I didn't get a chance to respond to reviews last chapter. But thanks to those of you who took the time to give feedback (and reassure me about last chapter).

Chapter Thirteen

On Monday morning the Ministry seemed to be in organized chaos. Employees shuffled hastily through the corridors and raced up and down the stairs, barely pausing when they bumped into another coworker or lost a high heel. Pale-violet paper airplanes, carrying interdepartmental memos, raced through the floors of the Department. Most of the enchanted planes zoomed quickly by and high enough above the heads of the employees. But some unfortunate victims had to dodge before they got struck in the face.

Izar pulled his hood up, watching the commotion through uninterested eyes. They were insignificant to him and their anxiety was making him uptight. A new Minister was chosen last night at midnight and now the whole Ministry was in an uproar, altering things, transforming Departments, running errands, and trying to complete Rufus Scrimgeour's orders.

According to the Prophet, Rufus expressed his desire for change and a more secure government. Izar scrutinized the man's speech with a critical eye, quickly reading between the lines and realizing that Rufus wanted to try to detoxify the Ministry from fraud and deceit. Izar had to admire the man's zealous desire to cleanse the Ministry, but he had to be realistic.

The Ministry housed politics. And politics would always use deceit and power to their own advantage. Catching them would be more or less impossible. Politicians used layers of hands and puppets to get what they wanted. They would never commit the fraud themselves because it could trace back to them with ease.

But judging from the chaos around the Ministry this morning, Izar knew Rufus Scrimgeour was trying his damnest to cleanse the Ministry.

Izar climbed down the last flight of stairs that would bring him to the Department of Mysteries. At least his Department would be a semblance of calm and serenity. It was almost eight o'clock, meaning that Izar had arrived at the Ministry with time to spare thanks to Riddle and his insistence. The man himself had left incredibly early, but was generous enough to leave behind an obnoxious House-elf that wouldn't stop poking Izar until he woke up on time.

As Izar stepped onto the black tiled floor of the Department of Mysteries, his hopes for a calm morning with the Unspeakables were shattered.

Up ahead, black-clad Unspeakables were clumped together in the corridor. The total number of Unspeakables wasn't very large, perhaps a total of five to ten wizards in each Division. The Death Chamber itself only housed Lily and one other male partner. The Hall of Prophecy and Space Chamber were the other two Divisions that didn't employ as many Unspeakables as the others did, leveling the total number of Unspeakables to around fifty.

And it appeared as if most of them were gathered together this morning.

Izar approached the group, narrowing his eyes at the number of bodies in his way.

"Ministry take-over," a man grunted in his ear.

Izar turned, noticing the rotten teeth and oily hair sticking out from beneath the hood before he could identify the tall figure next to him. "Augustus," Izar greeted smoothly.

Rookwood exposed his teeth in a fanatical grin before offering a nod in return. The First tiered Death Eater had always been the most aloof follower out of Voldemort's Inner-Circle. "The Minister is speaking to us in the Death Chamber. If you ask me, he's going to tear this Department down before rebuilding. They fear us, the lot of them."

As he said this, the group of Unspeakables began to make their way into the far door on the right. Izar grimaced, not at all uptight about seeing the Death Chamber again, but incredibly anxious and ruffled about the fact that the Ministry was sticking their nose in their work.

He didn't think Rufus Scrimgeour would have moved this quickly.

Izar and Rookwood entered the cold Death Chamber together, both intent to join the others down below near the pit and close to the prominent figure standing boldly next to the Veil. The longer they walked down the stairs and closer they came to the Veil, Izar felt an ice-like throb in his mind. Indistinguishable whispers hissed through his head in an angry tenor, a warning to Izar what lay beyond the Veil.

But because his mind was being affected, Izar became suspicious that there were still a few pieces of Cygnus' spirit planted inside his mind. There was one door in his mind Lily hadn't closed in time when Cygnus had attacked. That one door could be housing a shard of Cygnus.

He didn't know the consequences of that and he may never notice anything at all. But it was something to keep an eye out for.

A light snort caught Izar's attention before he could sit down on the second row bench. Turning, he met eyes with taunting brown. "Looks like your body finally caught up to your ego, Black."

Izar raised his eyebrows, raking his mind for the identity of the young man behind him. It had been awhile since his employment with the Unspeakables and he could dimly remember the other employees. As Izar brought himself back in time, he finally grasped the identity of the man behind him. His name was Conner Oran, a Mudblood and the youngest Unspeakable after Izar. In his early twenties, he had the maturity of a young teen.

Jealousy was most likely the cause of Conner's attitude toward him, but Izar could see something else shifting beneath those brown eyes as they surveyed his form—an emotion Izar would rather not dwell or think on. "And I see you were finally able to grow a patch of peach fuzz. How long did that take you? A years worth?" Izar asked in all seriousness, motioning to the shadow of a goatee on the young man's face.

It was more than simple peach fuzz, but Izar could tell Conner was the type of man who struggled with growing hair on his face and became embarrassed over it. There were patches of smooth skin along his jaw line, bringing attention to the otherwise rugged goatee.

Conner flushed pink around his cheekbones before glaring at the Black heir. Before he could retort, Izar dismissed the boy with a cold shoulder and sat down, but not before he caught sight of dark crimson hair. She sat a few feet away, looking at Rufus with an unreadable expression.

Before she could catch him staring, Izar forced himself to look forward, knowing he had yet to read the letter she sent him through Regulus.

"Most of you are settled and present," Rufus began, standing near the Veil, but certainly no where close. He kept his distance while his stance cried power and control. Yellow eyes glowed dissonantly in the unlit atmosphere as they danced across the Unspeakables in the audience. "Let's begin, shall we?"

Murmurs spread across the Unspeakables, the mood in the Death Chamber turning just as cold as their surroundings. Further up ahead, in the first row, the large body of Owen Welder sat, his orange beard a startling contrast to all things black, white, and grey. His hands were curled over his belly and his expression clearly read how somber he was about this Ministry invasion.

"For many years, all of you have dedicated yourself to improving the Wizarding world with your researching and experimenting," Rufus started, his voice reaching even the scattered few who chose to sit far above the pit. "Minister Fudge allowed free reign over your work and gave the minimum amount of expense toward your field of research. I would like to offer more financing to the Department of Mysteries."

Oh, Rufus was good. Izar nodded sharply, a grin stretching his face. What better way to offer bad news when it was sugar-coated with a treat? Money was always tight in the Department of Mysteries and most Unspeakables had to forgo most of their research because funding was tight. The dimmer Unspeakables would only hear the word 'more financing' and become smitten with Scrimgeour despite the bearer of bad news that was likely to come next…

"Because I would like to offer more funding for this Department, a few changes will need to be made with the array of everyday operations." Rufus motioned toward several wizards sitting in a row behind him on the bench. They were all dressed in crisp red robes with a large Ministry logo on their chest. All of them had scrolls of parchment and quick-quills ready to record hastily if needed. "I have put together a Board of experienced wizards and witches who will roam the Department of Mysteries and examine the projects being done by all of you. They will see to it if there needs to be more funding for a project or if changes are required."

And what the Minister really meant was that he hired a group of incredibly trusted wizards to spy on the Unspeakables. If there was a project being worked on that was deemed too dangerous, Rufus would have the power to yank it from the Department.

Izar sat stiffly, rage tightening his stomach. He enjoyed his privacy and it was being invaded upon. Because of the invasion, he could feel his fascination with Scrimgeour tarnishing. However, he had to admit that Scrimgeour was making a smart move. Izar just didn't want to be the target of that move.

Rufus stroked his chin, his scars stretching with the action. He didn't seem to be effected by the whispers spreading riotously across the audience. "Each research project will also need to be approved by me or a member of my staff before you begin. And all inventions must be registered before they are in their final stages of completion. If a project or invention is returned without approval or registration, it will be banned from the Department and destroyed."

The whispers grew into dark murmurs but Rufus kept his stance strong. He wore a poker-face that housed dangerous shadows behind those yellow eyes. This was an ex-Auror. A man who couldn't care a less about nice-guy images if it meant for order and delegation.

Amongst the uproar, Izar sat quietly, his rage high, but there was also a bit of humor within him. Scrimgeour just made enemies out of several Unspeakables. And while they might not rebel, they would listen to someone else who could give back their privacy.

And that someone would be Tom Riddle.

Perhaps this organization within the Department of Mysteries was a good thing. Because when Tom Riddle stepped out of the political shadows and into the spotlight, he would make people approach him and feed from his palm. The man was just brilliant like that. Rufus Scrimgeour would be replaced and a masquerading Dark Lord would take his place, altering the world into a society he saw fit.

"Thank you for your cooperation in this plan to make the Department of Mysteries a more advanced and thriving workplace," Rufus all but roared with a short bow. As he straightened, he motioned back toward the red-robed wizards. "If you have any questions, you may bring it up with the Board."

With that, the man limped from the pit and made his way up the stairs, waving off the Unspeakables who stood up and shouted a question or concern.

Izar remained sitting, a bitter smile crossing his lips. He needed the raid tonight. His pent up anger needed a good outlet.

{Death of Today}

"You appear forlorn," Severus drawled.

Regulus crouched in front of the Back tapestry, tapping his wand against the wall in hopes to reconstruct it. He had spent all morning and afternoon on it and there was no such luck. Just an hour ago, he finally got the scorch marks to disappear, but the damage was still glaringly present. Kreacher had attempted to heal the wall with his magic, but the Dark magic stayed stubborn, marring the faces of the past and present Blacks.

"Is that so?" Regulus murmured in question, seemingly putting all his attention on the wall and ignoring Severus. But it was quite the opposite. The man was impossible to ignore.

The Potions Master had just arrived at Grimmauld, much to the surprise of Regulus. The raid would be beginning soon and Severus had taken leave from Hogwarts because of it. Stopping by Grimmauld was an extra stop Severus would have had to plan for. It was rather… flattering. They had exchanged a few owls over the summer, both touching on safe topics like the war or Izar's well-being. But they never broached the topic of their relationship.

"Izar is living with the Dark Lord, I presume?"

Regulus sighed, slamming his fist against the tapestry before turning toward the tall figure of Severus. "He is, being forced, that is." He stood up, wiping his palms against his robes. Regulus would keep silent about his assumptions of a sexual relationship between Voldemort and Izar. He had asked Severus about his son and their Lord's relationship the first time they met after fifteen years, but that was all.

Severus, draped in his Death Eater robes, surveyed Regulus with dark, unfathomable eyes. "You do realize," the man started in a silky tone. "You are out of hiding, correct?"

Regulus leaned against the table, frowning at the older wizard. "Of course I do," he murmured. "What are you getting at, Severus?"

The dark man spun around, studying the destroyed Black tapestry. "You simply act as if you are still hiding from the Dark Lord. You stay in this… dreary home and preoccupy yourself with mundane projects. I'm more than certain that your mind is occupied with only your son."

Regulus blanched, sneering. "My son is important to me," he whispered.

"And you have every right to think as such," Severus retorted calmly. "But you are consumed with him, holding on to him too tightly. He's growing into an adult and becoming the Dark Lord's number one successor. You cannot sit around here and wait for him to entertain you." Severus looked over his shoulder at Regulus. "You need to start living again. You no longer need to hide."

Regulus stared back at Severus, unable to conjure up a quick response. It was true that he wasn't very active or social, but that didn't mean he felt isolated.

"And what if I enjoy my solitude, Severus?" Regulus snapped back. "The war hasn't even begun, and yet, it's already taken so much out of me. What if I'd like to stay in the shadows? I don't want to work in the Ministry and I have little enjoyment for any other occupation. Izar is making a name out of the Black family and that is all that is important."

Breathing deeply, he met those black eyes head on. "And what of you, Severus?" Regulus countered softly, his anger smothering. He took a step closer to Severus, reaching out to curl his hand around the man's bicep. Surprisingly, the older wizard didn't turn or pull away. "You always hated children and yet, you teach. Brewing was a passion, but Dark Arts was even more so. And you find yourself turned down for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position every year. Not to mention, you're a spy, playing both sides of the playing field, serving two masters. Don't you think you've already sacrificed enough? Don't you understand my need for solitude?"

Severus pulled his arm away, only to place both hands on Regulus' shoulders. He leaned in close, his breath tickling the fine hairs on Regulus' face. "You are too young and too lively to hide yourself away. Don't become me."

"You're too stubborn," Regulus breathed. "We are alike, more than you'd like to admit."

"If I don't survive this war, I must make certain that I point out your mistakes before it's too late."

Regulus frowned, searching Severus. "What makes you say that, Severus? Why don't you think you'll survive this war?" Severus' expression darkened and a terrible realization dropped in Regulus' stomach. "Exactly…what side are you on?" he whispered forebodingly.

Before Severus could respond, their Dark Mark began to burn fiercely.

It was time for the raid.

It was time for Lord Voldemort to make his presence known.

{Death of Today}

Godric's Hollow.

A rather symbolic place to attack, Izar thought as he stared at the gates before him. Not only did it once house Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin's enemy, but it also housed a blend of Muggles and wizards. Many Muggle-borns and their Muggle parents moved here when they found out they carried the ability to cast magic. But there were also Muggles here that were oblivious to magic and the threat it carried.

Voldemort picked a brilliant place to announce his arrival to Britain.

Izar was surrounded by the majority of the Second tier Death Eaters as Voldemort and his Inner-Circle entered the gates of Godric's Hollow. It didn't take too long for the chaos to begin as Fiendfyre curses were tossed carelessly toward the houses, burning them instantly and drawing their occupants outside. The acidic green Dark Mark was cast into the air, rising into the dark sky amongst the piercing screams of the residents in the village.

This was the torture and killing stage. Izar wasn't as eager as the other Death Eaters were. He hated Muggles but he also looked down upon torture. If he needed to kill, he wouldn't hesitate. And if he needed to be creative under the Dark Lord's eyes, he would cast a spell that would do damage but essentially kill the victim with one curse.

But when he was in a crowd as big as this and as blood-hungry, he could fade into the background and wait for the next stage of this raid— which was likely to come shortly. The Ministry would be alerted and Izar was hungry to take out his vengeance on men and women who could defend themselves properly. Slaughtering vulnerable men who had no choice of defending themselves was a small, if not pitiful defeat.

Shoulders bumped into him as Death Eaters sprinted past and deeper into the neighborhood. Through his heavy mask, Izar watched them go, wondering why he couldn't be like them. He had more reasons to hate Muggles than they did. His dark past at the orphanage was reason enough, and yet, he found himself unwilling to torture and kill merrily.

He blamed it on his mother's genes. Even Regulus was hungry for gore, for blood.

As he fell behind the crowd of Death Eaters, he noticed one woman racing toward the gates of the neighborhood. No one had noticed her and she would have been free if Izar hadn't spotted her. She was likely Muggle because she held no wand in her clutched fists. Izar raised his wand, narrowing his eyes on her back for better aim.

"Avada Kedavra," he whispered.

The Killing Curse was like a glowing green laser as it shot through the night and struck her in the back. He watched unemotionally as her body collapsed heavily to the ground. Not too soon after, a mother and child were running hand and hand toward the gates of Godric's Hollow. The little girl couldn't have been more than four as her chubby legs tried to keep up with her desperate mother.

Frowning, Izar killed the mother just as heartlessly as he killed the woman before. She went down swiftly, pulling the girl with her from her dead weight.

Through the slits of his mask, Izar watched keenly as the little girl cried out desperately, pushing at her mother's shoulders to waken her. Her pleading cries tore at Izar's mind and he raised his wand once again, killing the child with the same curse he used with the other two victims. The little thing slumped over her mother, her tears still falling down her cheeks and staining her mother's unmoving bosom.

Standing near the gates was proving to be a prime position for killing running Muggles and wizards. And yet, for reasons unknown to him, he found himself turning his back on the gate and slowly making his way down the paths of the destroyed Godric's Hollow. Screams and frantic pleading burned his sensitive ears. Izar forced himself to push away his sentimentality and take enjoyment in hearing it.

All the while, he looked forward to having the Ministry arrive. What Izar really enjoyed was challenges and adrenaline-rising battles. His cruel and aggressive Black genes came out when he was battling opponents who could fight back. He always felt pleasure in cutting down his enemies and making them bleed and suffer. And to know they could have saved themselves was another thrilling attribute.

Up ahead, Izar spied the Dark Lord standing on a front yard. It wasn't surprising to see a group of Death Eaters around him, watching him with wide and admiring eyes. But what really caught Izar's eye was Voldemort's expression. Pure insanity was written across his face as he tortured the Muggle man at his feet. Crimson eyes were all but glowing with sadistic glee and the smile that stretched his lips was nothing that Izar had ever seen on the man before.

The Muggle at Voldemort's feet gave high-pitched screams, a sound Izar knew would never come from the man unless he was in extreme pain.

Izar had no problem with the Dark Lord's obsession for Muggle torture and he did not feel sorry for the Muggle at his feet. But it did unsettle Izar with how much Voldemort could lose himself with the thrill of torture. The intelligent and controlled wizard Izar knew was lost to the raving Dark Lord. If there was ever a time an enemy needed to kill Voldemort, they would have a greater chance at succeeding when the Dark Lord was absorbed on his prize.

Once the Muggle man was silenced with a blood-choking gurgle, Voldemort looked up, over the heads of the Death Eaters, and locked eyes with Izar. Before any silent interaction could be made, the Black heir turned his back on the Dark Lord, not wanting to be near the man during the raid. Izar was in no mood to torture tonight.

Suddenly, a man came panting closer to him, racing toward the gates as if it were his safe haven. Izar considered the heavy-set man before sticking out his leg and tripping the Muggle before he could go any further. The Muggle gave a cry, scraping his bare knees on the pavement before quickly turning on his back to stare up at Izar.

"Please," the man gasped. "Please…"

Izar's eyes widened in mock sympathy. "Please, what?"

The man huffed shallowly, as if his lungs were struggling to support the amount of oxygen he was taking in. "Spare me, please. I don't mean any harm. I never did anything… Please, please."

Feeling the Dark Lord's eyes on his back, Izar leaned forward and touched his gloved hand to the man's forehead. "I'll tell you what," Izar murmured, his voice coming out muffled from his mask. "If you can make it to those gates alive, I won't hunt you down. You'll be home free…"

The man's lips gaped at him like a fish out of water.

"My patience runs thin," Izar hissed. "Run, you fat bastard, or I'll slice your innards open. You'll be the skinniest you've ever been."

His last words weren't even heard by the Muggle as the man jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the gates. Izar was sure it was the fastest the man had ever moved in his life. Cocking his head to the side, he watched in morbid fascination as the Muggle bypassed several Death Eaters and exited the gates of the community. It hadn't been expected, he would have thought the Muggle would have been stopped.

Oh well. It was sure to get Voldemort's knickers in an unsightly bundle. And that was all that mattered.

Izar turned down another street, away from Voldemort and the majority of the flames. Most of the Death Eaters were taking the home owners outside on the front yard to torture and kill. It was purely for show, to prove to their comrades that they could cause pain just as well as any of the Inner-Circle Death Eaters.

The majority of the grass in Godric's Hollow was stained a red and brown, a far cry from its original green. It appeared that most of the Death Eaters on this street were in the Third tier. This had to be a Muggle section of Godric's Hollow. None of the occupants were fighting back, save for their screaming and pleads.

He passed one home and found himself pausing, watching the proceedings. It was a woman and half-dead man, both being dragged from the house. Behind them, a boy that was likely their son was thrown carelessly on the front yard. Izar found his attention being drawn by the child. The boy couldn't be any older than six with dark blond hair and wide dark eyes. Children were always pathetic-looking, but this boy was even more so. He was bony and looked utterly vulnerable.

And yet, the boy sat there calmly, solemnly, as the wizards around him kicked his mother and chuckled. Any other child would be crying and sniffing his snot from his running nose.

Suddenly, the boy looked up at Izar. Blinking owlishly, the child offered a small smile and an even smaller wave. It was nothing but his fingers moving at his side, but Izar spotted it anyway. There was something about the boy that put Izar on edge and made him take note.

He walked forward, not realizing he was doing so until he came to a stop next to the Death Eaters playing with the mother. The father was already dead, choked by his own vomit. And the child still did not burst into tears.

"I knew you would come," the boy whispered to Izar. His smile wavered as he peered closely at the Black heir, as if looking for something to identify Izar. "The teenager with pretty eyes."

Izar sneered behind his mask, torn between killing the boy and hexing him for calling his eyes pretty. Yet, he was beaten to it as the Death Eater holding the boy's shoulder pushed him further into the ground and cast a strong Crucio. Izar stepped back, eyeing to proceedings with a heavy grimace. The boy's delicate features twisted horribly and a blood curdling scream escaped his wet lips. Desperate dark eyes looked up at Izar, gasping for oxygen between screams.

Something ugly twisted in Izar's gut. There was something unique about this boy and Izar felt responsible for protecting this… stranger. "Stop," Izar hissed, stepping forward and curling his fingers around the Third tier's wrist. "I know the child."

With his interference, the Crucio stopped, relieving the boy. The Death Eater looked up at Izar, his eyes almost invisible through narrowed eyes. "Get your own toy," the man spat.

Resisting a sigh at the man's melodramatic antics, Izar placed his palms on the man's chest before curling his fingers into the heavy cloak and pulling him close. "Go find another vulnerable and defenseless Muggle. This one is mine. Do you understand me?" Izar spoke icily. He stared the man down, putting all of his irritation from tonight's proceedings into his glare.

The Death Eater stiffened before pulling himself away and leaving the front yard in a huff. Izar watched him go before turning to the other Death Eaters, daring them to stand in his way. As if sensing his overwhelming displeasure and impatience, they turned their back on him, enjoying the execution of the mother.

Izar felt no pity for her. He also felt no pity for the child.

Or, at least he told himself as much as he glanced down at the boy, noticing the heavy tremors shaking the frail form. It was a Muggle, possibly a Muggle-born, but nonetheless, a disgrace to the Wizarding world. He should kill the boy. It was one less scum to worry about and Voldemort would become enraged if he found out about this.

Nevertheless, Fate always played a hand in everyone's destiny. Sometimes, it would make its victim act out of norm just to seal the destiny laid out for them.

Izar breathed irritably behind his mask and crouched down, hesitantly putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. He tried to offer comfort through the boy's pain, but he knew he failed horribly. Instead of making a further fool of himself, he pulled his hand away and leaned closer to the boy's whimpering form. "How did you know I was coming?"

The boy winced at his cold tone, but nonetheless, continued to stare into Izar's eyes as if it helped ground him. "D-dreams," the boy whispered brokenly, tears clinging to his lashes. His round and cherub head was pressed to the ground as if to alleviate the pain.

Izar sat back on his heels, considering the boy in front of him. It was possible that this boy was a Seer, and in turn, a Mudblood, but he could also be a gifted Muggle. Having his magic-sensitivity would do wonders at a time like this.

What the hell was he going to do with the kid?

The boy didn't even a bat a lash at his mother's dying screams or the peculiar sight of men in robes and carrying wands. He just continued to stare unnervingly at Izar. A chill crept down Izar's spine as he stared back. The boy's expression was similar to Tom Riddle's expression at the orphanage. It was an expression Izar wore at times. He most likely used it as a child as well; he just couldn't remember that far back.

"Why aren't you screaming for them to stop hurting mother?" Izar pondered out loud.

Without hesitation, the boy's bottom lip trembled. "She deserved it."

Izar stood up. "Has she hurt you?" he responded briskly, finally understanding the boy's lack of empathy for his family.

"No, but dad did," was all the boy said in response as another tremor shook his body.

Leaving the boy here was out of the question. Bringing him back to Voldemort's base was definitely not an option. Which left Grimmauld Place. Izar could apparate there in seconds and come right back to the raid. Izar certainly wasn't going to leave the raid now. He hadn't gotten what he came here for. The other Death Eaters sated their pent up frustrations and anger by torturing Muggles, Izar needed a similar therapeutic cure. And that was only going to happen when the Ministry arrived.

If they arrived.

"Come here," Izar ordered, trying to soften his tone. Apparently, from the boy's frown, he hadn't achieved it.

The child attempted to move, but he fell back down to the ground, his young body struggling with the after-affects of the Crucio. Izar pressed his lips together in a tight frown before kneeling next to the boy, reluctantly curling his arms around the little frame before disapparating away from Godric's Hollow.

As he landed in the foyer of the Black home, he stood from his knees, noting the boy had wrapped his arms tightly around his neck. Izar made a noise of disagreement in the back of his throat but decided to let it go. The boy was holding on to him frantically, as if Izar were his long-lost lifeline.

"Kreacher!" he yelled, already climbing the stairs to the room he had used earlier this summer.

Almost immediately, as if Voldemort were tracking his whereabouts, his Dark Mark seared with pain. Izar tried to ignore it, despite it burning just as badly as the first time he was Marked. The man was furious, beyond furious.

"Master Izar," Kreacher bowed down low. "It's good to see—"

Izar continued walking, turning a deaf ear to the creature's greeting. "I need to ask you a favor, Kreacher." The House-elf always preferred Izar 'asking' rather than 'ordering'. "Watch this child; make sure he stays in this room and doesn't leave. Make sure no one enters this room except for me or with my permission. Make sure he doesn't get into anything."

He entered his bedroom with wide strides, eager to get back to the raid as soon as possible. His Mark, if possible, grew hotter, sharper.

"But… a Mudblood!" the House-elf cried in dismay. "Dirties the notorious house of Black…"

Izar attempted to deposit the boy on the bed, but the thin arms were surprisingly strong and unyielding around his neck. He was left crouching awkwardly over the bed, tugging at the waist of the boy. "Let go," Izar growled. He could easily overpower the child, but figured he'd rather not pull the boy's arms out of their sockets. However, it would save time…

"You promise to come back?" the child whispered innocently into his ear.

Swallowing his impatience, Izar nodded. "I promise," he grounded out evenly. When he came back from the raid, he had no idea what he would do with the boy. For one thing, he knew he had to hide this from the Dark Lord. After which, he was clueless to all logical plans.

But now wasn't the time to think about a Muggle.

The boy let his neck go and plopped on the mattress, blinking up at Izar seriously. "You can't break promises."

"Of course I can break promises," Izar retorted harshly before giving a pained hiss and holding his forearm. "But I'll be back," he whispered. As he turned toward Kreacher, he grunted in pain and utter exasperation when he noticed the stubborn stance in the creature's posture. "This is an order, Kreacher. It does not matter what blood he is."

Kreacher's ears lowered. "Yes, Master Izar."

Izar slammed the door shut to his bedroom in response. Pushing away his guilt and uncertainty at bringing a child home, Izar raced toward the stairs, his mind now revolving around a much-needed battle. As soon as his foot hit the top step, he disapparated with a sharp crack.


{Notes} For those of you who are fretting already, no, the child is not going to be a main character. I'm not a big fan of tossing a child into the mix, but he serves my purpose for tidying up some unsolved problems. What purposes are those? You'll just have wait and see.

And just as a side note, Voldemort can't stand children. (Izar isn't a big child lover either; he's rather awkward with them) Muggle/Mudblood children especially. So Izar's little jaunt will not be looked highly upon, I can assure you ;)