I know it's shocking, but there will be small fluffiness in this chapter between Voldemort and Izar. I'm actually surprised at how long they remained neutral in one another's company.

Thanks for those who took the time to review. It means a lot to me. I also would like to thank both Chibi Chocobo-chan & Hysterical Mirth for creating artwork for the story. If you'd like to see the wonderful work, the link is posted on my profile. Enjoy.

Chapter Twenty Eight

For hours it seemed to continue raining sharp splinters of ice. There were a few times the icicles cut into Izar's face, cutting the supple and flawless skin. Crimson drops swelled down his cheeks before staining the snow beneath him. As soon as the single drop of blood hit the ground, the cut on his face would have already healed.

The Black heir was kneeling on the ground, his torso stretched over the deep snow and toward the burned corpse nearby. One hand remained curled around the brittle fingers of his uncle while his opposite hand lay uselessly to the side. He pressed his cheek into the snow as he gazed upward at the gruesome sight of the black skull. He didn't know how long he laid in the snow, or how long he kept his eyes trained on his uncle. The man just wouldn't move.

Izar sighed softly, his lips pursing and relaxing. The sun had risen and fallen, mimicking alternative phases to Izar's mentality.

He had never experienced loss before. The sensation of losing someone so close burned him badly and left an empty void he knew he could never fill. Sirius had been someone in Izar's life who had made light of situations, who had taught him that humor could be used doubtless of the circumstances. Sirius was also loyal to boot, the most trustworthy man Izar had ever come in contact with. While Sirius' aura had always craved the Dark, the man's personality was pure—untarnished by the cruelties in the world.

The memories with Sirius would always stay with Izar, no matter how long he survived eternity; the way the man had walked so skillfully in those high heels, the way the man had always called Izar 'kid' and refused to let Izar believe his family didn't love him. Such small things, such insignificant memories—but treasured by Izar all the same.

Hours of reminiscing and anger then brought acceptance. There was no doubt that Izar could have prevented Sirius' death. And there was also no doubt that he had been the one to kill him. But… they had been fighting for what they believed in and they had been on separate sides of the battlefield. Sirius had flown free the night Izar released him from his duties at Diagon Alley. The spark had returned in his uncle's eyes and the carefree attitude had settled back in.

Sirius died for his cause, for his beliefs, and that was the most honorable death in Izar's eyes.

Izar might have made the promise to Regulus that he would find a way to protect Sirius and fight for the Dark at the same time. Looking back on it now, Izar never realized how foolish and naïve that promise was. Wasn't it just yesterday… or the day before that he warned Draco against the same thing? Izar wondered why Regulus had encouraged his naïve statement. Then again, Regulus had been the one to try to explain what Izar was now slowly coming to realize.

Regulus had gone through the same thing as a young adult. He tried to have Lily—a family—and still support the Dark. His decision to try to hold on to both ended up in tragedy.

Izar closed his eyes, feeling his ice-like eyelashes brush the skin beneath his eyes. Sirius' passing had also brought with it a grim knowledge. If Izar hadn't already understood the bleak isolation of immortality, he did now. Not only the passing of others, such as Regulus, but also the knowledge that Izar would be unable to form any emotional bonds for any of the other 'phases' of his eternity of games. People would be just pawns, mere puppets he and Voldemort could play with.

The games didn't bother him. He enjoyed the games he played with Voldemort and could see himself participating for eternity—on top of inventing and experimenting. What bothered him was the desolate seclusion.

When he came to this conclusion, he had hated Voldemort more than he had ever hated him before for subjecting Izar to the same fate. But like most things, the hate had cooled and morphed into immense pity. He pitied Tom Riddle and he felt sorry for him. For someone to be so afraid of death that they would chose an eternity of isolation entitled pity on Izar's behalf. Now, more than ever, Izar began to see Voldemort's real reason for wanting a mate. It was about keeping each other on their toes, but it was also about companionship.

Their relationship was twisted, sick at times, but Izar vowed he would be a solid companion to Voldemort and the man would be the same.

Izar slowly pushed himself from the snow, crawling closer to Sirius. Despite all his forthcomings and acceptance, the loss still burned brightly in his chest. "I envy you," Izar whispered hoarsely, staring down at the empty eye sockets. There were no eyes there, only an empty void that pulled Izar in unwillingly. Ripping his eyes away from Sirius' horrified and destroyed features, Izar studied the moon hanging crookedly in the sky. The Black heir heaved a thick sigh, his mouth deepening into a heavy from. "I suppose you want to be put to rest properly."

He assessed the Black Manor a few yards away, knowing already that Sirius couldn't be buried in a private Black graveyard. Sirius had been disowned as a boy and he had never looked back on his decision to walk away. Unlike most, Sirius knew what he was sacrificing would always be gone. The least Izar could do was bring his uncle's body to someone who knew that just as well as he did.

Rocking unsteadily to his feet, Izar took a hold of Sirius' stiff wrist and Disapparated.

Appearing outside the Potter household, Izar knew he would have to accomplish this quickly, for the wards were already buzzing. Gathering Sirius' corpse, Izar carried the brittle and stiff body bridal style on his way up the sidewalk. Luckily, before he had to knock or come close to the front door, it opened. James Potter, minus his glasses, stepped out, his wand elevated on Izar. Behind him, Lily stood, appearing in one piece despite her earlier duel with Bellatrix.

James took one look at the corpse in Izar's arms and trembled, his face breaking for a blinking second. "Is… is that him?" Potter questioned, his voice just as scratchy as Izar's.

Izar kept his eyes on the trained wand as he leaned down to set Sirius on the snow in front of him. "Sirius? Who else could have a ridiculous grin like that?" Izar stuffed his hands in his pockets, watching the two Potters stand shell-shocked. "All I request is for the burial he warrants. He was a respected Auror and a true member of the Light. He didn't deserve to rot in a cave by himself."

James recovered quickly, nodded sharply, the redness around his eyes a clear indication the man was already mourning his friend's departing. Izar gave one last look at Sirius before he turned to leave. Before he could Disapparate, he heard Potter shout behind him.

"No, Lily!"

"Hush, James," Lily scolded.

Izar turned, watching as the petite redheaded witch came down the stairs and towards him. Her lips were forming a thin line as she ran her eyes across his face. She stopped a few inches from him and mother and son observed one another wordlessly.

Unexpectedly, she leaned forward, engulfing him in an embrace. It was all he could do to keep from flinching at the abrupt movement. The two were both rigid in the embrace, not at all the image of a seamless mother and son. Izar hesitantly placed a hand on her back out of habit more than adoration. She tightened her arms around his torso as her hands fisted the back of his robes. The woman placed her head near his throat, seemingly breathing in his scent.

"He loved you," she whispered softly. "He loved you so much." Lily squeezed him once more before letting go. She took a step back, dry of any tears, but there was a light struggling to remain lit in her eyes. She reached forward, stroking the back of her fingers against his cheek. "Thank you for bringing him back home, Izar."

Izar could only nod, unsure if his voice would work properly in the face of the woman's confession. He turned, slowly walking away from his mother and the corpse of the man he came to love.

{Death of Today}

Izar knew he should have gone to find Voldemort as soon as he entered the base, but he found himself slowly walking the dark corridors, searching out the infirmary. Considering the healing potions and antibacterial lotions were strong enough on human noses, Izar followed the stench with his creature-like senses. It lead him two floors below the entrance and dangerously close to Voldemort's chambers.

"Are you now a prisoner here?" Izar murmured to the man's back. The young wizard leaned against the doorframe, eyeing Severus Snape as the man brewed a foul smelling concoction. "You weren't at the battle yesterday night."

Snape turned, staring at Izar critically through fallen bangs. "And you haven't been seen for over a day."

"I come and go as I please," Izar retorted sharply, not inclined to remember his day lying in the snow with Sirius. If anyone found out about his lapse of reality, the small platform he built himself would collapse beneath his feet. It wasn't something he had been proud of, mulling over the corpse's stillness, but it had been a necessary healing process.

Snape's lips twitched sardonically. "When you are nothing but a prisoner yourself? I highly doubt your valiant avowal." Onyx eyes traveled across Izar's unkempt appearance; the tattered cloak torn at the knees, the tiny holes puncturing his pants, and the dirt and char smudges across his skin. "The Dark Lord has been in a foul mood since your absenteeism, I daresay."

Izar crossed his arms over his chest, not inclined to react to the man's statement. "You would think, if you found your head on the chopping block, that you wouldn't try to bait me with such tactics, Severus. The Dark Lord is always in a foul mood, it has nothing to do with my short absence." The man was mocking him, trying to get Izar to acknowledge his sway over Voldemort's moods. But why mock Izar when Severus already knew a semblance of the truth?

Out of all the players in this game, Severus was the one that held the most information. Lucius knew the bare minimum—the fact that Izar and Voldemort were sexually involved. Regulus, while he knew just as much as Severus, liked to turn a blind eye to Izar's less than moral decisions. Regulus enjoyed pointing out how malicious the Dark Lord was for taking advantage over Izar. His father refused to believe that Izar just enjoyed taking a flying leap and diving head-first in a challenge with Voldemort. His father also couldn't swallow the fact that Izar was open to physical intimacy with the Dark Lord.

Severus, however, was not attached to Izar like Regulus was. Snape could see the insanity in Izar without worrying, without judging. And that made the man more dangerous than Regulus doubtless that they held the same information. They both knew Izar was immortal and they both knew that the Dark Lord and Izar were a… couple.

Severus' mouth thinned. "Be that as it may, you cannot continue to frolic through town when so many enemies are sniffing your trail."

Breathing heavily through his nose, Izar pushed off from the doorframe and entered the infirmary. It was a relatively large room, rivaling the appearance of the Hogwarts' infirmary right down to the adjacent beds with privacy curtains. The potion lab was set in the corner near the entrance. It was small, but it had all the ingredients a Potions Master would find to assist their brewing.

"Where is Lucius?" Izar questioned, turning the conversation back around in his favor. He did not need another man watching his actions and disproving. Izar had already experienced his fair share of them and the Dark Lord counted as several.

Severus' eyes reluctantly turned to the bed closest to them with the privacy curtains drawn. Izar made his way over, stretching his arm out and pulling back the curtains. The weightless fabric seemed far heavier than what was normal, and it could only mean Izar dreaded what was on the other side.

"He's been asking after you," Snape mused thoughtfully. "Ordinarily he is under the influence of a fever, but it broke this afternoon. He is out of critical condition and has moved into stable."

Lucius lay motionless on his cot, his angular and handsome features tilting upward toward the ceiling. The man was still painfully pale and there was a thick scar running from the bottom of his nose down to his neck and disappearing at the collar of his dressing robe. Izar remembered seeing the wound vividly. He knew it ran down to the man's groin in gruesome cruelty. And yet, despite the disfiguring characteristic, Izar found himself comforted by the steady rise and fall of the man's chest.

"I assume Narcissa found him?" Izar found himself asking the man at his back, but remained facing Lucius.

"Yes," Severus replied distractedly. The sound of ingredients dropping into the cauldron broke the calming rhythm of boiling liquid. "The Malfoy's designated a location for emergency usage. There are wards around the premises that will alert one another when a member of the family appears in need of assistance. He was fortunate to obtain attention when he had." Snape paused for a moment. "He has informed me that you saved his life."

Izar turned to Snape, examining the man as he stirred the potion. "I have the ability to do that at times," he replied crisply, pointedly. He was satisfied when Snape looked up suddenly, his eyes narrowing on him. Izar smirked darkly, turning back to Lucius. "I respect what you did for my father. While I find your scheme for saving his hide poorly executed, I understand that the man you were trying to fool can see through multiple of farces."

"I find little use speaking of the past, Mr. Black."

"Surely you cannot accept your fate?" Izar reached out to touch Lucius' hand, drawing it back suddenly when his cold fingers touched the man's warm knuckles. The blond flinched, but seemed to fall back unconscious. "You must be pleased to see the end of your pathetic and isolated life if you refuse to run like the Slytherin you claim to be. Do you hate your life so much that you stay rooted at the Dark Lord's manor until your usefulness runs out? A simple beck and call?"

And that was what the man was. Voldemort was enjoying the sight of Severus squirming, watching as the clock ticked away his existence. Voldemort adored the sensation of playing god—of holding life in his hands as if he had the power to control the one thing he feared the most, death.

Fathomless eyes searched Izar. "Who said my usefulness will run out?"

Izar blinked, a small smile curling the edges of his mouth despite his instance to remain impassive. The man had a sense of wit that Izar found pleasing. It was this man in front of him who had a hand in shaping who Izar was today. When Izar had been a student, he remembered staring at the man in hidden admiration as Snape used his tongue to cut down the students in order to bring them to their full potential.

"Indeed," Izar whispered. He narrowed his eyes on the man, trying to see something deeper, but grudgingly realizing that Severus Snape was one of the few he had trouble reading. "The teasing aside, sir, it doesn't have to be like this. You can ask me for assistance and I can aid you."

Severus' wrist snapped sharply as he tapped his stirring rod once against the brim of the cauldron before laying it down next to the low flames. The man's robes floated around his heels as he turned sharply, leaning against the table in order to study Izar. "Can you truly promise that, Mr. Black? Or is it wistful thinking on your behalf that if you bat your lashes long enough at our Lord he will find himself unable to resist your bidding?"

Izar pursed his lips as he watched the dark figure glide inside the infirmary behind Snape. He was tempted to take Snape's words into consideration and bat his eyelashes as the Dark Lord, but found himself turning his shoulder on the hooded figure.

He had no reason to feel guilty for leaving after the battle. Izar had needed that time to mourn Sirius and the memories and knowledge that accompanied his uncle's passing. Obviously, it wasn't in the Dark Lord's favor, but it was in Izar's. And that's all that mattered.

Izar was irritated at the man's timing, however. There were still issues Izar wanted to bring up with Snape—including Regulus' whereabouts. Voldemort's men couldn't locate him and Izar didn't want to hear that his father was under Dumbledore's protection. It wouldn't sit well with him.

For his part, Severus did not grovel at Voldemort's feet in apology. Instead, he gave a curt greeting, feigning nonchalance as he returned to his potion.

"I see you're back, uncle excluded," the Dark Lord spoke to Izar's turned back with a raspy whisper. "I would have thought you would be dragging his corpse along with you—"

"Enough!" Izar hissed in Parseltongue. He was furious at the man and his comment, yet he was still aware of their audience and painfully aware of the boundaries he should respect. Though, if he thought about it, Voldemort was currently crossing his own boundaries. "At least allow his corpse to cool in his grave before you spit on it, My Lord," he added in a neutral tone, yet a tremor of bitterness lay beneath.

Through lowered lashes, Izar remained turned, staring at Lucius' oblivious face. He watched as the eyes beneath Lucius' closed eyelids began moving, either waking from unconsciousness or envisioning a dream. It wouldn't surprise Izar if Lucius woke, simply because the tension in the room was incredibly high. He could feel the crimson eyes watching his back along with Severus' strung aura, ready to exit the premises as soon as his potion was safe to simmer.

Slowly, Lucius' eyelids pried apart. The blond blinked rapidly, adjusting to consciousness, before his mercury eyes turned to Izar hovering over his bedside. Lips that would no longer be sculptured perfectly, parted into a small smile.

"Izar," the man whispered in cool greeting. Despite Lucius' current condition, the man somehow continued to hold on to his vanity and icy-pride.

"Lucius," Izar murmured in smug pleasure. "Not looking too good, I see." He smoothed out the mattress and settled at the edge only because it would irritate the Dark Lord. "Care to explain how Alastor Moody was able to get past your defenses so well?"

Lucius swallowed, appearing as if it pained him to do so. Doubtless of the struggling and ailing condition, Lucius' eyes were bright as they remained locked on Izar. "I'm a far better wizard, I reassure you. It was a trivial slip on my part." The man paused, his hand slowly reaching forward and encircling around Izar's wrist. Lucius had yet to take notice of their company and Izar didn't feel inclined to bring attention to it. "Rest assured, next time I see Alastor, his face will look far worse than my own."

"I can only imagine," Izar comforted. Alastor Moody was an infamous Auror and had yet to sustain any significant injury or disfiguration to show his prowess. Izar was certain a vengeful Lucius would remedy that next time they saw one another.

Lucius' smile dimmed and his warm fingers stroked the nonexistent pulse-point on Izar's wrist. Voldemort's aura darkened considerably behind them and Izar only smiled thinly in response.

"I want to thank you," Lucius began sincerely.

Before he could continue, Izar cut him off. "There is no need to thank me, Lucius." He knew Lucius was prideful, and he knew that the man would bend his neck to thank Izar. The Black heir just didn't want to cause the man any unnecessary humility. Izar was aware of Lucius' gratitude and that was all that was needed. "If I ever need any assistance in the future, I know who I will approach." Lucius would also insist repaying Izar, hence the reason why Izar initiated the debt himself.

Lucius' eyelids became half-lidded in appreciation of Izar's forethought but they widened a fraction as they settled on a point above Izar's head. The man's fingers slowly unwound from his wrist just as a set of spidery fingers curled around Izar's neck one finger at a time.

"My Lord," Lucius greeted coolly, respectfully, if not apprehensively.

Izar's lips thinned as the fingers encircled his throat almost painfully, possessively. He tried to escape the clutch, but the fingers only tightened in response. Voldemort's opposite hand settled on top Izar's head, the nails entwining smugly in the black strands.

"Lucius, so glad you are progressing." Voldemort hissed maliciously. "I apologize for interrupting your time with Mr. Black; however, I require his wayward presence. Now."

And Izar barely had the time to plant his feet on the ground before he was pulled ruthlessly out the infirmary. He refused to meet Snape's eyes on the way out, too ashamed at being hauled out the room like a bloody pet. As soon as the two wizards entered the dark corridor, Voldemort tsked in disgust and pushed Izar away from him.

For his part, Izar did not stumble from the abrupt action. "Arsehole," Izar spat, straightening.

"I am not impressed with the game you have chosen to play with me," Voldemort whispered silkily in the shadows. He continued down the corridor and Izar reluctantly followed. "There is one thing I regret by turning you so young at the tender age of sixteen. An eternity of teenage hormones will not sit well with me, especially if you feel as if you can satisfy yourself with someone other than me. It will never happen; must you waste your efforts?"

A lazy smile crossed Izar's face as he reached across the dark space in the corridor and curled his fingers around Voldemort's robes. Crossing the distance, he backed the man against the stone wall, pressing his body into the Dark Lord as his legs straddled the man's lower body. Smirking up at the Dark Lord, Izar brushed down the hood separating him from the cruel features. He would never admit, to anyone, that he enjoyed making the Dark Lord threatened. It was a rarity that Izar got to see such an ugly human emotion in the man. Let the man believe it was hormones running Izar's actions.

He stood on his toes, inhaling the scent of the Dark Lord. "If it was hormones that you're worried about, then you wouldn't have a problem getting me in bed, would you? Instead, you find it a challenge to make me submit."

Just as Izar was about to pull away, tapered hands clasped his arse and slid downward to the back of Izar's thighs. The man then forcibly lifted the Black heir, taking special care to wrap Izar's legs around his waist before spinning their positions around. Izar's head hit the back of the wall as Voldemort forced his body against his.

"You seemed rather willing those many nights ago. Would you care to let me demonstrate how easily you become putty in my hands?"

Izar turned his cheek as Voldemort leaned forward for a kiss. "Willing? I hardly call it willing and more along the lines of wanting to escape creating those Horcruxes as punishment and under duress," Izar replied cheekily. He turned back around, reaching forward to run his fingertips down Voldemort's cheek. "At the time, sex outweighed punishment."

Voldemort's lips thinned, yet they curled at the edges. Something warm brightened behind the red eyes, as he leaned forward, caressing Izar's face with his nose and lips. The younger wizard closed his eyes at the unfamiliar, but welcome gesture. It was a gesture not usually associated with Voldemort. It was gentle, almost…loving and Izar found himself enjoying it for just this moment in time. He returned the caress, realizing they were all but nuzzling.

It was odd how Sirius' tragedy danced to the back of his mind when he was with Voldemort. Somehow, the world stopped turning when they were together, as if nothing else mattered but one another and their competitions they enjoyed participating in. Izar could now see how eternity was possible with this man.

"Why did you save him?" Voldemort demanded softly. "Two birds with one stone, I would wager."

Izar's eyes snapped open as he stared at the split-red eyes watching him. And then the man had to open his mouth…

He pushed at the Dark Lord's shoulders, separating their bodies. "I hope you don't consider Sirius and Lucius as part of that wager." It was difficult to swallow that Voldemort didn't care for his Death Eaters, that he wouldn't have cared if Lucius or any other member of his circle was slaughtered. But it was also understandable.

"I do," Voldemort responded without hesitation or remorse. "He was a weakness, someone holding you back, just as your mother and father, and Lucius Malfoy. Dare I say that Greengrass, Severus, and the youngest Malfoy are also on your list? And let's not forget dear Bella. All of them are unnecessary distractions for you."

He understood, perhaps too well, what the Dark Lord was trying to point out. Izar had attachments, some of them he wasn't proud of and some of them he formed consciously. "I wouldn't think you would understand my loss," Izar murmured icily. "You don't care about anything or anyone."

Voldemort swiped at his bangs, peering at Izar spitefully. "Quite the contrary, child. I care about many things, such as winning and excelling at everything I do. And, regrettably, I find myself caring for you."

Silence met his statement as Izar struggled to form the appropriate reaction or response to such a confession. Voldemort looked down his nose at Izar before he spun his heel and continued on his way to their chambers. Izar stood stiffly, registering the man's words critically. There would always be a small doubt that Voldemort wasn't sincere in his high regard of Izar. However, after everything he and Voldemort had been through, that doubt was just a sliver of what it used to be.

"You're right," Izar conceded behind the man. "Sirius was… someone I grew attached to. But I realized that I could have never held onto both him and the Dark." He paused, walking slowly behind the Dark Lord. "Lucius is a trustworthy follower. Surely you—"

"I do not," Voldemort cut him off sharply. "How long will it take you to realize that those surrounding me are mere marionettes? Our marionettes? He will die before you as will your father and classmates. You are the superior being. We use them as amusement; they are pieces that keep the game in motion. And they are also replaceable… disposable." Voldemort flung the door open to his chambers, lighting the fireplace with a simple wave of his wrist.

Izar stalked the man, taking his elbow and turning him around forcibly. "I know that, I know. But this is our first phase, our first round, if you prefer, of immortality. Understand that I will have sentimental attachments to the ones I grew up with."

"I never said I did not understand, Izar." Voldemort removed Izar's hand from his elbow. The Dark Lord continued to hold Izar's wrist between the two. "You asked me if I cared that Lucius would die. I know you have emotional attachments, weakness. You are not yet hardened or matured fully." The man paused thoughtfully. "And you may never be hardened. While you are much like me, there are countless of differences between you and me. You are far more empathetic."

Izar didn't like that the Dark Lord viewed him as empathetic. It was a characteristic that could be easily manipulated and played on by his enemies.

As if reading his thoughts, Voldemort smirked, dropping Izar's wrist. "You will improve at this once we relocate, you will no longer have your distractions surrounding you. A clean slate."

Izar watched as the man turned, pouring himself a drink at the wet bar before making his way over to the couch. Izar's sharp eyes observed the man as he caressed his ring lovingly, almost subconsciously. Izar immediately disapproved of Voldemort carrying around the ring that was meant to be a Horcrux. Just because they duplicated it did not mean Voldemort had the right idea of revealing it to prying eyes. The duplicated ring would need to be hidden and Voldemort would need to stop wearing his precious trinket.

"Does it hold sentimental value?" Izar questioned darkly from his position by the bar. He had already asked Voldemort why he chose the items he had as his 'Horcruxes'. The man had insisted he would tell Izar later about the ring, but perhaps, with the man's high mood tonight, he would indulge some information. "The ring," Izar expanded in response of Voldemort's raised eyebrow.

The Dark Lord glanced down at his ring, stroking it once more. "That, yes, among other things." There was a pregnant pause. "Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows, my child?"

Izar frowned as his mind raced. Vaguely, he remembered reading about the tale of the Deathly Hallows and the three brothers in his First Year at Hogwarts. Izar's eyes widened a fraction, viewing the ring in a new light. Yet… there was also a dark emotion brewing in his chest at the revelation. "Is that the Resurrection Stone?" he licked his lips, sneering. "Who do you see then? When you hold it to you so possessively, you must see someone."

Voldemort blinked at Izar before smiling wickedly. "Jealous?"

The Black heir schooled his features into that of a cold mask. "Of course not. I gathered as much when you told me you went to South America those many years ago and decided then that you wouldn't make a Horcrux. You must have loved someone and found it inconvenient to create a Horcrux if you couldn't feel emotions afterward."

Voldemort stared long and hard at Izar before he gave a sudden laugh. It was loud and unlike the Dark Lord. True amusement spread across the man's features as he cackled. "Loved? Loved!" Voldemort chuckled, lowering the volume of his laughter. He turned away from Izar and stared pensively into the fire for a long while. "No, there is no dead lover, only my mate standing before me. And I intend to keep it that way."

The hairs on the back of Izar's neck stood sharply at the man's dark murmur. It was more of a promise then a statement and Izar found himself unnerved. Pushing off from the wet bar, Izar walked quietly over to the Dark Lord.

"You mean…" Izar began gently, as if approaching a wild animal. "You keep the ring as a safety precaution?" He didn't want his suspicions to be confirmed. He didn't want the Dark Lord to be musing over the very prospect that Izar could not agree to. They disagreed on many things but this was something Izar would defy heatedly.

The Dark Lord stroked his ring once before setting his hand on the armrest. He sipped from the amber liquid, smiling darkly. "Yes."

Now that Izar thought about it, Voldemort had always worn the ring, but had just recently started touching it—caressing it. "You cannot return someone from the dead," Izar whispered fiercely. He knew that the ring couldn't return the spirit back from the dead, or even an embodied person. The Stone was nothing but a manifestation—something to taunt and drive the one who possessed it into madness. And Izar was well aware that Voldemort knew this. The thing was, Voldemort could be frighteningly intelligent when he put his mind to it. The Dark Lord wouldn't use the ring for its intended purpose, he would find ways to resurrect while using the ring as means to get it.

"You cannot return me," Izar corrected. "Those who return from the dead are never the same. They will never forget the sensation of being ripped from the afterlife and thrust back into the cruel hell that we call life. If you died, Tom, and you wanted me to use the ring or other means to resurrect you, then I would. But you must respect my own decision and leave me to rest."

Voldemort lifted his lip, revealing startling white teeth as he flashed Izar a ruthless grin. "You have no say in this."

Izar threw one glower in the man's direction before gliding out of the foyer and into his own bedroom. As he walked across the plush carpet, he stripped nude, continuing on to the bathroom. He went through the motions of turning the water hot and scrubbing his body and hair. He smelt like Sirius, death, blood… and it made him ill. Along with the conversation and realization he just had with Voldemort, things were pressing on Izar, making him feel nothing but exhaustion.

It was better not to argue with Voldemort when the man was in his arrogant and stubborn mood. The longer Izar argued with the Dark Lord, the more the man would become unbearable and narrow-minded. Nothing would get past the man's thick and inflated head…

Izar leaned against the shower door, slamming his fist against the wall in agitation. Through wet and dripping hair, he eyed the Celtic ring on his finger. The Dark Lord went to such lengths to keep Izar around. Was fear running the man's actions? Could Voldemort not possibly function without Izar? Was it a side-effect of being mates? Or was it the man's isolation that narrowed his vision?

It saddened him that Voldemort thought he had to be controlling in order to keep Izar with him. As a boy, Tom Riddle had always been alone. He never formed any relationships, he never felt comfortable with people. Now that Izar was his first exception, his first companion, Voldemort was insecure and possessive of the relationship. It wasn't surprising that he had the mind frame of holding Izar too close with a suffocating embrace.

Lifting his head, Izar scrunched his face up into the pour of water. A part of him believed he was created just for Voldemort. How else could he find pleasure and excitement with a domineering Dark Lord? He smiled into the water before shutting it off. He was too much like Voldemort to take offense to what the man did. And he was definitely collected enough not to give Voldemort the silent treatment. He was just tired.

Stepping out of the humid shower, Izar dried himself with the towel before grabbing the black robe folded neatly on the vanity. Staring into his reflection, he grinned at it bitterly, dryly amused that he looked flawless despite the hell he had gone through. Immortality brought with it many benefits, but also an overwhelming darkness— frighteningly similar to Izar and Voldemort's relationship.

He exited the bathroom, stopping short when he eyed the man on his bed. Voldemort sat at the edge of the mattress, caressing a black pawn on a chess board. "Come play," Voldemort summoned, barely sparing Izar a glance. "I'll even allow you to go first. And we both know, he who makes the first move wins." Spider-like fingers spun the board around so the white players were inviting Izar forward.

Izar's first instinct was to inform the man he just wanted to go to sleep. But he swallowed his response, knowing this was Voldemort's way of compensating. "You just say that for insurance reasons," Izar replied defiantly. "If you lose, you have a reliable excuse."

Voldemort only smiled thinly in return.

The Black heir made his way on the bed, curling his legs underneath him as he assessed the chess board. "This is the first time I've played chess with you," Izar murmured as he considered his pawns. "Why do I have the feeling that you're going to destroy me?"

Red eyes lifted from the board and considered Izar closely. "Have you ever played chess, child?"

Izar's lips thinned. "I've read about it. I've just never played it before," he admitted meekly. There had never been anyone to play it with.

"Then I must applaud your courage for playing," Voldemort chuckled lowly. "I will guide you." The Dark Lord shifted on the mattress, turning his torso around so it faced the board and Izar fully. Even though the man was situated in a lazy position, he somehow managed to pull off the image of power and authority. "One must always have a purpose when playing. Many people study the game of chess for hours on end in order to improve their game. However, true mastery only comes when one has to actually face various crises on the game board."

They both knew that it was not just chess Voldemort was speaking of. Chess was a highly analytical game, mimicking life and battle strategies with mirror-like resemblance. Because of this, Izar sat forward, paying special attention to the Dark Lord. It wasn't every day that the Dark Lord felt patient enough to instruct Izar. The man usually did it through tests, games. Never face to face instruction.

"The efficiency of a move is more relevant and obvious when analyzed in retrospection." Voldemort waved his hand over the board and the pieces moved at his will. His black queen stood directly across from Izar's white king. "Poor tactics will land you in highly amusing, albeit awkward positions. Like here."

Izar stared at the man's queen. The only thing stopping Voldemort's queen from taking Izar's king was a single black pawn. Voldemort's own pawn.

"Foolish," Voldemort tsked. "Your lack of retrospection and tactic led you in the position where your own players are blocking your checkmate. It is better to sacrifice the pawn." The man gazed levelly at Izar, a hard line to his mouth. "But you are far too intelligent to make that mistake."

Izar sneered at the man, knowing all too well the man was comparing this scenario to sentimental attachments. How they would stop Izar from his intended goal, divert him from the 'checkmate'. "Amusing," Izar muttered. "Very creative."

"Of course, you should only sacrifice a player until you know exactly what you will gain in return." Voldemort waved his hand, returning the pieces back in their original positions. "What do you think is the main reason to sacrifice a player?"

Izar considered the question. "The main reason to sacrifice players would be to trap your opponent's player of greater value and eliminate it from the board," Izar replied, furrowing his brows at the board. "Though… I would also believe it would be beneficial to force your opponent in a tight corner in order to restrict their movement. In which case, you wouldn't need to sacrifice any of your own players, yet it would limit your opponent's power."

"Very good," Voldemort praised deeply. "However, I prefer the former tactic. An opponent could always reverse his trap and strike back just as hard. It is better to summon them off the board. They cannot influence your game if they are not in it."

It was rather ironic that Voldemort would view it in that light. In real life, Voldemort never gave his enemy that much credit. The Dark Lord underestimated his enemies, he was arrogant. If he ever backed someone into a corner to restrict their movement, he could and would not believe they could get themselves out of it—let alone strike just as viciously. Izar was tempted to point that out, but thought the atmosphere was finally at a balanced level. He did not want to disturb this unaccustomed peace.

"You must be wary of a tactic I know you might fall for," Voldemort continued. "Some players build their tactic on the mistake of their opponent. Nevertheless, waiting as long as that is not a clever move. Indubitably, you may speculate and use any breach in the other's defenses to your advantage, but to actually rely on that fully for building your chess tactics, is definitely wrong. Dumbledore was a prime example of that during the raid."

Izar's eyes shot up, locking with the Dark Lord. "Meaning?"

Voldemort grinned. "He was relying on your weaknesses in your duel. Having the prior knowledge that you are a vampire, Dumbledore underestimated you. Vampires are known to be uncontrollable, barren. Dumbledore was waiting for your lapse of control in order to kill you. It did not come and he paid greatly for such a strategy."

Izar bowed his head, fingering his chess pieces. The man's words rang true with a startling clarity. Izar did not win that duel because he was on par with a Light Lord, but because Dumbledore had underestimated him.

"You did well," Voldemort conceded as he picked up on Izar's thoughts. "Though, I find it difficult to grasp why you believe you must match my power."

Green eyes flashed as he glanced up, staring directly at the man. "I would like to defend myself without your constant protection. Of course I believe that I should be just as powerful as you." It was a sour topic, simply because Izar knew he would never be as powerful as Voldemort. It irritated him; it made him feel weak—useless.

The Dark Lord leaned forward, mindful of the chess board between them. His fingers curled around the collar of Izar's robe, playing with it lazily. Placing his face close to Izar, he smirked. "That is an extremely childish sentimentality. Can you not accept that we bring different strengths together, child? We are unstoppable together," Voldemort breathed lustfully into Izar's ear. "Your prodigy mind is something I can never obtain. My power is something you cannot."

Izar pulled away, thrusting the board closer to the Dark Lord. Remaining away from Voldemort, Izar moved his pawn forward.

He hated when the Dark Lord was correct. While Izar's power was indeed above average, it would never reach Voldemort's level. Perhaps with time and practice, Izar would be skilled enough in dueling and the theory of magic to best the Dark Lord in a duel out of skill rather than power. It was possible, but Izar first had to accept that he could not mimic the Dark Lord's show of power. He had other talents that the Dark Lord did not and he would need to embrace those if he wanted to step above Voldemort.

Izar raised his eyes from the board, smirking at the Dark Lord in promise. In return, Voldemort smiled down at his chess pieces, moving his pawn to meet Izar's.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Izar considered his board and Voldemort's words regarding Dumbledore. Eyes widening a fraction, Izar placed his chin on his drawn knees, staring at the chess players in a daze. "You know… Dumbledore's tactic did work out in his advantage, doubtless of your views."

"Oh?" Voldemort inquired, tilting his head in such a way that showed Izar he was listening. "And how is that?"

Izar smiled bitterly. Pinching a pawn between his thumb and middle finger, he clicked it against Voldemort's pawn, taking it captive and moving it to the side of the board. "He knows I'm not a vampire."

{Death of Today}

They were arguing behind him.

Izar bit his bottom lip, trying to ignore the Death Eaters as he gazed almost lovingly at Hogwarts' wards. The castle, even from a distance, gave an eternal glow of comfort and welcome. Only, from his side of the board, he knew it was a large obstacle standing in his way. And it was also Voldemort's goal location for his final stand.

It was over an hour and they still had yet to circle the entire perimeter of the castle or find the weak spot in the wards. Usually, when each Headmaster took his position at the school, he would reinforce the wards with his own power. Doing so would, indeed, strengthen the wards, but it would also cause another layer to overlap with the previous wards. Over decades, centuries, the wards would begin forming a knot where the multiple of wards met and overlapped.

Considering Hogwarts was such a powerful structure, and the wards ancient, the knot Izar was looking to unravel would be minimal and difficult to spy. It would be far easier if he could distinguish between the anti-Apparation wards and the protective wards. If he could accomplish that much, he could just strip Hogwarts of that particular ward and the Death Eaters could Apparate inside. However, it wasn't that easy. Not only was Hogwarts so overlapped with several categories of wards, but there were several anti-Apparation wards threaded through the thick protective barrier—mending and merging as one.

Tapping his bottom lip, Izar slowly moved to the right. If he could not find the knot, there was a possibility someone from the inside could crumble the wards more easily. Though, Izar couldn't think of anyone trustworthy or powerful enough to accomplish that. Severus Snape wasn't allowed to leave the base and Draco and Daphne just weren't skilled enough to accomplish that feat.

"How much longer?" someone pestered from behind Izar. "We've been here all night."

"An hour. We've been here an hour," Bellatrix responded icily. "You have nothing better to do with your time, Carrow."

Izar ignored them, peering at the swirling gold wards. They really were beautiful. It was a half-shaped dome blanketing the castle and the grounds around it. Izar was careful not to touch it and he made the others stand a good few feet away. The wards were undoubtedly a gold color, and yet, there were ruby and emerald dust-like particles floating in the gold river, blinking brightly before dimming.

He pursed his lips, stalking the perimeter another few feet. His wand nearly touched the wards as it floated gracefully above, teasing and testing the magic thrumming so delectably. Izar raised his eyes to the very top of the wards, narrowing his gaze. There was a possibility of the knot settling at the very top of the wards, but he had superior sight, and it was nothing but a smooth blanket.

The knot had to be somewhere. If he couldn't find it, he would have to strip the wards one layer at a time. And that would take hours, perhaps days.

For the next hour, Izar circled the perimeter, ignoring the grumbling coming from the Death Eaters at his back. There were only a handful accompanying him and there were also more Second Tier wizards than First. Of course they would be impatient. They couldn't see what Izar did and they felt as if they could be doing something more productive then watching Izar's back. The Black heir tiptoed around the curve of the ward, suddenly catching sight of a rough patch at the bottom of the dome.

Quickly, he crouched, though, he did so nonchalantly. He didn't want to call attention to the Death Eaters. While he knew most of them supported the Dark Lord and his cause, no one could be completely trustworthy. It was better if Izar kept the location of the knot a secret. Surprisingly, the knot was located near the gates of Hogwarts, not by the Forbidden Forest as Izar originally had hoped. The fist-sized knot had lightening-like veins crawling through the gold aura. Shocks and pulses entwined together, creating a spectacular sight in Izar's eyes.

He made a mental note of the knot's location before he stood up and continued examining the wards as if he hadn't found it. Yet, his fingers itched in longing at the prospect of trying to unwind the knot. He knew he couldn't touch it now or Dumbledore would be alerted to the Death Eater's plan.

It was another thirty minutes before Izar was interrupted.

"What does it look like?" Barty Crouch Jr. questioned from over Izar's shoulder. "What do the wards appear like?"

Izar removed his eyes from the wards, eyeing the hovering man through lowered lids. It was the same question Draco had asked a year ago at Appleton's house. The blond had been disappointed with the lack of fireworks auras tended to appear like. The young Malfoy couldn't imagine magic being soothing, peaceful—or beautiful. He wanted it to be full of bright flashes and vivid shapes. Would Barty be the same?

The Black heir scoffed, slowly reaching out his wand and moving it toward Barty's head. The dark chocolate eyes watched his progress but didn't do anything to stop it besides widening his smirk. The man just stood quietly, a sharp contrast to his bickering comrades at his back.

Pressing his wand to Barty's temple, Izar murmured the incantation that would allow Barty to see what he did. Izar gazed at the wards, all the while keeping his wand pressed to the man's temple. Beside him, Barty breathed deeply, issuing an interested murmur in his throat. "It's exactly what I thought," the man exclaimed with a hint of awe. "Stunning."

Izar smiled thinly. It made sense that Crouch Jr. would have an appreciation for magic whereas Draco did not. While Barty Crouch Jr. was a younger man, he had maturity and wisdom in places Draco lacked. Despite their mutual dislike for each other, Izar's reverence for the man was heightening the more he got to know him. He didn't like to admit it, but there were strong similarities between the two of them. Including their family life and the way they attached themselves to Voldemort. Barty viewed Voldemort as a type of reverend father figure while Izar… well…

Just as Izar was about to remove his wand from the man's temple, Barty's fingers reached out and held his wrist in place. "What does my aura look like?"

Withholding a sigh of irritation, Izar reluctantly turned his eyes on Barty's figure. "It changes," Izar felt inclined to put in. "Whenever your mood changes, the speed of the aura and the color sometimes adapts to your emotions. Right now you're calm, perhaps a bit intrigued, and in turn, your aura is serene."

And indeed it was. Crouch's aura was a shade rather than a color. The dust-like particles were sharp mercury as they circled Barty in lazy waves. Nonetheless, the aura sparked suddenly in Izar's eyes, a direct link to Barty's surprise and admiration.

"Amazing," the man murmured. "When you look at the Dark Lord—"

Izar's hold on his wand slipped as an attack came abruptly from behind him. He grunted as he landed on the ground, his wand laying a few feet away. The spell he was hit with must have been a Dark hex, for his bones couldn't support his body. When he tried moving, he had flopped back down, as shapeless as a flobberworm.

"Get Black! Black! The others are of no importance!" a familiar voice barked the order. Who else could have a one-track mind like that?

Izar grinned foolishly as he watched the Death Eaters scramble to reach him. They were amusing. Their eyes were wide, their hands splayed in hope of summoning his body to them. The only thing on their mind was the Dark Lord's wrath.

Bellatrix gave a battle cry, snapping her wand out and throwing the Killing Curse at Izar. The green curse flew with perfect accuracy and brushed Izar's hair before continuing to the man advancing behind him. Before it hit its mark, hands grabbed him and tugged his body in a Side-Along Apparation.

Izar was forced to accompany them, laughing all the while. What did Rufus have in mind for him?