness for what she's done to you, but—"
"And you. She's done just as much to you as me."
Izar paused, knowing that speaking to Regulus about Lily would always be like this. It was similar to the Dark Lord. They never wanted to hear another opinion; they liked their opinion and would turn a deaf ear on a new possibility. Regulus wouldn't believe that, perhaps, just maybe, Lily had suffered enough and that she had done all she can to make up for her past mistakes. There was more she could do, however, like personally approach Regulus and apologize, but for some reason, it was holding her back.
"You're wrong," Izar murmured. "She did much more to you. She only saw you as means to bring down the rising Dark Lord. She tore you away from your family and Severus Snape. Your desires for a child were played by her and when your hopes for having that child were growing, she pulled it away and claimed she was never pregnant with your child." Izar watched as Regulus' face creased angrily, unhappily. "All she did was give up my chance at a father and put me in an orphanage. She had no inkling that the orphanage would have turned out as a horrible experience for me."
"Don't…" Regulus whispered. "You are giving her excuses."
Izar straightened up from his bowed position and looked down the corridor. "Let's get you a Muscle Relaxer. You don't look so good." The man was too stubborn to talk to at the moment.
Regulus stiffened. "We are going to continue this discussion. I will not have Lily poisoning your mind against me."
An irritated breath escaped Izar's mouth. "We will continue the discussion, yes, but I'm not sure we can ever see eye to eye."
His father arched his back, his teeth gritting in frustration. "What has she done to you? What lies has she sprouted to you?" he accused sharply.
Izar suddenly crouched down, startling his father with his abruptness. Reaching forward, he cradled Regulus neck and underneath his knees, hoisting him off the floor. The man gave a startled intake of air and his body turned rigid.
"I do not forgive her for what she did to you," Izar continued smoothly, putting on a cold front to rival his father's hot rage. "And I probably will never forgive her. But I think she wants exoneration. She realizes what she did was wrong, Regulus. Dropping the custody battle was her way of demonstrating that driving a wedge further between us is not a wise decision."
He was growing weary speaking of Lily. Not only because arguing with Regulus was so tiring, but because he was arguing against something he hadn't even come to terms with himself.
Crossing the threshold into the living room and kitchen, Izar deposited Regulus on the couch before the man could comprehend that he had been carried by his own son. Quickly, before Regulus could speak, Izar ignited the fireplace with a wave of his wand and escaped into the kitchen with an order for his father to stay put.
Just as swiftly, he prepared the tea before turning his back on it to search the potion cabinet. Voldemort wouldn't dare protest against Izar using his personal wing to patch Regulus back up. The Dark Lord wanted Izar to stay at his base, returning to Grimmauld Place wasn't an option. And Izar would take advantage of that and use the top-of-the-line brewery for his father.
Plucking out the ice-blue potion and swirling it until it turned brown, Izar entered the living quarters to return to the couch he deposited his father. Only, Regulus was no where to be seen. Izar straightened up, casting a cool glance around the room before setting down the vial and quietly stalking Voldemort's quarters.
"Regulus?" Izar called out, ducking behind a tall column and spotting his father further down a slim corridor.
The man was leaning against a door frame, staring inside a room with an inexpressive face. "I was looking for the loo," the man commented darkly, an obvious lie. "Is this your room he makes you sleep in?"
Izar paused, not going any further down the corridor. He knew the room his father was looking in. It had meant to be his, but last night, Voldemort had requested him to sleep in his bed. "Yes," Izar responded briskly. "Though, if the Dark Lord catches you meddling around, he may consider casting another Crucio. Come back into the living room."
"It's not slept in," Regulus stated unemotionally as he followed Izar slowly back into the main living room. "Your bed was never made during the summer."
"The Dark Lord is anal about cleanliness," Izar bluffed as he tipped the vial and added a few drops of the Muscle Relaxer in the steaming tea cup. Its hot porcelain warmed his fingers pleasantly. "Sip on this," Izar instructed as he watched Regulus struggle to sit down without dropping down. "It's a bit more than medically recommended, but the Dark Lord's Crucios were not considered when the Healers constructed the potion," he spoke dryly and slid the cup across the table to his father.
Regulus' remained silent, not even flinching at Izar's attempt at humor. His hands remained firmly cupped in his lap as he stared at the table blankly. "You're sexually involved with him," the man stated coldly. It wasn't a question, but a numb statement.
"That is ridiculous," Izar hissed out. "You know very well that the Dark Lord does not take his followers to bed. It's against the rules of his game he likes to play with his servants." He stood up, staring into the fire as he tried to calm down his temper.
Regulus was acting differently. He never pried this much, he was never this… bull-headed and inquisitive. It had to be because of the Cygnus possession. The man thought he'd come close to losing him. And now Regulus was trying to compensate for not stopping Cygnus right away.
"I'm acting like an overprotective father again, aren't I?" Regulus mused grimly with a hint of a smile across his face. "I know you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, Izar. I missed those years of your life when you were dependent on me. I just don't want to see you get hurt… by Lily or the Dark Lord."
Izar's eyes became unfocused as he stared into the orange flames. "I suppose it's only natural for you to be worried," Izar spoke stiffly, sitting back down on the couch across from Regulus.
He removed his eyes from the fire and onto his father. The man sat hunched forward, his attention absorbed on Izar. The flames from the hearth manipulated Regulus' features, making him appear older than his thirty-five years. And yet, in spirit, the man had gone through a lifetime of pain and betrayal. For Regulus' sake, Izar could never forgive his mother for twisting the man so cruelly. He was just a man in love, a man similar to Izar who would do anything to protect the ones he cared for.
When Izar was satisfied that Regulus had calmed down, he relaxed against the couch and removed his hood and mask. The heat from the fire tickled at his pores and thanked him for the fresh air. Setting down his silver mask next to Regulus' cup, he sat back, meeting his father's observation.
Regulus' smile turned wider. "You seem to grow more handsome each time I see you."
"It's only been a week since I last saw you, I couldn't have changed that much," Izar argued, hiding his skepticism smoothly behind a solid smirk. Voldemort and he had agreed that his features had altered slightly since his transformation, but not enough to cause an alarm. He wore no glamours on his face and he wondered if Regulus could identify the changes.
Regulus cocked his head to the side, still avoiding the tea as if drinking it would make him appear weak. "During the summer, I became used to your constant presence. I'm afraid any absence from you, longer than a day, will make me feel out of sorts where you are concerned."
Izar's lips thinned at the man's casual statement. It was unsettling to hear that Regulus relied on his presence so much. The man had been in hiding for over fourteen years, isolated from everything but Kreacher. Izar was his first attachment since leaving isolation, and he wondered how much Regulus depended on having him around.
The man clasped his hands together, suddenly turning serious. "Lucius claimed that the Dark Lord took care of everything concerning Cygnus. The Black family tapestry was destroyed the day of your possession… I couldn't tell if you were still alive or not. I was frantic, but I knew I had to stay calm."
Izar sat back, pondering. "The Black tapestry was destroyed? How?"
Regulus shook his head. "Dark magic. It was burned. I'm not too sure how or who, but I have reason to believe that Cygnus somehow destroyed it."
No, it was Voldemort. Izar knew the Dark Lord had something to do with the lack of Black tapestry. If anyone were to look at the tree now, they would see Izar as deceased the day Voldemort turned him. It was good planning on his part, almost suspiciously good planning.
"What exactly happened, Izar?" Regulus whispered in strain. "I know Cygnus' spirit possessed you. But he claimed that Legilimency wouldn't work to throw him out of your mind. How did the Dark Lord gain the upper hand?" His father squinted across at him, looking closely as if he were searching for any hint of Cygnus still residing within him.
Izar crossed his legs, offering the man a cynical grin. "I'll tell you as soon as you start drinking your tea."
Regulus leaned back, nodding in agreement before reaching slowly for his cup in order to stop the major tremors. Once Izar was satisfied with the amount of liquid the man consumed, he crossed his arms together and began. "You saw what happened with Cygnus," Izar started solemnly as he remembered the Ministry. "I was his living vessel, a body he could use for immortality. I couldn't stop him, no matter how hard I struggled. But he was arrogant and that was his downfall. Lord Voldemort was able to use Legilimency to tear him out. But in the process, he tore my mind."
It was an explanation Izar created himself. It didn't give away Voldemort's creature status and it didn't give away Lily's sacrifice. Both sides were happy.
"That's why he took you away for that week," Regulus murmured in understanding. "I didn't know if you were hurt after… he knocked me unconscious…"
Izar and Regulus shared a look, both remembering the attack at the Ministry. "I'm glad you turned out to be alright, Regulus. And Sirius? The Dark Lord said he made it out alive, but that fall… I remembered hearing the bones crack."
Regulus seemed to close up at the mention of his older brother. "Sirius was just recently released from St. Mungos. It took awhile for the Healers to properly mend his broken bones, his spine, especially, proved difficult to align and place back together."
Izar swallowed, feeling ill. "Emotionally? Is he alright?"
His father set down the half-empty cup, his muscles already visibly loosened. "I talked to him briefly after he got out of the hospital. He seemed shaken and withdrawn, but still his usual self. He's returned to his home in London, Izar. I'm afraid our contact will soon become little to nonexistent." Again, Regulus seemed almost grey with age as he murmured the last bit.
"What do you mean by that?" Izar demanded softly, sitting up.
Regulus offered Izar a sympathetic stare. "He will not come to the Dark side. He's on the other side of the battlefield now. War is beginning, my son. You must prepare yourself to fight against some of your old classmates and family. What you shared with him this summer was priceless and something I'm more than happy you experienced. He's a good man but he's set in his ways." Regulus frowned, looking at Izar as if he were a kicked kitten. "He cannot join us this time around, Izar. Please try to understand as much. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment."
Izar stood up with ease, walking silently over to the stone hearth and leaning his forehead against the distressed oak mantle. "He's your brother," Izar drawled lazily, darkly. "Do you not feel any torment that you may have to fight against him?"
A light snort answered him. "Your character surprises me, Izar. For the most part, you are impassive and completely dismissive of those vulnerable and beneath you. And yet, you seem to grow and nurture attachments. These bonds… these relationships, they are your weakness. You seem almost warm and shielding, compassionate, to those who you deem under your protection. It is both a wonderful and dangerous trait to have, Izar."
Izar narrowed his eyes in the flames, feeling it lick painfully against his skin. Behind him, he could hear Regulus stand and approach him. An arm curled across his waist and his father's breath tickled his turned cheek. "You must be willing to understand that you may have to kill Sirius in order to gain the bigger goal. Perhaps not you personally, but his death may be just that one life standing in our way. You have to look at who you're supporting, what you're fighting for. Would you rather choose Sirius' life over the opportunity for the Dark side to prevail?"
Rough stubble from Regulus' short goatee rubbed across Izar's cheek in an innocent reassurance.
"I would find a way to do both," Izar boasted softly.
His father chuckled. "Just the answer I was expecting."
Regulus' warmth left Izar as the man gave him room. For just a lingering moment, Izar stared into the flames until his eyes screamed at him in discomfort. "I won't give up on him," Izar declared, turning to face his father. "I sensed reluctance and hesitation. He may not succumb to the Dark Arts, but there are wizards supporting Lord Voldemort that cast Light magic…"
His father surveyed him from across the rug, smiling softly. He stood there, many seconds of silence, as if he were looking for something in Izar or trying to come to terms with something in his own mind. With a nod, Regulus reached into his inner pocket. "Here," the man murmured, passing an envelope to Izar.
The young Black heir took the smooth envelope, staring at his name spelled with perfect black calligraphy.
"Your mother," Regulus drowned out heavily. "She owled me this morning, explaining that she dropped the custody battle. This was inside."
Izar held the envelope with the edges of his fingers. Like spiders' feet, his fingers caressed the envelope, unwilling to grasp it fully. "And you didn't read it?" Izar asked smartly, glancing up at the man with a teasing smile.
Regulus took a large step forward, a grim smile upon his lips. "No. I respect your privacy." Long arms reached out and gripped Izar's shoulders. "I suppose, as his political heir, that he wants you to stay here." Something in Regulus' voice darkened. "Is there no way I could convince you to come back home with me?"
Izar forced the bubbling dark emotion away at the man's words. "Of course. I will be home many times during the week. Tonight, considering Monday is the first day of work with him, I will need to stay here. Expect me next week."
It was something Izar would fight Voldemort on. Regulus was alone. And not just alone, but Regulus felt lonely. It was dangerous for his father to feel such emotions during the war.
Offering one of his trademark crooked smiles, Regulus leaned forward and kissed Izar's temple. "I will see you at the raid tomorrow, then."
Izar nodded, watching as Regulus gathered his charcoal mask on the couch before exiting the room. The young wizard barely had time to stuff the envelope in his pocket before the Dark Lord descended upon him like a precarious shadow.
Crimson eyes danced across the room from the tea to the envelope Izar just put in his pocket.
"Charming," the man spoke with a tone that suggested it was more repulsive than charming.
Izar's small smile for Regulus slowly turned into a wicked smirk at the Dark Lord's company.
"That spectacle sickened me," Voldemort continued snidely, his eyes dancing up and down Izar's body.
"No one asked you to stick your ear against the door," Izar countered. "I feel comfortable in my father's presence. We can talk about anything and that includes our fears and weaknesses."
Voldemort made a noise in his throat before turning his back on Izar. "Touching, really, child. But it is time for your first Occlumency lesson with me. And we both know how much you need it."
Izar's lip curled as he watched the man sweep from the room in a swirl of thick black robes. The man's stance was proud and regal, looking out of place in such a dark corridor. Reluctantly, Izar slowly followed at the man's heels, wondering why he hadn't taken Regulus up on his offer to stay with him.
{Death of Today}
With a gentle slap to the face, Izar gasped, snapping his eyes open. Blood dripped steadily from his nose and traveled inside his mouth, the coppery-liquid tasting like heaven on his taste buds.
"Why don't we compromise on something…" Izar started off wearily as he sat up off the floor. "I attempt to learn Occlumency from you, and you learn to enter minds subtlety and gently, eh?" He blinked up at the Dark Lord. The tall figure had his arms crossed over his chest and crimson eyes peered down his nose at Izar with an unimpressed air.
The younger stood up as graceful as possible, brushing his robes off with an irritated swipe.
"Despite your ancestor's intent for you to remain inexperienced at Occlumency, you should be able to push past that barrier and protect your own mind. It is your mind. You have the power to conjure as much force as you can possibly imagine." Voldemort slithered closer to him, leaning forward and thrusting his face in Izar's. "Then force me out!" he barked before a sudden and excruciating pain erupted behind Izar's eyes.
He struggled to remain conscious and upright as he felt Voldemort's mind brush with his and race across the faux Department of Mysteries. The mirrored doors inside Izar's head trembled and vibrated with Voldemort's entrance before opening willingly for the Dark Lord to explore.
So far, no memories had been dug out for Voldemort's enjoyment. The first and only time the man entered, Izar had been knocked unconscious with the pain. But now… now the memories were stirring with Voldemort's aggressive prying.
Izar scrunched his eyes shut, knowing he would hide any reference to Lily and the Horcrux as much as possible.
The toads and serpents were pink and purple. Izar was forced to watch as they twirled together in a rhythmic beat. It was his hallucinations from the fever he had during the First Task attack. He remembered Voldemort sitting next to him, humoring him by listening to his nonstop slurring.
Izar felt Voldemort's exasperation before the man dug deeper.
A small and young Izar sat at the edge of his bed, his legs swinging madly as he stared unhappily at the wall across from him. His bottom lip was pouting and his frail shoulders were curled in on his lithe stature. "Boy!" a man snapped from across the room.
Izar turned slowly —angrily— toward the groundskeeper. The pot-bellied man grunted as he struggled to install the new glass window Izar had destroyed. It had been an accident. Izar had been angry at Louis for putting a couple of bugs in his bed and the window had suddenly shattered. He hadn't even touched the window! It was an accident. But no one believed him.
"What?" Izar snapped crankily. He had been forced inside the room to assist Mr. Walker as punishment.
Mr. Walker's lips curled as he pointed his tool at Izar threateningly. "You want to break windows? Eh? Then you have to pick up the pieces." Again, he thrust his tool toward the broken glass around the chair he was standing upon.
Izar looked at it distastefully before standing up and slowly approaching the wreckage. Through crimped wavy hair, he looked sourly up at the man with wide eyes. "Where are the gloves?"
Mr. Walker gave a laugh. "Gloves? You broke this window without gloves you can clean it up without gloves. That'll teach you a lesson, don't you think?" He turned a shoulder on Izar, the word "freak" barely loud enough for the child to catch.
Dropping to his knees, Izar glared at the glass before reaching for the largest shard. And just as anyone would predict, his finger caught on the edge. Hissing, the young Izar brought his hand up to his face, inspecting the red- almost black blood dripping down his hand and toward his elbow. Frowning, he moved his finger upside down, watching in gloomy fascination as blood splashed on the glass beneath him.
Izar struggled under the force of the memory. Inside his head, Voldemort's presence took form of a thick black cloud as it watched his childhood memory. Izar willed the cloud away, pushing it with as much force as he could conjure. He didn't want the Dark Lord seeing those memories, the memories that had molded him into the bitter boy he was now.
But perhaps his will wasn't strong enough, for Voldemort's black cloud seemed to solidify as it pushed back at Izar before sliding past him and traveling deeper within his mind.
Flashes of familiar faces flew past Izar's vision, ghosts of his past and crisp images of the present. The Dark Lord was vicious as he dug deep. He was looking for something, Izar figured. A memory strong enough that would make Izar push him out of his mind.
And then Voldemort snagged the memory with talon-like fingers from the depths of his mind before pulling it forward. The Black heir saw a flash of grey and yellow and he began to panic. It was a memory that he hadn't even told Regulus about. It was a memory Izar had long-ago buried away.
She sat on the chair opposite of his bed, smiling angelically at him. Dark curls haloed around her face, bringing attention to the flawless porcelain skin. In Izar's eyes, she looked like an angel. But he wasn't naïve enough to believe as such. Instead, he appreciated her old-world beauty with those perfectly painted crimson lips and the pale blue eyes. Her flattering grey dress was accented by a yellow ribbon around the torso.
"You're adorable," she breathed, flashing another smile. "Isn't he adorable, Fredrick?"
Izar tore his eyes away from her and toward the man who stood a few feet away. The man offered Izar a smile, nodding sharply. "Handsome fellow, perfect manners. He will fit in well."
The woman turned back around, leaning forward to place a well-manicured hand on his knee. Izar felt warm as she smiled at him. He had never had attention like this… motherly attention. "Would you like to come home with us, Izar? Would you like to have a sister?"
Izar screamed mentally thrusting Voldemort away from the memory with a fierce desperation. The Dark Lord flew backward, the pain in Izar's mind lessening as the man's presence was on the verge of exiting forcibly. But as soon as Izar came in contact with the Dark Lord's mind, a memory that wasn't his own flew past his eyes.
It was many years in the past. Izar stood next to a boy who looked awkwardly proportioned. His face was flawlessly handsome but his body was painfully thin and gangly—as if he had gone through a growth spurt too quickly for such a young boy. He wore knee-length socks and a washed-out uniform with perfectly arranged black hair. The face was handsome, and yet, there were dark shadows of something… vicious and cruel crossing the innocent features of a child so young. From that expression, Izar could only guess that this was a young Tom Riddle.
And in all honesty, he was an adorable little boy. The irony.
Tom Riddle fingered a decent-sized rock, staring at the back of two children. They were laughing, glancing back at him. And Izar knew all too well what they were saying without having to hear their words. It was the same expression he was given at his days at the orphanage.
But it didn't seem to hurt Tom. It only seemed to fuel the darkness within him. With a cruel smile twisting his lips, Tom threw back his arm and pitched the rock at the turned head. "Hey! Royce!" Tom called with glee.
'Royce' turned at his name being shouted, only to have the rock nail his face. The boy gave a piercing scream, cupping his eye that soon began to bleed in ridiculous amounts. All the while, throughout his screams, Tom chuckled lowly, a sound not normally heard from a child.
Izar took a step back as Tom turned to him, seemingly looking straight up at him. The chuckle died down and the dark eyes lightened into crimson. "You'll have to do better than that, my child. After all, I am a Master Legilimens. And I want to finish that precious memory of yours I started."
With that, Voldemort lunged back at Izar, forcing him further back in his mind. The pain blossomed as Izar was taken off-guard with the attack.
"Here, a picture," she smiled, handing Izar a photograph of a girl of around thirteen, only about four years older than Izar.
Izar took it, drinking the image of the girl that may soon become his sister. She looked remarkably like her mother. Izar looked up, clutching the photo. "I've always wanted a mother," he breathed. Suddenly, the cold he had felt all these years at the orphanage seemed to vanish as she smiled back at him. He no longer had to be distant and bitter. He no longer had to fend for himself and scheme of revenge. "And a father…" he turned to the man who nodded, pleased. "A family, really."
Her hand tightened on his knee. "We will return shortly, Izar. We just need to straighten out the paperwork and you'll be coming home with us."
He nodded, barely aware that they left his room. His eyes were glued to the photograph but his thoughts and desires were on the future.
He would have a family now. Finally.
Izar looked up from the photograph, finally becoming conscious of the couple's long absence. With an exuberant leap, he jumped from the bed and ran toward the door. He looked around the door frame, hoping to see his future parents turning the corner to collect him from the room that had been his hell for over nine years.
They were around the corner. But they weren't making any sudden moves to collect him. Instead, the couple was talking to one of the head caretakers. She was speaking lowly, quickly, all the while, the angelic woman clutched her throat in horror. Her husband had his arm around her shoulders, holding her close as he stared at the caretaker with furrowed eyebrows.
Izar felt his heart freeze before dropping in the pit of his stomach. He knew what the caretaker was saying. He knew all too well. She was telling them how… how freakish he was. How different. She was likely telling them of the 'accidents' he had around the orphanage.
And suddenly, the couple turned to him, noticing his presence for the first time.
Her expression would be forever ingrained on his mind as he stared back. She looked at him with such apprehension and confusion, such horror. He felt small. He felt abnormal and so… hurt.
Suddenly, the photograph in his hands weighed a ton. It fluttered to the ground as he slowly walked back in his room.
There was more to the memory. More humiliation, more hurt, but Izar gathered what was left of his fury and mortification and promptly expelled Voldemort from the depths of his mind. The doors to the Department of Mysteries vibrated before slamming shut behind Voldemort's dark cloud. The Dark Lord floated in the forefront of his mind, seemingly considering forcing his way back into the closed doors.
In turn, Izar strengthened his defenses. The faux Department darkened and the mirrored doors morphed into a solid black frame before they began spinning and revolving like the original doors at the Ministry.
Voldemort was driven completely from his mind and Izar found himself collapsing heavily on the floor of the Dark Lord's office.
Pressing his cheek against the cold tile, Izar gathered himself before giving any indication that he was conscious. He had done it. He had finally forced the Dark Lord from his mind. Granted, it had taken an incredibly vulnerable memory, but Izar finally understood how to defend himself. It wasn't so much the physical prowess, but the strengthening of the barriers already in place. He knew it wouldn't be so easy next time, but Izar had done it.
A silk cloth caressed his exposed cheek. Izar snapped his eyes open, regretting the action as white and black dots danced across his vision. He had an excruciating headache and his vision was swimming in and out of focus.
With cautiousness, Izar reached up and grabbed hold of the silk handkerchief Voldemort gave him. He held it up to his bleeding nose, keeping his eyes averted from the silent Dark Lord.
For what seemed like hours, Izar sat on the ground, strengthening both his dignity and his emotions as well as embracing his past. He was grateful that the Dark Lord did not speak during his recovery. The man knew him well enough as he respected the silence and understood the memory for what it was. Nothing was needed to be said between the two. They both knew Izar did well with his last attempt at strengthening his mind and they both knew that he would need to practice more to prefect it.
And because their pasts were so much alike, they recognized each other's pain, degradation, and isolation. It was the reason for this upcoming war. Wizards did not belong in the Muggle world.
"Teach me the spell?" Voldemort's voice eventually broke through the stillness.
Izar sat straighter before calmly coming to his feet. Now that he had recovered mentally, he was able to turn his gaze on the Dark Lord. The man was standing behind his large oak desk, leaning on it in order to peer properly at Izar.
"Obviously I've done something right with you," Izar began, wiping away the excess blood and eyeing the powerful wizard across from him. "I've taught you how to ask properly and not demand. Now all I have to do is get you to say please."
Voldemort stood from his hunched position and narrowed his eyes. "Teach me," he demanded.
Izar smiled thinly at the Dark wizard. "I suppose you're talking about the one I cast today on Avery?" He knew it would eventually happen. Izar couldn't possibly keep all his treasured spells personal, especially when he used them in front of a power-hungry and curious Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord considered, watching Izar as the younger approached him slowly. "The Cassesium you cast on Bellatrix is another I'd like to learn, but I want to see the exact wand motions of the Animus Lapis. Cassesium is an excellent spell to use against a single opponent. It will be useful against Dumbledore but not during raids."
Luckily the man was pronouncing the curses smoothly, which surprised Izar because he had only spoken the incantations during battle. Izar had never noticed how fluent Voldemort was in Latin.
With affectionate fingers, Izar caressed his wand and pulled it close to his chest under the Dark Lord's sharp scrutiny. "You begin with the wand pointed upward and secure against your chest cavity," he started, pleased to be away from the topic of Occlumency. "The curse must distinguish between you and your victim. As you intone the Animus, you should visualize your victim's bloodstream, the heart, the lungs, anything vital. A golden light should appear at wand point. The next incantation is Lapis and…" he trailed off when he caught sight of the Dark Lord from the corner of his eye.
The man's crimson gaze seemed brighter as they were absorbed completely on Izar. A soft smirk curled the edges of Voldemort's mouth as he dismissed Izar's teachings.
Dropping his wand at his side, Izar's glare zeroed on the Dark Lord. "What?" he snapped icily. "You're not even paying attention. Did you just ask me to show you the curse in order to mock me?"
Cool fingers reached out and cupped his chin. Voldemort stepped closer, his neck craning down toward Izar. "Fortuna has beatus mihi," he whispered huskily before claiming Izar's lips.
The younger wizard closed his eyes at the Latin, quickly translating Voldemort's words to English. Surprisingly enough, the words meant 'fate has blessed me'. Izar frowned into the unexpectedly light kiss, but as soon as he put together the man's words, Voldemort pulled away from his mouth.
"That's rather… tender of you…" Izar intoned dryly, recovering from the man's unusual but welcome tactics. Unless, of course… "What have you done?" he demanded suspiciously.
Suddenly, the teasing Voldemort was lost to the dominant Dark Lord as an ominous smirk warped his mouth. The tall wizard took an additional step closer, engulfing Izar in a heated and possessive grip. "Let me indulge," he ordered intensely, his fingers finding and claiming Izar's cheek. The sharp nails played with the supple skin hard enough as a warning but soft enough that they didn't pierce through.
As Izar's back hit the large desk, he realized he was caged in. With his adrenaline high, he boldly leaned into Voldemort's thin frame, feeling an overwhelming sense of lust. Knowing he was playing with a lethal predator, Izar reached up and traced the man's neck with the pads of his fingers.
"No unfinished games," Voldemort hissed out, taking seize of his wrist and holding his hand away. "I want you. All of you."
A hot fire burned across his belly at the man's words but there was also a hint of unwillingness that provided the means to clear his mind. Izar tugged his wrist away from the sturdy clutch and brushed past the Dark Lord. The distance allowed Izar to gain his control back. His lapse of judgment was just proof that he was not ready for the Dark Lord to fully possess him. He would lose himself in the process, becoming completely submissive. He was too inexperienced to take the last step.
Risking a glance at the man, Izar was besieged by the excessive hunger Voldemort was directing his way.
It must have been the excitement of the upcoming raid that got the Dark Lord so… excited.
"I need to do some research," he declared calmly, looking away from the stare as he adjusted his robes. With a sense of professionalism, he glanced back up at the Dark Lord. The man had his eyebrows raised, watching him knowingly. The knowing expression made Izar pause for just a second before he recovered. "There are many things that need to be completed before the climax of the war."
Voldemort sat down behind his desk, tapping his fingers against his lips and offering an all-knowing hum at the back of his throat. "Will that be your excuse all the time, Izar? When things become uncomfortable for you? When you don't want to face something, will you push it aside to go research? Avoid it just like the topic of your mother?"
Izar breathed deeply, glowering at the man from across the office. One of the downfalls of being so close to a Dark Lord and knowing his habits and mannerisms meant that the Dark Lord got inside Izar's head and knew just as much about him. If not more.
"What would you like me to say?" Izar retorted sharply. "I don't want to have sex with you yet and I don't want to think about my mother." He exhaled noisily through his lips. "You and Regulus seem to take it upon yourselves to point out my weaknesses. While we're at it, would you like me to point out yours?" He didn't wait for the man to speak. "You're too arrogant and you think everything is your possession."
Voldemort leaned back in his chair, surveying Izar in slight amusement. "Is that all?"
Izar seethed inwardly. "No," he whispered. "You're predictable."
Black eyebrows heightened in mock surprise. "Really?" he drawled. "Is that all?" The man's long fingernails tapped on the top of his desk, bringing Izar's attention to the black ring on his right hand. He had seen it before, on occasion, but Voldemort didn't wear it very often.
"You're a bastard," Izar hissed through his teeth.
"I'm afraid being a bastard has nothing to do with me and everything to do with my parents' marital status when they conceived me." Voldemort continued lounging in his chair as if he were having a joyous time. With a sharp nail, he pointed at Izar. "Which makes you just as much as a bastard as me." The Dark Lord flashed a smile full of sharp teeth.
Izar frowned, not at all amused. "Are we finished here, My Lord?" he sniffed superiorly. "I'm afraid I have more important things to take care of than entertaining you like a child until tomorrow's raid."
Voldemort gave a hissing laugh as he watched Izar turn toward the door. "You're afraid of submission." The man called his bluff. "But why should you fear such a thing if we're both participating? You're inexperience is what I enjoy, and yet, when I'm forceful and dominant, you instinctively want to meet my experience with your own force. You feel overwhelmed because you're inexperienced and… fearful of losing control and becoming passive." Voldemort waved a dismissive hand in the air. "You need more experience."
"Oh?" Izar took a step away from the door and toward Voldemort. Secretly, he was impressed by the man's insight. For once, the man wasn't being snarky or sardonic. "And are you suggesting that you will take off this ring and allow me to experiment with others?"
It was meant to be a teasing remark, but Voldemort's expression darkened. "I was bluffing," Izar defended. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"
Voldemort tapped his fingers against the desk once again before pushing his chair away slightly. "Come here."
Izar was torn between snorting and telling the Dark Lord off. Instead, he found himself walking around the large desk and toward a lounging Dark Lord. He eyed the man suspiciously as he came to stop at the man's knees. Hopefully, whatever the man had planned, it didn't involve another facial. Izar wouldn't be as forgiving as before.
"Take control over me," Voldemort spoke crisply. "I will remain compliant."
Izar blinked. "You can't be serious." Sadistic glee warped Izar's chest and stomach as he placed his hands on either armrest of Voldemort's chair. "You won't use your hands or teeth… or anything?"
The Dark Lord was detached. "No."
"For how long?"
"A minute, nothing more."
Izar leaned back, frowning. "A minute? I can't do anything within a minute. Five." The unimpressed stare he got in return made Izar back down. "Two minutes then, and you have to put down your glamours."
Voldemort was looking less than pleased at the arrangement, but without a wand or word, scales appeared across his neck and a fang caught his bottom lip. "You're wasting your two minutes, child. Savor this, because it will be the first and last time I will agree to this."
"We'll see," Izar whispered back, growing aroused at the passive Dark Lord. He could do anything. Explore a body he was never allowed without a struggle of dominance and become familiar with it.
Unbuttoning the man's black shirt, Izar admired the black scales brushing across his sides and around the pelvic bone. Izar traced his fingers over them, enjoying the tensing reaction he got from Voldemort. The man wasn't muscular or ripped with definition, but the fact that this was a man who harbored so much intelligence and power made him stunningly beautiful. He was untouchable to everyone but Izar.
Becoming valiant, Izar leaned down and placed his lips on the skin right above the button to Voldemort's trousers and kissed. He made sure to brush his forearm and fingers across Voldemort's growing erection just to tease the man. A sound rumbled deep within Voldemort's chest, causing Izar to spare him a glance. The red eyes were watching him with a spark within their depths. He rivaled a dangerous caged beast, intent on lunging and attacking as soon as he was out of his prison.
Izar paused, realizing that this conformity may not have been the best idea. What was worse than an aroused Dark Lord was a Dark Lord who had to stew and scheme patiently in that hot, painful arousal. There would be repercussions after the two minutes were up.
So Izar would enjoy them as long as he could.
He splayed his fingers across the man's exposed torso, taking care in lingering around the scales and nipples. He offered the man a coy smirk as he leaned against the thin frame and licked his collarbone. Voldemort continued watching impassively, the glow to those crimson eyes only becoming brighter.
Leaning back and scratching the man's legs through his pants, Izar straightened up before straddling the man's lap. He made sure to keep his arse just slightly above Voldemort's arousal, not giving the man the pleasure of friction.
He reached forward, pulling the unruly black hair out of the binder and watching as it framed Voldemort's face. Izar took great pleasure in touching and pulling at the soft hair as he leaned forward and kissed alongside Voldemort's strong and tensed jaw.
This was pleasing, very much so, however, Izar realized that it was more thrilling and arousing when Voldemort met Izar's assault with his own. When they came together in a battle of dominance, nothing could compare to that passion and overwhelming lust. It was more enjoyable when there was a challenge of subduing Voldemort.
And he realized Voldemort had planned for Izar to comprehend this.
Crimson eyes traveled from his neck to his face and the man smirked as if he knew Izar's train of thought. Giving a grunt, Izar curled his fingers in Voldemort's hair, pulling the man's face closer in a bruising kiss.
It hadn't been nearly two minutes, but strong arms quickly took him captive, binding him close to the Dark Lord's lithe body. Izar broke the kiss as Voldemort stood up and dropped his back painfully on the desk. A few fragile trinkets crashed to the floor, but Voldemort paid them no heed as he covered Izar with his body and devoured his neck.
Gasping in exhilaration, Izar rolled his eyes upwards and clutched at the man's shoulders.
And then someone knocked on the door sharply.
Voldemort paused, issuing a quiet hiss in displeasure as he stared down at Izar. "Quietly put yourself together."
Izar gave a tense nod waiting for Voldemort to get off him before silently jumping from the desk. He straightened his robes and magically put together the fallen items from the desk. As soon as he turned back around, Voldemort was already sitting in his chair, appearing regal and unruffled.
"Enter," Voldemort called lazily, his creature-side hidden once again.
Straightening, Izar turned to the doorway and considered the group entering. "If that's all, My Lord?" he asked for dismissal as the majority of the Inner-Circle entered without their Death Eater masks. According to the grandfather clock, it was exactly seven at night. This was obviously a planned meeting and Izar hated the man for knowing they had company while they… partook in primitive desires.
"No," Voldemort tsked. "Your presence is required."
The Dark Lord settled back, considering the group before him. Most of the Inner-Circle members bowed at their waist before taking position behind Izar. The Black heir watched as Severus Snape entered behind Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix was present, her contagious grin spreading wider at the sight of Izar. Her husband and his brother stood next to her as silent bodyguards, their expression holding no source of warmth or well-being. Barty Crouch Jr. met his stare, his tongue flicking out similar to a serpent's.
Izar raised an eyebrow, not intimidated in the least at their stares. Dolohov and the oldest Rosier were also present, their attitude toward Izar clear on their faces.
"I've called you all here to inform you of your mission," Voldemort began indolently. His eyes were mainly on Izar as he patted a folder in front of him. "There comes a time where I may wish to test a follower's worth and loyalty. Your time has come to show me that brilliance of yours, Mr. Black."
Izar withheld a reaction to the abrupt challenge. There had been no indication that Voldemort was scheming of a mission for him.
"Your mission is to assassinate a prominent political figure in France. You do not know him. But he knows you very well." Voldemort opened the folder and pushed it across the desk toward Izar. "He was the enforcer behind the attacks during the Triwizard Tournament. He sent his daughter, Airi Roux, to carry out these orders. You remember Airi Roux, don't you, Mr. Black?"
Izar never looked at the folder, his attention directed only on the Dark Lord. "She was the wife to the French Minister, Serge Roux. Yes, I remember her." And her mauled corpse. Izar also remembered landing on her lifeless bosom as the Dementors attacked him during the Third Task. She was the beautiful and young Asian, married to the old Serge Roux.
Voldemort nodded once. "Her father was the man behind the attacks."
Izar eventually glanced down at the folder, staring at the photograph on top. A man stood in the frame with shocking blond hair tied to the nape of his neck and dark eyes. He had to be an older man in his late forties, but he looked as young as Regulus. This was the man behind Izar's attacks. The Black heir knew France was somehow tied in the attacks, but he hadn't known the name of the individual. The man didn't look like much, just an egotistical prick.
"His name is Acelin Morel, but his followers address him as Lord Morel." Voldemort smirked. "He has a grudge against Britain and Undersecretary Riddle."
"Lord Morel?" Izar repeated, searching his mind. "The Daily Prophet hinted that there was a rising Dark Lord in France. Is this him?"
Voldemort chuckled. "You could say that. However, Acelin is not disguising himself as a Dark Lord. He's publicly recruiting and sprouting out his opinions to anyone willing to listen to his dry babble. He has yet to launch an attack on those he deems below him, but the Ministry is hesitant all the same. Morel holds power in the government and over society. I want him dead. Not only has he challenged me so boldly with your attacks but there cannot be two Dark Lords at one time. I don't want anyone to think we are… co-partners," Voldemort said in repugnance.
Izar stared at the photograph, watching as Acelin Morel smirked and waved within the frame.
"I understand that there is a raid tomorrow and you must keep up pretenses with the Unspeakables and the image of Riddle's political heir. However, I believe you can handle Morel. His power isn't nearly as large as his vault. He is weak and an insult to me for claiming the title of a Dark Lord." Voldemort reached across the desk and imbedded his nail over Morel's forehead. "I will not accompany you, nor will Undersecretary Riddle. But I will allow a small amount of my Inner-Circle to escort you to France just in case you run into his… followers. The assassination should be held a few days after the raid on Monday."
Izar turned to glimpse at the group behind him before turning back to Voldemort. "And by escort, what does that entitle, exactly? Will they be pulling the strings because they are of higher ranking?"
The Dark Lord smiled, pleased with Izar's question. "By escort, I mean they will accompany you. You will be the brains and force behind this attack, Izar. This is your test. For this one mission they will respect you and your demands." Red eyes fleetingly left Izar to look beyond his shoulder at his followers. In his stare, it was a clear warning for them to follow his instruction. "Besides the obvious candidates, I will have eyes on all of you." The man smiled, as if pleased that he had secret allies. "Will you accept this mission?" he asked to Izar.
Staring at the photograph, Izar gave a sharp nod, a smile curving his lips. "I will be more than pleased to accept the mission, My Lord."
Revenge was always sweet.
{Death of Today}
Light bulbs exploded as the photographers snapped a picture of the man stepping up to the podium. The reporters pushed and shoved their way toward the podium, hoping to get a front row position. This was, after all, a major occurrence in the wizarding world.
The atmosphere was thick with revolution and transformation. Many wizards and witches felt both awed and unsettled as they heard the clock strike midnight. The loud gong counted to twelve, reminding everyone in attendance that it was a new day and a new period in history.
Something big was going to happen. Even the weather outside was swollen with heavy clouds—a warning of an upcoming storm. Lightning forked throughout the skies, but the thunder remained silent and the rain remained prisoner inside the clouds. Not a drop fell, afraid to start too early. But the air was thick, too thick and too warm for a night in November.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Minister Fudge called for attention.
No one paid him any heed as they talked amongst themselves. Even children were out of bed at this late hour, yanked from their homes by their impatient parents. Through the children's eyes, they knew something was bothering their parents. They didn't know what it was, but this election was important. Their parents were fearful for their lives and they believed that, somehow, one person elected into office could save them.
But if they were so excited for the election, why did the children still sense the anxiety coming from their parents?
A strained chuckle escaped Fudge's lips to anyone who listened. "Let me introduce to you, your new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour!"
From the shadows, a tall and muscular man limped forward, his scarred face set in stone. Even with the onslaught of flashing lights, Rufus remained sturdy. He shook hands with the plump and flustered Mr. Fudge before turning around and facing the crowd with a lift to his chin.
Minister Scrimgeour stood there, bracing himself against the shouts and yells, marveling at the fear and hope coming off the crowd in waves.
