Thank you for reading/reviewing. Grammar mistakes involved in this chapter. Also, thanks to Lekaiel for the wonderful piece of fanart.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Small hands grabbed the photograph from beside his kneeling form. With stiff and automotive movements, the boy placed the moving photograph over the candle. Regulus could only stare at the scene in shocked silence. Through wide eyes, he watched as the boy set aflame one of the very few photographs Regulus had of Izar.

"Aiden! What are you doing?"

Regulus pushed his wheelchair into the bathroom, unable to understand what he was witnessing. Before he could rescue the photograph, the flame caught the edge, curling it before the whole photo was embraced by flame. The boy holding the photograph pursed his lips and made a loud explosion sound. Regulus winced backward as the photograph then… exploded, as if willed to do so by the boy manipulating it.

Slowly, Aiden turned to Regulus, his eyes milky white and unfocused. "Do you have a photograph of Tom Riddle?" he asked in a melancholy voice.

Regulus stared at the candle that had gone back to being a calm and beautiful element. The boy's hands were unharmed, as was his person. While Regulus had seen Aiden like this before, it took a great deal of restraint to stand in the face of an unfocused Seer. It was times like these that Regulus had to recover from his own uncertainty and horror to question Aiden about the vision. It was getting more common for Aiden to forget his vision when he woke from his trance.

"Why…" Regulus cleared his throat, watching the boy he had come to love as his own. "Why would you want a picture of Tom Riddle?" Of Izar?

Aiden, whose hair was now completely black and whose features were now mirroring Regulus', smiled with an open mouth. "Because she's going to set him aflame like he did to Izar."

Regulus tightened his hands on his wheelchair. Obviously, Aiden was initiating that Izar was going to die—as was Tom Riddle. Ironic. Fire was the means that would destroy an immortal creature? It seemed so simple, so insignificant. Then again, Aiden was walking the line between 'setting aflame' and 'explosion'.

"Who is she?"

"Izar's mistake."

Izar's mistake? Regulus frowned as he observed as Aiden got to his knees and stared intensely at the single flame. "Who isIzar's mistake?" Regulus pressed hotly. If he could just find out who she was, he could try to forewarn Izar. What good could Regulus do for his son if he didn't know the finer details?

Aiden exhaled breathlessly, causing the flame to dance relentlessly. "She is," he replied vaguely. "Izar is acting stupid." White eyes turned to stare at Regulus. "Izar thinks he can stop it, but it's unavoidable. If Izar tries to ignore it, Tom Riddle will also be blown up."

The candle in front of Aiden suddenly exploded, causing hot wax to splatter across the boy's face.

"Severus!" Regulus called hoarsely, quickly rolling his wheelchair toward the boy. Aiden was now sitting, stunned, his dark grey eyes wide and completely ignorant of the events that had just transpired.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, my son?" Regulus whispered to Izar, all the while, trying to remove the hot wax from Aiden's skin.

{Death of Today}

Izar sat hunched over the Daily Prophet, silently fuming. On the front page, Tom Riddle was walking the length of the Ministry floor, the cameras flashing in his wake. "Bloody ponce," Izar criticized scornfully. The reporters were reporting on Minister Riddle's policies being set in place and the dwindling attacks on Britain. They had only hinted toward the upcoming policies Riddle would announce to the Wizarding world this weekend. Nothing was set in stone just yet, and the public and the press were agitated and anxious.

But that's not what Izar was fuming over. In fact, the story he was currently looking at was on the second page. The article literally jumped up at Izar, its font dripping with bold ink.

Rufus Scrimgeour found dead in home, suicide!

Convenient. The article itself had even more icing on the cake than the headline… in fact, Izar saw too much icing and it made him gag with the perfection of it. It painted Dumbledore and Scrimgeour as unstable wizards who were in the wrong this entire war. This article had Lord Voldemort's prints slathered all over it. One paragraph, in particular, would change the public's view on both Dumbledore and Rufus in a matter of seconds.

A trusted source within the Ministry claimed that Scrimgeour became almost one-minded and deranged when it came to the Dark Lord. The source, who was close to the late Minister, claimed that Mr. Scrimgeour and Dumbledore were 'co-conspiring' together and both agreed to ally with the Dark Lady of France.

The eye-source claims, "I had respected Rufus. He was a good wizard, a respected member of the Ministry. But Dumbledore was a bad influence on him. Towards the end of his term, the longer Rufus kept in contact with Dumbledore, the more… unstable he became. He kept accusing many of the Ministry workers that they were actually the Dark Lord. Or…" the man laughed. "He even claimed that Cornelius Fudge was actually the Dark Lord in disguise."

Rufus Scrimgeour didn't commit suicide. The man was too proud to stoop so low. The Dark Lord was using Rufus' death as means to slur Scrimgeour's and Dumbledore's name. With this article, with the countless of newspapers reporting the same thing, the public would never take their word seriously again. If anyone with a connection to Dumbledore or Scrimgeour went to the press and claimed Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort, they wouldn't be taken seriously.

As always, Voldemort was a step ahead of his enemies.

But… that didn't give the Dark Lord any right. Izar stood up abruptly, causing his chair to clatter to the ground behind him. He placed both hands on the table and bowed his head, staring at the Daily Prophet in unfocused rage. He remembered the first day he met Rufus Scrimgeour. Their instant attraction and interest had been tangible at first glance. They always enjoyed dancing around the other. And while they were both enemies, there was also something deeper.

"I think you have a remarkable set of morals, Izar."

"He was mine!" Izar roared hoarsely, his eyes blurring with unshed tears. He brought back his arm and flung it forward, sending the porcelain cups and plates crashing to the ground. The resentment and desperation caused his hands to tremble as he reached for the edge of the table and flung it over in a fit of rage. The piece of furniture landed on its side, destroying on impact.

Izar was left standing in the debris, staring at it in slight surprise. Lowering his eyes, he fell to his knees and slowly curled his body in an upright fetal position in order to gather his wits. With his head rested on the top of his knees, Izar stared at a piece of broken porcelain at his feet. When was the last time he had lost control like this? What… what had made him react this way? It had to be his fragile resolve, and at the moment, hearing of Rufus' death sent him over the edge.

Sluggishly, he reached toward the shards of porcelain and clawed at them. The sharp pieces made his fingers bleed but he continued with numbness as the memory of the old lion preoccupied his thoughts.

Rufus saw him as human, even when Izar never felt like one himself. Even when his emotions were never up to par, were never normal compared to others… Rufus still saw something in him, something that others had trouble finding. It made Izar feel… it made him feel human. The old lion was far too prideful and strong to die a death like that. To others, they would see Rufus' death as a suicide and they would also see it as cowardly. It was an insult to both Rufus and Izar. Voldemort had known that Rufus was Izar's opposite. Just like Dumbledore was the Dark Lord's. To take Rufus' fate in his own hands made Izar furious.

"I couldn't care a less about the Dark Lord. I don't want you in the crossfire."

Though, if Izar looked at this from a logical standpoint, he wondered if he could truly kill Rufus if he had been ordered to do so by the Dark Lord. If Izar had been assigned to actually do something away from the base and hunt after Rufus, would he have been able to land the killing blow?

No. He wouldn't have been able to. This suicide was exactly as Voldemort wanted it. Izar would have never been able to kill Scrimgeour in such a way. The only way he would have been able to kill the old lion was if he had given the other man a fair shot. He definitely would have had more respect for Rufus and left it as a murder rather than a fake suicide.

While he could have killed Rufus, he wouldn't have been able to carry it out in the way it was meant to be.

Nonetheless, it still didn't sit well with Izar. Nothing about this end-of-the-war rubbish sat well with him. Rufus and Lily… Draco

Izar stared at his fingers that were now sitting in a pool of their own blood. He considered the clotty blood, watching as his fingers healed before tearing open again at his manipulations. Seconds passed into minutes before he finally stood up.

What was he doing? Sitting here… dwelling. Doing nothing.

Vibrant eyes looked up sharply. It was time to face his demons rather than wait for them to come to him.

{Death of Today}

With one of Tom Riddle's hats and a pair of glasses as simple disguise, Izar found his way into St. Mungos and was currently leaning heavily against the wall outside the room. He could feel their auras inside the hospital room. They were all there; Narcissa, Lucius, and even Daphne was present. Draco's aura was incredibly dim and Izar hadn't felt it at first. It took him a few minutes outside the room to really pinpoint Draco's presence.

It wasn't… the aura was fading. Quickly.

Izar bowed his head, pushing his fists into his pockets. He knew Draco wouldn't survive. The smells of burned flesh and medical ointment were scorching his nostrils. But those odors weren't nearly as bad as the scent of death. Draco was rotting from the inside out, his intestines too damaged in the fire to be saved.

The Black heir stared at the wall from over his glasses.

What the hell had he been thinking?

He wondered, briefly, who the question was directed toward. Himself or Draco. Either one of them deserved a good amount of blame for what had happened. Though, even if Izar felt a semblance of guilt, it shouldn't make him huddle in a corner and hide. It wasn't his character to feel guilty, and for some strange reason, his sorrow for Draco's condition outweighed his guilt over the situation. It certainly shouldn't make him stand here like a bloody idiot.

He glowered at the wall before pushing off and quietly entering the room. He hadn't brought any flowers or anything worth material value. It definitely wouldn't have been welcomed or warranted. Draco's bedside was decorated heavily with flowers and cards expressing sympathies. They didn't do much good, considering Draco couldn't see them past his wrapped form.

Izar planted both feet on the tiled floor and surveyed the situation. Narcissa and Lucius were sitting as far away from one another as possible, which was odd to Izar. Usually grieving parents tended to rely on one another for support. Then again, he also read about parents splitting after a death of their child. Certainly that wouldn't happen to Lucius and Narcissa. Both blondes were made for one another. Izar believed it may take time for them to reunite, but Draco's death wouldn't tear them apart indefinitely.

Next to Narcissa, Daphne sat. Her expression was pinched with grief and her eyes were red from crying. Even her aura was dimmer than Izar had last seen it and centered around her… stomach? Izar cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing sharply. Daphne's aura was overlapped around her belly, giving Izar a suddenly cold realization.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Daphne looked away from the window next to Draco's bed and toward him. A frown of confusion crossed her features before she broke out into abrupt comprehension. "Izar!"

"Daphne," Izar replied evenly. He held his arms open, surprised that she was rushing toward him with her arms extended. She collided with his torso, burying her face in his chest. Unexpectedly, Izar found his arms willingly wrapping around her, embracing the small body close to him.

"He…" Daphne trailed off, inhaling deeply in order to calm her tremors. "He hasn't woken up at all since the attack. The Healers said he only has hours at best…" She clutched desperately at Izar's robes, turning to stare up at him through wet eyes. "Granger said he and Weasley had been fighting in the Room of Requirements…" She shook her head. "Over something of the Dark Lord's possession. Do you know anything about it? You're so close to the Dark Lord, I would think you had some idea what it could be about."

Izar released his arms around Daphne and took a step backward in order to gather himself. Taking off the glasses and the hat, Izar walked toward Draco's prone form. For now, he avoided Lucius' eyes in favor of watching the magic function Draco's heart. The sound was terrible. It was an artificial breath that raised Draco's chest, something that hinted toward the boy's ailing body.

It was horrible seeing the boy like this. Izar would have liked to see Draco's face one last time. Instead, potion-soaked bandages wrapped around the blond, giving the boy the appearance of an ancient Egyptian mummy. While the potion may be able to restore some of Draco's skin, it was useless against damaged nerves and organs. Perhaps, if they would have gotten to Draco sooner, they may have been able to save him. From what Izar could smell, the organs had shut down a long time before the Healers got to him.

Anger stirred within Izar. Why would Narcissa and Lucius put Draco through this hell? Did they really think Draco could pull through this? Did they honestly hold that much faith in their healthcare system that they would make Draco suffer?

Izar stared wide-eyed. His eyes grew unfocused as he listened to the magic operating around the room. He could only imagine what indescribable torment Draco was going through. The boy was most likely trapped inside his own body, unable to scream or voice his protests. There was a soul inside that burned body, desperate to leave and escape the never-ending pain.

It was similar to what Izar imagined resurrection would be. No matter how restful or grim the afterlife would be, it would unbearable to be torn away from that and thrust back into this hell. It was only the selfish that would put their loved ones through that kind of torment. And right now, Lucius and Narcissa were being inconsiderate of Draco's pain.

Izar's hand inched up and toward the aura surrounding the machines linking Draco to this world. Just as he was about to sever the magic, he stopped.

"Izar?" Daphne called uncertainly at his back.

Dropping his arm, Izar realized this wasn't his decision to make. He felt strongly against what Lucius and Narcissa were doing, and yet, he also understood their grief was high. They wanted to keep Draco with them as long as possible. They needed a sliver of hope that Draco would pull through and be with them once again.

Izar wondered what he would do in their position if Regulus or Sirius had been in that bed. What if Sirius had barely survived the Horcrux attack and had a chance of living? Would Izar put Sirius through what Draco was going through, hoping against all odds that his uncle would survive? The answer to that question was difficult for Izar to accept.

And then, as if to make Izar understand what grief could do to an individual, Draco's prone body morphed into Voldemort.

Izar turned frozen and he bowed forward, clutching harshly at the foot of Draco's bed. That wouldn't be Voldemort. The Dark Lord would never find himself in that position... he… he wouldn't be near death. It couldn't happen.

But it could. And you would do exactly what Lucius and Narcissa are doing to Draco.

He was startled at the realization, and even more startled at his reaction. He had never pondered on Voldemort dying.

"Izar…" Daphne whispered softly. Her small arms encircled his waist, bringing him out of his stupor. "I know it's difficult to see him like this. I've been staring at him for hours and I still can't…" she trailed off hoarsely, turning away.

"I—" Izar began, only to pause. His mind raced as he tried to remember Daphne's earlier question. He straightened up, dropping her arm around him in the process. "Draco defended something of great importance that belonged to the Dark Lord," Izar spoke numbly. "Lord Voldemort is appreciative of Draco's bravery and sacrifice…" he trailed off, realizing how pathetically foolish he sounded.

"If he is so appreciative of my son sacrificing his life for an artifact," Narcissa began darkly, "Then why isn't he here?"

Because he doesn't care, I do. Izar pressed his lips together, staring at the prone figure of Draco. The magic around Draco was like a dying star. Soon, it would be extinguished along with the body it inhibited. Draco had just started to mature; he had just started to see the world through renowned eyes. The boy shouldn't have died so young.

Curling his fingers around the foot of Draco's bed, Izar turned and looked at Narcissa in the eye. "Because he asked me to come here in his stead. I needed to visit Draco myself and he thought I could relay his message." It was cold and rigid. To them, it sounded as if the Dark Lord couldn't take time off his busy schedule to see a boy who was dying for his cause. In reality, it was much worse. Voldemort didn't care about Draco in the least.

Narcissa stared coldly at Izar before she turned away, dismissing him cruelly. And because Izar couldn't resist it any longer, he averted his eyes away from Narcissa and on to Lucius. The blond sat sullenly in his chair, staring stubbornly at Draco. Though, his eyes were oddly bright and focused as cold anger burned underneath the surface. His disfigured lips were pressed together tightly and his fingers were curled into fists on his lap.

"Can't you do anything, Izar?" Daphne inquired hoarsely from behind him. She pulled on his shirt, staring up at him with desperate eyes. There was also hopefulness in her gaze as she believed Izar was a god sent to cure Draco with a wave of his wand. "You're so smart; there must be something you can do."

"Apparently I'm not smart enough," Izar murmured bitterly. As her eyes reflected her disappointment, Izar found whatever he was going to say next vanished on his tongue. He shouldn't be here. How could someone think he could cure a burned body? He wasn't God. He was an inventor—an inventor who had time on his side and wasn't rushed to save a dying human.

He was frustrated with Daphne for even thinking he could miraculously save Draco's life. And how could she be disappointed in him for telling her the truth? Would she rather he gave her a false sense of hope?

His eyes turned away from her to drink in the lifeless form of Draco. Staring at the boy, Izar realized he wasn't grieving for Draco with intensity that matched the blondes around him. He didn't belong here. He was incapable of feeling their depth of sorrow for Draco's death. Just as he was incapable of feeling sorrow for Lily's death. He didn't know his mother, he wanted to, yes. The curiosity of wanting to know her was stronger than his grief over her death.

With a sidelong glance at Lucius, Izar realized the main factor that brought him here was his fear of Lucius' reaction. Was Izar repentant for handing Draco the fake Horcrux? Not really. He remembered his conversation with Draco the day he presented it to the younger Malfoy. He specifically told the boy to put it in the Room of Requirements. He had never instructed Draco to defend it. Ever.

Was he remorseful for having a hand in killing Lucius' son? Yes. When it came to Lucius, Izar felt responsible. But not for the boy himself. It could be considered callous of him, but he couldn't make himself feel torn for Draco's death. He was upset at the pain Draco was currently going through and he did wish things could have ended differently for his distant cousin, most definitely. Draco hadn't deserved this death, not when he had his whole life ahead of him.

His fingers tightened on the metal footboard. "I'm sorry for your loss," he spoke curtly, honestly, before turning his heel and making a leave for the room.

And there, he heard it. Underneath Daphne's call, Izar head Lucius' chair scrape against the floor as the blond stood up. Izar pinched the top of Riddle's hat and placed it on his head as he escaped the room. As he walked down the dark and quiet corridor, he was more than aware of the footsteps following him.

Izar turned a sharp corner, bringing them away from anyone who would stumble across them. A sick thrill rushed through Izar at the prospect of what Lucius planned to do to him. Would Lucius be the one who would be able to kill Izar? If anyone were to—

The strong hand grabbed Izar's thin shoulder and turned him around forcefully. He allowed himself to be pushed against the wall and even let the arm press itself flush against his throat. If he were human, Izar knew he would have been struggling for air and trying to protect himself against a neck fracture. It was times like these that Izar wished he was human. To feel pain, to allow a grieve-stricken father to extract revenge.

"Shall I pretend it hurts?" Izar breathed as Lucius pressed his forearm against his throat.

The blonde's eyebrows were furrowed deeply and his eyes were exceedingly bright with rage and desperation. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to pin you against a wall, but for an entirely different reason than this." Lucius then flattened his body flush against Izar's. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" Lucius demanded sharply, baring his teeth. "You've torn my son away from me! From my wife. It was our child!"

Izar frowned deeply. It was just yesterday when he witnessed Potter's grief. While he had watched Potter suffer in silence, Izar hadn't been affected by the scene. But somehow, now, he watched Lucius' grief unravel and he felt miserable.

"You're a fool," Lucius continued with a growl. "You gave… you gave my son a fake Horcrux to defend his life with."

"I…I didn't," Izar denied, his voice coming out hoarse due to Lucius pressing against his voice box. "I never told him to defend it with his life. I just told him to put it in the Room of Requirements because I knew Granger and Weasley had been following him around Hogwarts. How could I have known he would have gone back and stepped into the path of Weasley's botched curse?"

Lucius' eyes dilated and he pushed his weight further into Izar's throat. "Excuses, they mean nothing! You put my son in risk the minute you gave him a fake Horcrux. You knew what would happen—"

"And the both of you knew what would happen when he landed on his knees, begging for that Mark on his arm!" Izar hissed.

Something in Lucius' eyes froze at Izar's words before they narrowed once again. "He was under your protection, I knew that much. Don't think I don't know that you have a selected few who you deem under your protection. He was one of them! He was only a child, he wasn't like you. He should have never been touched by this war." Lucius' expression and voice was that of a threatened serpent. The blond only ever acted this way when he was faced with an enemy he wanted to demolish. "Was that your type of protection… to lead my son by the noose?"

"I always wanted to protect your son," Izar whispered hollowly. "I never wanted this to happen to Draco." And he didn't. He didn't. He cared for Draco, yes, but he cared for Lucius even more. "Are you going to kill me?" Izar asked in true interest.

Lucius eyes narrowed and he leaned close to Izar's face. "Don't insult me!" Lucius ripped his arm away from Izar's throat. "Even if I would be able to, I owe you a life-debt. To insist I would go back on my word is disgraceful." The man's eyes flashed strangely before he bowed his head. "Attacking you was never my intention."

The disappointment came first before Izar grew truly curious. Before he could question the blond further, Lucius lunged forward, taking his head in his hands and kissing him firmly on the lips. Green and charcoal eyes widened as he noticed how soft and full Lucius' mouth was compared to Voldemort's thin and dry lips. He preferred the latter, especially now that Lucius' lips were disfigured, bringing with it a coarse caress that almost tickled Izar.

The second thing he became aware of was his Celtic ring flaring hotly. Izar squeezed his eyes closed, baffled at the ferocity of Lucius' attack on his mouth. It wasn't what he imagined kissing Lucius would be like. In fact, he hadn't even imagined being with Lucius sexually. It had always been just playful flirtation. It was always just Voldemort he could tolerate being with.

His Dark Mark began to burn and Izar knew Lucius felt it as well. Yet the blond seemed to take his burning Mark as encouragement and continue with savagery. Lucius clutched at Izar's face, holding him in place as he caressed the younger wizard's mouth with his tongue.

It was the man's actions when their Marks began to burn that alerted Izar to what Lucius was really doing. The blond wanted Voldemort to take notice. Virtually, in all ways, Izar was deemed 'untouchable' to Lucius. The man was so consumed with his grief that he wanted an end to living a life without his son. He was too prideful to kill himself, so Lucius could think of the only alternative—have the Dark Lord hunt him down for assaulting Izar.

Silent fury brightened Izar's eyes he pulled forcibly away from Lucius. With speed too quick for a human to track, Izar turned their positions around and pushed the blond against the wall. He curled both hands into Lucius' robes, sliding the man further up the wall. "Next time you want to die, ask me personally, Lucius. I don't like being treated as a mere possession of the Dark Lord's."

"I would have killed two birds with one stone," Lucius hissed icily with no regret. "Acted on what I've been longing for and dying before my son's body shut down."

Izar shook his head, offended at the answer. He dropped Lucius, turning his shoulder on the man in order to tame his disappointment in Lucius' actions. "That, Lucius, is an act of offense. Not only to me in regarding a betrayal to my lover, but also to the memory of your son and the well-being of the family you have left." Izar tilted his head in order to catch Lucius' eye. "And it's also an insult to your honor. You're far more proud than this, Lucius."

The blond leaned against the wall and stared at Izar from beneath white-blond hair. The man said nothing.

"I'm… I'm sorry, for what happened to Draco. If I could do it over again, I would have protected him more than I had. I thought, by giving him the Horcrux and sending him to Hogwarts, I would be putting him away from the war," Izar began tensely. "It was never my intention to make him think he had to stand guard over it and put himself at risk. They were all children in a man's war. All three of them. Weasley, Granger, and Draco acted on what the adult's instructed them to do; they acted on what they overheard. They held no real grudges against each other. What happened in the Room of Requirements was an accident."

He watched as Lucius bowed his head and placed his hands over his face. It was startling similar to the pose Potter struck yesterday at Lily's funeral. It was as if both men tried to hide the fact that they were crying, doubtless of the fact that putting their hands over their face did nothing to conceal their grief. Izar watched, curious.

Potter grew angry when he was grieving and he also cried. Bellatrix curled inside a shell, refusing to interact with the world around her. Narcissa put a solid wall around her vulnerability and snapped at anyone who she thought had a hand in her son's death. And Lucius mirrored Potter in terms of how he handled grief.

They were all people Izar learned to respect and identify as strong witches and wizards. Did seeing them grieve make him view them as anything less? No. It didn't. It was perfectly normal to grieve, he realized. When he had cried and screamed in the snow with Sirius' corpse those many weeks ago, Izar felt ashamed for how he had acted. He had wanted to know what the customary way to grieve was. In which way could he grieve without appearing weak?

The answer finally came to him after standing with so many people as they lost loved ones. There was no set way to grieve. Everyone had their own way of handling grief and Izar was no different.

He reached out a hand and curled if firmly around Lucius' wrist, tugging it down in order to see the man's emotions. Lucius tried to resist against the action, too ashamed to have Izar see him in this state. "Seeing you grieve for your son, in no way, makes you any less of a wizard, Lucius." Izar kept his hand around the blonde's wrist and took a step closer to him.

Firmly, confidently, he cupped Lucius' face with his opposite hand and tried to send as many comforting vibes to the man as he could summon. Lucius froze as Izar placed his forehead against his own. It was his way of comforting, Izar supposed. He had never comforted someone like this before. But it felt natural with Lucius.

"My shoulders are strong enough to carry the blame of Draco's death," Izar whispered, locking eyes with stormy grey. "Whatever it takes for you to continue living. Your son idolized you, Lucius. Don't disappoint him now when it's most crucial."

Lucius' eyelashes fluttered as he looked down and away from Izar's eyes. His throat contracted and he exhaled noisily across Izar's face. The Black heir slid his hand down Lucius' cheek to the man's chest. For a long moment, he was content to listen to a strong and healthy heartbeat. For the amount of death Izar had experienced these past few days, it was a relief to hear and feel the thrumming life of someone he cared for.

Izar then released Lucius and turned to leave. He didn't know when he would ever see Lucius again, perhaps never. But he was content knowing he had faced this himself without it having to come to him. He would have never been able to continue living his life without facing the guilt of Draco's death head on.

His steps faltered when he saw Daphne standing quietly at the corner. She hadn't been there long, he knew. Judging from her expression, she had just stumbled across them mere seconds ago.

"Perhaps it's too early, Daphne," Izar mused dryly. "But it might be beneficial to take a pregnancy test."

From the shocked auras pulsating across the corridor, he assumed he successfully gave them something else to occupy their minds with.

The next generation of Malfoys… charming.

{Death of Today}

When Izar arrived at the base, he stepped into the living room, casting a distrustful look around the darkened wing. Because of his creature-blood, he was able to discern a dim outline of the objects in front of him. While he wasn't exactly handicapped in the dark, he wasn't as sharp as he ought to be.

He could have lightened the room, but where was the fun in that? Especially when he felt the Dark Lord's presence stalking in the shadows. Judging from the man's aura, Izar determined that Voldemort was in a playful and irate mood. Two contradictory emotions, but something Izar wasn't unfamiliar with when it came to the Dark Lord.

A finger caressed the back of Izar's neck and the younger turned, predictably coming up empty-handed on the man's whereabouts. "Stop toying with me," Izar growled out. A tug came at his sleeve and Izar used his quick reflexes to turn, annoyed when the man avoided being seen once again. "Lucius was grieving," Izar started crisply. He knew exactly what the Dark Lord was irate over. "He thought it prudent to end his life by drawing your ire. So he…"

"Kissed you?" the man breathed the question in Izar's ear.

Izar stayed passive, not wanting to look like a fool for chasing his own tail, but also bidding his time. There would come a time to strike and Izar would wait patiently until it happened. After all, he had learned from the very best.

"Touched you?" Voldemort's hand squeezed tightly around the nape of Izar's neck before it disappeared as quickly as it came.

And then, Voldemort leaned even closer to him, his tie from today's workday at the Ministry dangling from the corner of Izar's eye. The Black heir smiled thinly, keeping himself facing forward. His fingers flexed beside him as he tried to keep his expression impassive. If Izar wasn't careful enough, Voldemort would notice his excitement and switch positions.

"You belong to me."

The dark possessiveness in the man's tone was Izar's cue to strike before Voldemort did. He turned swiftly, lunging into Voldemort and catching the man's tie in a tight fist before the wizard could slither away. With a renowned excitement, Izar tugged harshly at the man's tie, feeling extremely conceited at being the one in control. Through narrowed eyes, he watched as Voldemort neck was forced to go whichever way Izar pleased.

Twisting the tie around his fist, Izar twirled them around and pushed Voldemort into the wall. Keeping a sturdy hold on the man's tie, Izar leaned into Voldemort's tall form and gazed up at the man. "Sometimes you are far too predictable," Izar breathed in admittance. He tugged on the man's tie once again, forcing Voldemort to bend his neck. Izar pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the man's lips, wanting to taste the man he found both unbearable and intoxicating.

Voldemort placed both palms on Izar's cheeks and deepened the kiss as far as he could achieve. The man's tongue eagerly claimed Izar's lips and mouth, as if to wash away Lucius' taste and reclaim Izar as his own. Only, the kiss didn't last as long as Izar wanted it to. The man pulled away, tugging his tie from Izar's grasp. Though, he didn't pull away from his position against the wall and instead surveyed Izar closely.

Voldemort was still glamoured as Minister Riddle but the man's eyes were a vivid crimson behind his fake spectacles. "You're going back to the Ministry?" Izar questioned, surprised to find a thick bitterness in his tone.

The Dark Lord cocked his head to the side, offering Izar a smug smile. "I will stay as long as you wish me to." He brought up his hand and ran his fingers down Izar's throat. His eyes took in the familiar hat Izar wore. "Are we now entering that phase in our relationship where we share our wardrobes?"

"Perhaps," Izar replied. "I hope, with time, you'd allow me to wear those purple pointed boots Fudge gave you those many months ago. They are supreme."

Voldemort flashed his teeth and traced the brim of Izar's hat. "Indeed they are. If you prove you can take care of my other possessions, you will be allowed to wear them." His expression darkened. "Although, you will not be permitted to wear them when visiting a certain blond."

Izar sighed through his nose, knowing that it needed to be addressed. "I already told you Lucius' reasons behind his actions. It meant nothing to both of us—"

"Such lies," the Dark Lord hissed quietly. "From the moment the man laid eyes on you, he's wanted you. He's been warned once." Voldemort eyed Izar critically before clutching either side of his face. "You know I do not stand passively if someone initiates a challenge."

Izar allowed a small smirk to stretch. "I know that more than anyone, My Lord. But I'm asking you to leave Lucius alone. I've already spoken to him, he won't do it again." The younger wizard then paused, considering. "At any rate, you told me the Celtic band would stop activating after you took my virginity. You didn't tell me it was a fidelity ring." Izar lifted his hand, thrusting the onyx metal in the direction of the inexpressive Dark Lord. "If I'm tied to you so severely, I only think it's fair that you're tied to me as well. How do I know you're not fucking your secretary over your desk?"

Voldemort's eyes widened in false horror as his fingers tightened their hold on Izar's face. "That imagery is appealing." The Dark Lord averted his eyes from the ceiling to Izar. "There is a position open for my immediate secretary; perhaps you'd be interested in applying? However, I cannot guarantee your placement."

Clenching his jaw, Izar pushed away the Dark Lord's hands, irritation fuming. "You must be extremely bored at the Ministry, My Lord. I can imagine you sitting in on meetings, conjuring up witty remarks when you should be listening to your new coworkers." Izar backed away until he was leaning against the back of the couch. "Rest assured, I don't find your comments amusing at all."

The Dark Lord gave a deep chuckle as he adjusted his tie properly. "So hard to please, child." Voldemort pushed off from the wall and glided further into the dark room. With a sharp snap of his wrist, the fireplace and candles roared to life, casting light across the small living room.

Voldemort then leaned over the opposite side of the couch and stared up at Izar's turned face. "Believe it or not, Izar, the Celtic bands are two way. I'm just not as hormonal as you are and haven't put it to the test. I find my desires for blond men rather lacking in comparison to insolent brunettes."

Izar turned, staring at the Dark Lord who inhabited Tom Riddle's body. "Is there a reason you're here? Besides irritating the hell out of me?" Izar cocked his head to the side, considering the man. "If its sex, I'm afraid I'm not in the mood."

"It's not sex," the man denied coolly. "No matter how attractive that idea may seem."

Frowning thoughtfully, Izar watched as Voldemort stood tall and swept toward the liquor cart. The Dark Lord wouldn't drop everything at the Ministry just because he felt his Celtic band burn for a few seconds. It had to be another reason and Izar came up empty-handed. Yesterday night, Voldemort had come back to the base because the man claimed he had 'felt' Izar's unsettledness. Their exchange hadn't gone well then and Izar hadn't expected to see the man again for a few days.

But he was here now and Izar was quick enough to spy how the man's posture grew stiff and less graceful. It was almost if the man were… embarrassed… almost uncomfortable. The crimson eyes remained averted away from Izar as the man poured himself a glass of red wine. Apparently to settle the nerves.

"You seem… more stable from last night," Voldemort began after a large sip of his wine.

And then Izar suddenly realized what this was about. His ears seemed to turn hot with the realization that Voldemort was here to talk about Izar's feelings. After all, the man did say he would be back and hopeful that Izar would open up to him.

Izar opened his mouth, ready to tell the man off. The last thing he needed was Voldemort to mock and taunt him—to make fun of his weaknesses. The Dark Lord would never understand. But then, with another long look at Voldemort, Izar shut his mouth. He was astonished to see true concern lining the Dark Lord's carefully constructed mask. It was well hidden and Izar wondered if he was only seeing what he wanted to see.

Obviously, he couldn't reprimand the Dark Lord for bringing the topic up again. The man was stepping out of his comfort zone, something Izar had always wanted to see. If he criticized or mocked the Dark Lord for showing this infrequent act of compassion, Izar knew the man would hole up and remain so for an unknown amount of time.

Had there always been compassion? Izar stared at the man, finding himself more confused than before. He had never truly felt comfortable with Voldemort's advances; he had never really believed the man when it came to their relationship. There was always distrust on Izar's behalf because he didn't know if Voldemort was honest when it came to his motives. The man was always so skilled at veiling his true emotions.

If Voldemort really did… love him… well, that changed many things for Izar.

Voldemort swirled the wine lazily in his glass, throwing a pointed look toward the table and porcelain cups Izar had destroyed earlier that morning. "Apparently not so stable…"

"I am," Izar replied, storing the information of his relationship with Voldemort in the back of his mind. The Dark Lord turned to stare incredulity at Izar. "I am," Izar repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor as he continued to lean against the back of the couch. "I came to terms with a few things when I visited Draco. But there is still a great deal that I'm not clear on. That I haven't straightened out yet."

The Dark Lord scoffed lightly, amusement clear on his face. "I apologize for laughing, child. It's just rather predictable on your end."

Izar stiffened, his arms tightening around himself. "You dare criticize me when I'm trying to open up to you?"

Voldemort lost his smile and waved a sluggish hand. "Of course not," he denied. "You're just a man of science, that's all."

"Meaning?"

The man across from Izar considered his wine for a moment before gradually looking up at him. "It has taken me a long time to know you from the inside out. While I might have thought I knew you instantly, there are things I was not positive on, such as your emotional stability. Until recently, I imagined you to be a very emotional wizard. But that isn't necessarily the case. While you still form attachments and you protect attachments with a silly vigor, you do not necessarily experience many emotions for a healthy amount of time."

Izar offered the man a look of quiet bemusement.

"Perhaps I should take this in a different direction," Voldemort murmured. "There is a difference between experiencing emotions and hiding them, as opposed to trying to muffle them out completely." The Dark Lord held up his glass of wine and observed it idly. "Everyone must experience emotions, Izar. If they think they are above emotions, they will self-destruct from the inside out—exactly what you're going through as we speak."

"That's such bullshit," Izar growled. "You preached to me that emotions were for the weak."

"Expressing emotions are for the weak! Forming attachments with mere puppets are for the weak!" Voldemort hissed. "Obviously I wasn't clear enough the first time, child. You must experience emotions, everyone does. Anger, guilt, love…" Voldemort snapped his gaze up to meet Izar's, his crimson eyes smoldering and piercing through the dim room. "Why do you think I decided to refrain from making Horcruxes? A stable and logical wizard needs emotions in order to understand his enemies and himself. That does not mean he has to let others know what he's thinking. In fact, it's best to let others see what he wants them to see. It's entirely in his hands."

Izar sat against the couch, listening and absorbing with a stunned silence.

"You are an emotional wizard, Izar. Emotions come to you quick, but you don't let them take residence inside your mind. You pass them off quickly once you exhausted the reason for their presence." Voldemort paused and assessed Izar closely. "You're a prodigy, a wizard who is all logic and theory. When something makes you feel something over than neutrality, you search relentlessly until you find the root of the problem and discard the emotions after you get your answers. Either that, or you ignore them until you're ready to face them."

"You're wrong…" Izar whispered. "I have morals and—"

"Morals are not the same as feeling emotions." Voldemort turned and placed his glass on the bar. His face was turned, but Izar spied the man's dark smile. "I wager I experience more emotions than you do. The only difference between you and I is that my morals are lacking. And I can hide what I'm feeling from everyone, including you."

"You never express your emotions even when they're due," Izar pointed out. "You an emotionless stone."

Voldemort offered a guiltless shrug. "There are times I have trouble expressing what I'm feeling when I want to, yes. I find it uncomfortable to do so. But that doesn't mean I don't harbor these feelings toward others, toward you."

Izar frowned at the last part, knowing he heard something in Voldemort's tone that he wasn't prepared for.

"There you go again," Voldemort pointed out with unsuppressed glee. "I made you feel something, and yet, you don't understand it. You cannot 'label' it like you can with magical theory or the trinkets you create."

"You are so incredibly wrong about me," Izar whispered.

"Perhaps I am, perhaps I've made a grave error in my observation of you. But tell me this, Izar. Why did it take you so long to accept Lily Potter's sacrifices?" Voldemort waited for Izar to respond. When the young wizard remained silent, Voldemort answered for him. "Because you were unfamiliar with the affection you held for her. You didn't want to love her. More than likely, you put off thinking about her for as long as possible, didn't you?"

Izar pushed off from the couch, angrily taking a step toward the Dark Lord. "I don't love her! I didn't even know her!" Izar issued a frustrated moan. "Why does everyone assume I should bawl over her death? Just because I don't feel love for her doesn't mean I don't have feelings. I've come to respect her sacrifices—"

"You're missing the point entirely, child." Voldemort's lips thinned as he watched Izar pace in front of him. "I'm not saying you don't experience emotions. I'm saying that you don't let them come to you naturally and you don't accept them until you thoroughly analyze them. You repress these emotions until you have time to study and scrutinize them. Just let them come and embrace them," Voldemort spoke fiercely.

Izar bowed his head. "This sounds… new. It also sounds like it's coming from experience."

"What would you expect?" Voldemort asked in slight amusement. "I've told you before, and I'll say it again. We are much alike. I once treated emotions very similar to yourself. Just recently, I've begun to accept them. You wouldn't believe how much my mind improved in clarity."

Izar stood stiffly as he heard Voldemort inch closer. He allowed the hands to cup his cheeks and lift his face. His eyes blinked close as Voldemort placed his nose near his hairline and inhaled. "Foolish child," Voldemort chastised softly. "I did not tell you this as reproach. I am only trying to help you."

Leaning forward into the Dark Lord, Izar reached up and fisted the man's robes. He pressed his face into the man, feeling remarkably lighter. "Even if it was meant to be criticism, I think I could have handled it," he murmured dryly. "Thank you, for coming back to the base."

He looked up at the Dark Lord, realizing they were being a bit too sentimental. Judging from the man's darkening expression, Voldemort felt the same. They both blinked before quickly separating. Izar moved towards the fireplace and Voldemort poured himself another glass of wine. They could comfort one another and they could both embrace, but never at the same time. It was far too soppy for the both of them, too out of character.

Izar placed both hands on the mantle and grinned into the flames. Though, the good humor dissipated at Voldemort's next words.

"We are not yet finished with this war," Voldemort spoke suddenly. "You must be bored staying here all day."

Placing a hand near the flames, Izar fanned his fingers out. The heat licked his immortal skin, sending unnerved vibes across his body. He had a love hate relationship with fire. It warmed his usually cold-blooded body but it also set his creature on edge. "I'd like to travel before our next phase," Izar admitted. "I haven't been out of Britain with the exception of France for a meager few hours. But I suppose you'd want to hunt down Dumbledore before you feel comfortable enough to move out of Britain."

Silence met his answer.

Izar turned to look at the Dark Lord, spying the dark expression.

"Dumbledore isn't the only one I want to exterminate before we continue our dance of immortality, Izar." Voldemort lowered his eyelids as he gauged Izar's expression. "The Dark Lady of France needs to be taken care of."

The Black heir turned his head back toward the fire, flexing and clenching his fingers together. "You… you think she's still a threat?" His eyes burned with the intensity of the fire. How could someone survive being embraced by a flame as hot as a Veela's fire? Izar almost had her. She was cowardly for running.

"I think she's still a threat, yes. Her followers watched as she was bested by a mere sixteen-year-old. Now, more than ever, she needs to prove herself to her servants. She'll cause problems for Britain, no doubt."

Izar curled his hand and slammed it lightly on the mantle. "But that could take months."

"I will not leave you rotting here, child. There are alternate scenarios to consider. We can clear your name and you can make an appearance in the Ministry. Or, we can create a new identity for you. Either way, you need improvement on your politics."

Voldemort could say what he wished, but they both knew that this period was Voldemort's endgame. This was Voldemort's phase; it was the Dark Lord who was basking in his victory of winning Britain. Izar was left behind, still anchored to Britain because it was Voldemort's wish for him to be close and away from Dumbledore or Marjolaine. "I want to leave Britain," Izar confessed suddenly. He turned to look at the Dark Lord. "I want to leave everything behind and start new."

He hadn't thought much about what he wanted in his immortal life. And he most certainly had never considered leaving Britain. But the idea was appealing to him now. It surprised him that he was so set on leaving his life behind, but also a bit eager to see what the rest of the world had to offer.

There was only one thing standing in his way of experiencing the world.

Voldemort.

The Dark Lord viewed Izar as a fledging, as his fledging. Voldemort was too possessive and overprotective to allow Izar to fly without guidance. And while Izar wanted to have Voldemort as a constant in his eternal life, he also wanted to make his own decisions. He didn't want to stay in Britain and watch Voldemort put his policies in place. Izar hated politics and he hated being constantly reminded of the life he could have had if he was still human. While he had come to terms with his immortality, Izar didn't want to stay here and watch his classmates grow old.

"We are not finished here," Voldemort whispered silkily, dangerously. His crimson eyes were penetrating as they watched Izar closely. "Whenever we move on, we must tie up loose ends from the phase before it. Dumbledore is a loose end. Marjolaine is a loose end."

"Britain is a loose end," Izar pointed out. "I hate politics. I find them boring and pointless—"

"Then you have a lot to learn," Voldemort interrupted sharply. "Politics will be around forever, they are at the heart of every issue. You must excel at them in order to thrive."

"And I will," Izar rebutted. "But I have an eternity to learn. I want to leave Britain. I don't care where we go, just as long as I have enough free time to invent, to learn. Teach me politics there."

The Dark Lord looked irritated and his temper was about to unleash from its tightly constrained binds. "Fool," the man breathed. "Patience is a virtue. We will move from Britain as quickly as we are finished here. You may even pick our next location, just as long as we finish our lose ends," the man stressed heavily.

Izar pushed off from the fireplace and took a defensive stand in the face of Voldemort's temper. "Then why can't you continue here in Britain and I can go elsewhere? I can hunt Marjolaine down from a different angle."

"Out of the question," Voldemort hissed austerely.

The two wizards stood across from each other, both unwilling to look away. It was Voldemort who moved first. He fidgeted with his fingers before lunging forward and slamming a piece of metal on the table in front of Izar. When the man's spidery hand retreated, Izar was left standing in frozen shock. Despite the fire at his back, his body turned suddenly cold at the object gleaming sadistically up at him.

The Gaunt ring sat in the middle of the table, bringing with it sudden memories, sudden emotions he had conveniently suppressed.

"While I am away, perhaps you can keep yourself occupied by creating a fake Horcrux out of a duplicate." Voldemort swept toward the exit, oblivious to Izar's frozen statute. "Tomorrow morning we will hunt after Dumbledore. And that ring will be the bait."

"Should I inform Lucius?" Izar asked numbly.

"There will be no army. Just you and me."

Izar tore his eyes away from the ring and met Voldemort's imploring stare. There was something in those crimson eyes as they watched Izar. There was challenge, a bold determination. Izar pondered on it. Did Voldemort think Izar wouldn't try something behind his back with the Gaunt ring? Did the man truly place that amount of trust in Izar that he knew Izar would want to stay with him for eternity? It would be a sharp betrayal if Izar used Voldemort's trust to do him harm.

And why the sudden test of loyalty? Unless… unless Voldemort saw the only way to hold Izar at his side was to end their phase in Britain as quickly as possible. By hunting Dumbledore, they would be nearly ready to leave Britain and Izar wouldn't have an itching to leave.

The Dark Lord was trying to appease Izar, all the while, testing him.

Izar was just unhappy to know that he would be failing Voldemort's challenge. The ring would be destroyed and there would be no means for Voldemort to resurrect him.

"How will you know he'll come, for only a ring?" Izar inquired emotionlessly.

"Dumbledore has been sniffing after that ring for personal means. He'll come. In fact, he's already picked the location." Voldemort offered him a lipless smile before he left their rooms.

Izar stared at the closed door before looking back at the Gaunt ring. He collapsed to his knees and deliriously laid his torso on the table to get a closer look at the piece of cursed jewelry. It didn't seem like anything special. The aura around it was decent, but nothing Izar couldn't mimic. If he was going to duplicate this ring and fool both Dumbledore and Voldemort, then he could easily do so. There would need to be two duplicates made and Izar would take possession of the real resurrection stone.

His fingers crawled alongside the table before touching the cold metal. Hesitantly, he curled his fingers around the ring and held it up to his face.

Aiden's vision was fresh in his mind. Izar's impending death had not been stopped by Lily's sacrifice. It was now being set in motion. The thought chilled him completely and made him wonder if this was what he wanted.

Izar frowned. Without a doubt, he knew he never wanted to be resurrected. Seeing Draco in the hospital had reinforced that decision but it also shined a light on Voldemort's perspective. Izar had once denied that someone who used resurrection did not love that individual in question. He now realized that wasn't the case. People grew selfish when their loved ones were dying or dead. They would do anything to soften their own grief without taking into account what they would be doing to the loved one in question. People did not mourn the death of their loved ones, they mourned for themselves and their own loss. The dead loved one was in peaceful serenity, what was to mourn about that?

Twisting the Gaunt ring around his fingers, Izar sighed deeply, his chest tight with anticipation and confusion.

Merlin, he didn't want to be resurrected!

His fierce refusal on the matter should be all he needed to continue on with his initial plan of destroying the real Gaunt ring and let death come to him. But, like always, there was one thing making him hesitate. It was always Voldemort. Always. Betraying the Dark Lord and putting the man through a life-long eternity of loneliness made Izar ill. When he had first been reborn as an immortal, the thought frightened him of being alone forever. But there had always been Voldemort there, sharing in his grief and offering solid company.

Though, would Voldemort truly live the rest of his immortality? Or would he kill himself if Izar were to be killed? Either thought didn't settle well with him.

Closing his eyes, Izar clutched the Gaunt ring. It had taken him nearly two years to figure it out, but he finally understood his hesitation; the reason behind not wanting to cause Voldemort pain. The man was a constant bastard, his arrogance was overwhelming, and he was constantly in control of Izar. There were times when Izar could barely tolerate the man's presence. But then again, Voldemort was also the only individual that knew Izar from the inside out. Voldemort was the one to make Izar feel alive. Izar couldn't act like his true self with anyone but Voldemort. There were constant mind games and bickering and Izar enjoyed every minute of it.

And just today, Izar spied the true foundation for their relationship. There was true compassion between them. While it was buried down deep and rarely showed, it was there. Voldemort had proven as much when he had come to the base and opened up to him.

It was because of the man's earlier words of advice that Izar realized it was perfectly alright for him to admit that he… loved Voldemort. There. He admitted it to himself. He loved the Dark Lord and that was exactly what was holding Izar back from duplicating the Gaunt ring.

Voldemort, the bloody bastard and fluffy ponce, knew Izar would come to this realization. That was the challenge in the man's eyes earlier. Voldemort knew Izar would realize his devotion to him and refrain from duplicating the Gaunt ring.

Izar opened his eyes and contemplated the ring sitting innocently in his open palm. When he stripped away every emotion, every distraction, Izar understood that this was still a game between Voldemort and him.

And he would be damned if he let the Dark Lord win.

"I'm not that easily played, Tom," Izar tsked. "Though, preaching about accepting emotions was a decent strategy. I hate to admit." Even if what Voldemort had instructed Izar about earlier was truthful, the Dark Lord had played it to his advantage before giving Izar the ring.

Doubtless of him understanding the Dark Lord's motives, Izar was still faced with a predicament.

He stood up from the floor, seeing double from the sudden movement. Eyes narrowing, Izar suddenly stopped short. With all these recent revelations and weight-lifting experiences, Izar's mind was abnormally clear. It felt like eternity since his head was clear of distractions and overbearing conflicts. There had been a dry spell when Izar had been weighed down by depression and a lack of intelligent insight. But it was back and his functioning prodigy mind was welcomed back with open arms.

Izar curled the ring in his fist and smiled wickedly across the room. A plan formed rapidly in his mind and he eliminated the unnecessary or faulty aspects and replaced it just as quickly with other alternatives.

It could work.

Oh yes… it could work.

And then there was also the small possibility of it failing miserably and he would lose both ways. It could go wrong and Izar could end up as a newborn in Voldemort's arms. Or worse… But Izar knew it would work because this was what he wanted. This was his decisions. He was finally doing something he believed was in his own best interests, no matter who it may hurt in the process.

It would be a long procedure and he didn't have much time. Perhaps he could contact a few trusted members for assistance? Regulus, Severus, perhaps Lucius. They didn't need to know the specifics, but they would be guided and strung along by his hand.

Izar hunched his shoulders and a shaky smile spread across his lips. Soon, his quiet chuckles turned loud and ecstatic with a hint of insanity.

{Death of Today}

Izar sat lazily in the chair, exhausted from the night's long and tedious deeds. Nonetheless, he still had an hour or two to spare and he decided pay Riddle a visit. He could feel the man's aura approaching the office where Izar sat. It hadn't been too difficult to find his way inside. And judging from the man's hesitation from outside the office, Izar knew the man hadn't expected to see him until that morning.

"Applying for the position of secretary?" Tom Riddle inquired lazily as he entered his office and shut the door behind him.

Izar smirked while he continued to face away from the man at his back. "I heard you were accepting applications." Izar slowly stood from his chair and approached the Minister of Britain. He couldn't help the silly grin on his face as he curled his hands into the man's shirt and tugged him forward. He brushed his lips scarcely across Riddle's face but not applying enough pressure to properly kiss him. "Fuck me," Izar purred.

Riddle, or rather Voldemort, reared his head back and narrowed his eyes distrustfully on Izar's face. There was sharp suspicion and deep thought coming from the man as Voldemort weighed Izar's words and actions. Let the man ponder on Izar's motives, the man would come up blank.

Izar let his smugness shine through on his expression. Voldemort growled and cupped Izar's face, attacking his mouth with heated vigor. With his hands still attached to Izar, Voldemort backed them up until Izar was pushed down on the desk.

"Someday, we'll have to find a mattress," Izar breathed into the kiss.

Voldemort silenced him with a tongue in his mouth. They both channeled their desperation and bitterness into their exchange as they understood that there would be a death of today and a beginning of something unknown tomorrow.


{Notes} NO THE STORY IS NOT FINISHED YET!

"Death of Today" is not only an Evanescence lyric but also the whole point to this story. It's a transition. It's the death/end of something familiar. Using those exact words 'death of today' was actually just a last minute decision (desert for a reviewer actually). Corny, perhaps, but it was tempting me too much to refuse it.

Also, as we come to an end, I should probably let you know there may be unanswered questions. Obviously, I'll strive to tie loose ends together in neat little bows, but this story has taken me almost 2 years to write with a hiatus or two thrown in the mix. There is destined to be a plot hole or two.