6

8,508Chapter 6: Part I Chapter 6

Edited November 2020

Part One, Chapter Six

Izar drank in the atmosphere of the Death Chamber, paying special attention the fluttering Veil. He'd never ventured down the stairs before, having always been leerily intrigued enough to keep a distance. Unfortunately, before he could get closer, Lily Potter suddenly stopped on the last stair and turned toward him.

"You'll be going back to Hogwarts as a fifth year, correct?"

Did she—

Was she starting small talk?

"Sixth year."

"But I thought you were fifteen."

While it was dark inside the chamber, Izar could see her indecision. Clearly, she knew his birthdate, yet she alluded to a general assumption. Why hide the obvious that she had snooped into his personal information?

"I skipped a year," Izar replied as he moved past her and toward the elevated stone dais. Upon closer inspection, the archway looked even more magnificent. The stone had crumbled near the base, appearing as if it had surpassed the age of time. "Do the Unspeakables in this chamber typically find any discoveries? I wouldn't think it would be easy to determine the Veil's secrets."

"That is true." She stopped and hovered at Izar's shoulder. "So far, only general knowledge is known about the Veil. Many of us dedicate time in other chambers. The Veil will decide who gets to unearth its secrets…" she trailed off uncertainly.

His attention turned from Lily to the Veil, finding himself spellbound. Faint, raspy whispers caressed his ears, tickling his senses and arousing his attention. As he took another step closer to the fluttering Veil, his tongue ventured out to lick his suddenly cold lips.

"Izar," Lily croaked, her tone sounding almost desperate, yet there was a hint of resignation in her tone. "Step back. Now."

Even if he heard her warning—her plea—Izar could do nothing but watch—mesmerized—as the Veil quivered in an almost eager manner. From the other side, fingers appeared to reach out and caress the torn and worn Veil.

Hazily, Izar raised his own fingers.

He knew any physical contact made with the Veil would result in being drawn to the other side. There was no coming back from that. The knowledge did not stop him, however. His fingers shakily brushed the tattered Veil, earning a frantic scream from Lily. For the seconds Izar maintained contact with the Veil, he marveled at how silky it felt as it moved between his fingers like water.

And it was cold. So cold.

He was torn harshly away from the Veil by thin arms.

Distressed green eyes thrust themselves in Izar's face. "What were you thinking?"

He blinked stupidly back at her.

"You know the consequences of coming too close to the Veil." She took a few steadying breaths before releasing his shoulders. "Many men and women have gone insane standing in front of the Veil. They claim they can hear their deceased loved ones on the other side, beckoning them to cross the barrier between the living and the dead. Those who cross are never seen again."

"I know that," Izar whispered, trying to regain his sense of logic. "But what I'm more curious about," he started, narrowing his eyes on her, "is how I could hear the whispers so clearly if I had never seen death? If I don't have a deceased loved one beckoning me from the other side? Somehow, I was still drawn forward. How is that?"

"I don't know," her tone dropped a few levels and he easily detected her lie. "You must be attuned to death—"

"Liar," Izar hissed with clenched fists. "You brought me here for a reason, didn't you? It wasn't to help you with your work. What help could I possibly offer you?" He paused, his mind quickly coming up with the first logical answer. "Was I some sort of test subject for you? I admit it was a rather brilliant ploy luring me here for your own study, knowing how much I was interested in the Veil."

The redhead's demeanor suddenly turned cold as she observed his twisted smirk. "Get out." Her green eyes were alight with anger as she pointed toward the exit. "Get out, and never, never come back here."

"It will be my pleasure," he replied curtly, turning his shoulder and climbing up the stairs.

It was a long walk up to the exit, and by the time he reached the door, he'd calmed somewhat.

To think he'd been naïve enough to become Lily Potter's lab rat…

Perhaps she had wanted to see the impacts on others after she had cast a specific spell around the Veil. Perhaps she had successfully found a way for someone to touch the Veil without falling into the other side. Of course, there was also the possibility that it hadn't been an experiment at all. Her heated and affronted reaction after he accused her of using him had pointed to her innocence.

But…

Izar looked down at his hands.

It didn't explain why his fingers were black and still tingling.

Death of Today

Several hours later, back at the orphanage, he was still agitated about what had transpired in the Death Chamber. His leg swung impatiently over the edge of his bed as he examined his fingers. They weren't as black as they had been this afternoon. Only a faint stain remained behind, resembling bruises more than anything else. Except they didn't hurt and they were no longer cold and numb.

The door opened to his bedroom and Izar sighed irately, not looking up.

The boy he shared his room with—Brantley—knew better.

"I told you to leave me alone."

After his eyes adjusted to the shadowed entrance, they widened when he realized that it wasn't Brantley, but a figure that blended seamlessly with the dark. For a moment, he held his breath, confusion clouding his mind as he tried to grasp who the hooded figure was. It didn't take him long, however, to identify that magic. Mortified, he scrambled up from his bed, cringing when the bedframe groaned loudly.

"Sir!" He stood stiffly. "I didn't know you were coming."

After his lunch with Riddle, Izar realized he hadn't received a portkey for the initiation tonight. He hadn't known what to expect, but he certainly hadn't expected the Dark Lord to escort him to the meeting.

It seemed almost—

Like favoritism.

Recalling Rookwood's taunting from earlier that afternoon—regarding the Dark Lord's special treatment of new recruits—Izar reasoned the wizard's presence wasn't entirely unusual.

The Dark Lord carried himself differently tonight. He was no longer the seductive and charming politician, but rather a powerful wizard unafraid of displaying his magic. The dark aura made the bedroom feel smaller—the shadows more precarious. Izar stiffened further, feeling uneasy and overwhelmed. Should he remain standing? Should he get on his knees? The magic seemed to beat down on him, encouraging him to fall to the ground. But he was not yet marked—so why would he kneel?

His uncertainty made him immobile.

"I had intended for one of my men to escort you to the initiation, however, my plans have changed." Even the man's voice seemed to change with his persona, adopting a very faint hissing resonance. "I'm afraid I will be departing Britain after the meeting. I won't have time thereafter to present you with your birthday gift."

Izar hesitated.

Gift?

Was gift-giving still in the realm of a master courting a new servant?

"Lunch was more than generous." He watched as the Dark Lord extracted something from his pocket and enlarged it. Long, tapered fingers unwrapped the cloth and revealed a dark leather-bound book with pages that seemed to glitter like gold. "Is that…" Izar trailed off, speechless as he reached for the tome.

Before his fingers could come in contact with that delectable leather, his wrist was shackled firmly. Izar's eyes averted from the book to the man, wondering if he'd overstepped his boundaries.

"What happened?" The Dark Lord turned Izar's wrist around to inspect his blackened fingers.

"It's just from an experiment," he said, skirting the issue without lying outright. After all, the wizard was a Legilimens. His attention dropped back to the book in an attempt to avoid the issue. "Is this what I think it is?"

Evidently, he had succeeded in changing the subject, for the strong fingers released his wrist. The Dark Lord chuckled and handed the book to Izar. "If you are thinking of the Eruditio, then yes, you are correct."

Izar accepted the heavy tome from the man and stared at it with wide-eyed disbelief. "This is incredibly rare, sir—" A sudden though occurred to him. "How do I address you? When you're not Tom Riddle?"

Surely the wizard wasn't going to be addressed as 'Tom', though he supposed there were more peculiar things than a 'Dark Lord Tom'.

Beneath the man's hooded cloak, a slow and unnerving smile stretched. "When it is just the two of us, you may address me as Voldemort."

Voldemort. When it was just the two of them. Izar knew exactly what the Dark Lord did not say. In public—at least in the setting with the other followers—Izar was to address him as his master and lord.

He looked back down at the book, refocusing on something more agreeable. He thumbed gently at the pages, revealing the yellowed and blank interior. The Eruditio harbored a vast amount of information on nearly every subject, having been added to by numerous of academically gifted wizards and witches throughout the centuries. All the reader had to do was tap their wand against the cover and state what subject they wished to read about. The pages would then be filled with the applicable information.

It was akin to having an entire library at one's fingertips.

There were only about a dozen copies of the Eruditio, costing far more Galleons than Izar would ever manage to obtain. "It's too much." He closed the book and his fingers caressed the strong-smelling leather. "Surely there is someone else—"

"I would not gift it to you if I believed another was more deserving." A cold finger tapped the underside of his chin, forcing Izar's gaze away from the book. "And it is my expectation that you give me your loyalty in turn."

And then Izar realized this wasn't so much a birthday gift as it was an enticement. Rookwood was right. The Dark Lord wanted his loyalty and would play on Izar's weaknesses and interests to obtain said loyalty. His lips twitched, unsurprised and not entirely affronted. He wasn't going to refuse the gift, especially when he was returning it with his pledge of servitude.

He nodded. "Of course you have my loyalty, My Lord. Thank you for the gift. I will treasure it forever."

"Forever," Voldemort echoed, sounding pensive and somber. "Be sure you do that." The man dropped his hand from Izar's chin. "Come, child, it's time for the initiation."

Izar placed his first and only birthday gift securely under his mattress before turning toward the Dark Lord. He hesitated when he saw the outstretched hand waiting for his own. It represented both an invitation of elusive promises and a warning of unknown consequences. When Izar accepted the hand, Riddle's fingers curled greedily around his.

They disapparated from the orphanage together.

The fortress was as Izar suspected it would be.

Dark, old, and cold.

Spider webs claimed the corners and the ceilings, appearing so thick, they looked like aged mold. His trepidation grew as he walked down the uncanny corridor beside a silent Lord Voldemort. Frankly, he didn't know what was expected of him. How should he act? Were there specific customs or rituals? How many people were in the Dark Lord's ranks? How many were going to be there tonight? What if someone turned on the Dark Lord and told others of Izar's identity?

"There is no need to be uneasy," the Dark Lord murmured knowingly. "No harm will come to pass when I am at your side."

Izar glanced sideways at the man, who, in turn, kept his gaze forward.

"I don't—"

He faltered uncharacteristically as he caught sight of two people at the end of the corridor. Even with the heavy black robe, Izar knew one of the figures to be Lucius Malfoy. The blond hair all but radiated in the dark, the subtle light settling around the man like a halo. But Lucius Malfoy wasn't the one who caught Izar's attention.

It was the woman standing next to him.

Black eyes locked with charcoal-green.

A maniacal grin crossed the woman's face, effectively marring her attractive features. Observing her, Izar noticed her face was the only attractive thing about her. Clearly, she didn't put much care into her appearance, judging from the smeared makeup around her eyes and her tattered wardrobe. Her hair was just as disheveled, piling haphazardly on top her head in a mess of thick, black curls.

She tapped a long fingernail against her smirking mouth as she eyed Izar.

Izar stopped walking.

"My Lord!" Her eyes sparkled with inane excitement. "What have you brought us?" She sashayed forward, her gaze sweeping the length of Izar and taking care to study his features. "I didn't think I would ever see the bastard child of my estranged cousin…"

Izar stiffened at both the proclamation and the sight of a younger wizard entering the corridor behind Lucius Malfoy. Just his luck that it turned out to be Draco Bloody Malfoy.

"Bellatrix…" Lucius warned, yet he appeared both smug and intrigued as he observed Izar in a new light.

Just the same, the Dark Lord remained vigilantly silent.

When Bellatrix opened her mouth again, Izar clenched his fists and his gaze unfocused defensively. "When I heard Lucius mention his suspicions about a Mudblood by the name of 'Izar' being initiated into our Lord's circle, I could only speculate. But seeing the black curls, grey eyes, and the delicate little features of Regulus only confirms it." Her mouth twitched in amusement. "The Mudblood bitch even decided to name you after the Black traditions."

She not only knew his father, but also his mother.

Izar inhaled deeply to settle his surge of emotion.

Voldemort clicked his tongue in disapproval. "That is enough, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix glanced innocently up at the Dark Lord and her entire demeanor turned acquiescent. "I thought you should know, My Lord," she whispered sweetly. "Especially after Regulus' betrayal. Do you really want his bastard in your services?" Her gaze slid over to Izar. "History has a way of repeating itself, after all. Regulus may be dead, but he lives on through his son."

"You must be rather bold—or unwise—to suggest the Dark Lord can't think for himself," Izar whispered darkly.

Bellatrix's eyes widened and then narrowed into pleased slits.

Before she could retort, Voldemort's cold voice interceded. "I want you all in the chamber. Now."

The two Malfoy's took one last glance at Izar before disappearing into the chamber. As soon as they were out of sight, Izar loosened his stance, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. This wasn't how he wanted to find out about his parentage. He most certainly didn't want Lucius and Draco Malfoy finding out alongside him. Not to mention the Dark Lord was all ears.

"You didn't know, did you? Poor little orphan."

Izar looked sharply back up at Bellatrix.

"Did you want to know the identity of your mother? The one who gave you to a Muggle orphanage after Regulus' death?" Bellatrix took an advancing step around the Dark Lord, leaning dangerously close to Izar. "I knew it all, because I witnessed their pathetic affair…" She whispered delightedly into his ear, "Your mother is Lily Potter."

She licked Izar's ear.

His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face.

"Crucio," Voldemort cursed with twisted vehemence.

Through half-lidded eyes, Izar watched as Bellatrix fell to her knees, her face twisting in agony and hilarity. Her scream was high-pitched before trailing off with wicked and pained laughter. He took a step backward, feeling the world spin. While he would have enjoyed her torture any other time, he found it the crashing point.

He took a few more steps backward, more than aware of the crimson eyes following his retreat.

It took him another scream from Bellatrix to turn and walk quickly away. He didn't know where he was going and he frankly didn't care. The dark shadows swallowed him as he turned the corner and pressed himself against the wall. Bellatrix's screams were just as loud here as they were standing next to her, yet Izar tuned her out and focused on controlling his breathing.

There were no prying eyes as his body tremored—a result of holding himself so rigid and uncaringly.

Izar pressed himself more firmly against the wall. He needed to remain strong. He couldn't have Bellatrix seeing a broken orphan boy, a bastard to the Black family name.

He shuddered again, feeling his throat tighten as he recalled his third year at Hogwarts.

He had wanted to know who his Muggle parents were, so he had brewed a hereditary potion typically reserved for NEWT level students. It had taken him almost the entire school year and three botched batches before succeeding. Izar was certain Snape had noticed a reduction in his supplies, but he had never commented on it.

It wouldn't have mattered, anyhow.

Izar remembered staring at the blank parchment after he had completed the potion. Nothing had appeared on the family tree aside from the name 'Izar Harrison'. He had known then that he wasn't a Mudblood. It had been a sickening revelation that one of his parents had been magical and smart enough to block his ancestry. It was an advanced Charm, one only accomplished by an experienced witch or wizard.

After that, Izar had continued to think of himself as a Muggle-born. His parents had abandoned him intentionally, why else would they prevent a hereditary potion from revealing his genealogy?

It had been easier to think himself born to two Muggles than be a product of a shameful one-night stand. But tonight… Tonight had been the largest blow. Izar didn't care so much about his father. From what Bellatrix said, Regulus Black was deceased, possibly killed by Voldemort's hand for betraying him. However, the identity of his mother was what truly affected Izar.

He worked with her.

Izar's face crumbled and he tried to fight against the swell of dark emotion. Never before had he felt so abandoned, so unwanted. He laughed bitterly. How could a mother abandon her child and then pretend she didn't even know him when they met fifteen years later?

Merlin, it stung.

The air shifted and turned heavier, spurring Izar to push off from the wall and desperately try to school his features. The Dark Lord loomed nearby, having arrived soundlessly. His hood was down, revealing the intrigued eyes focused attentively on Izar's determined expression.

"I would have thought you knew, or at least had a very good assumption."

"Knew?" Izar mulled over the word. "Of course I wanted to know. I wanted conformation. I'm not without curiosity."

"Naturally. Being as you are a Ravenclaw." His stare was unblinking. "Evidently, you were unsuccessful."

Izar glanced at the Dark Lord and then away. "Not unsuccessful, but rather thwarted. I brewed the hereditary potion and discovered someone had placed a seal on my ancestry. I just hadn't realized I had worked with my mother all this time. Not being wanted—and being abandoned—are bitter pills to swallow."

"That may be so, but once they go down, you realize the unnecessary energy you spent trying to swallow them."

Izar frowned.

"I was also a bastard child," the Dark Lord clarified dispassionately. "As I'm sure you have already assumed, I was raised in an orphanage after my mother died in childbirth. My Muggle father left my pregnant mother as soon as he discovered her aptitude for magic. He never bothered to find out what became of his unborn child."

"Did you forgive him? Your father?" Izar wondered.

A dark chuckle raised the hairs on the back of Izar's neck. "No. I killed him at the age of sixteen."

Izar's lips twitched. Reluctantly, his deference for the man heightened. It was undoubtedly an ugly history to recollect—one that had the potential to bring shame—yet Voldemort was willing to share it with Izar. Regardless of whether the Dark Lord shared it to demonstrate that parentage meant little in the grand scheme of things, or to demonstrate Izar wasn't the only sad little orphan—Izar appreciated it.

"That must have been liberating."

Voldemort quirked a cool brow. "It truly was. One of my proudest moments." He turned his shoulder on Izar. "Have you recomposed yourself enough to continue with the initiation?"

Izar's face turned warm and he hurriedly fell into step with the Dark Lord. "I didn't need to—" He took a deep breath and redirected away from an obvious lie. "I'm ready to take the mark." He followed the Dark Lord as they retraced the familiar corridor. It was empty. "Bellatrix," he started tentatively, "won't tell any of the others, will she?"

The Dark Lord drew up his hood and covered his features. "Bellatrix is difficult to understand, but she has a strong sense of family honor. She will not speak to another about your lineage, but I imagine she will continue to harass you."

Izar grimaced. He didn't mind so long as she refrained from telling everyone outside the family. "And you, My Lord, will you do the same?" Izar questioned. "You won't speak of this incident again, will you? Frankly, I'd rather forget about it myself." It wasn't a plea, and it wasn't a command, but it was an incredibly bold way to address the Dark Lord.

Fortunately, the dark wizard showed one more act of leniency. "It has already slipped my mind," Voldemort suggested.

It was a lie.

Izar's gaze dropped. He knew the wizard wouldn't forget. Evidently, Regulus had betrayed the man. Not only that, but the Black family was notorious for being a strong political force and knowledgeable in the field of Dark magic. Both traits were rather lost on Izar. Nonetheless, he didn't think of himself as a Black. His parents and his ancestors did not define him.

He was just Izar Harrison.

Death of Today

The others shifted.

He remained stiffly motionless.

There were three others in the room with him. Two of which were a few years older than himself, while the last was about thirty years of age. He wondered, briefly, if they received priceless gifts and luxurious lunches from Voldemort. Perhaps they were treated with a brief history lesson from Tom Riddle's past.

Izar placed a hand on his stomach, feeling a bit nauseated.

Regret and apprehension swirled in his stomach, reminding him why he had refused the Mark the first time. He didn't want to be branded. He didn't want to be owned. The notion tore at his resolve, forcing his breathing to come out shallow.

However, he knew there was no way out of this. His time to back out had been several hours ago when he had the opportunity to run to Dumbledore and hide like a pathetic rat. But Izar couldn't run. He never ran from things—with the miserably embarrassing exception of this evening with Bellatrix. Normally, he faced his issues head on.

This would be no different.

He just had to remind himself that he would be going to Hogwarts on Monday. After which, he wouldn't need to attend meetings like this for a good year. Many things could change in that time span.

It wasn't so bad…

Izar forced his hand away from his stomach.

After Voldemort gathered him from the corridor, he had escorted Izar to a cold, small room. From there, the Dark Lord had abandoned him, leaving him at the mercy of two of his followers. Death Eaters. That was what the servants to Lord Voldemort were called. It was what Izar was to be called after the Mark branded his skin.

The Death Eaters had forced Izar and the others to strip to their undergarments before a heavy robe was thrown at them. He, along with the three others, had to abandon their socks and trainers and suffer the cold stone against their naked feet.

By now, his skin was a pale blue, raised with goose bumps. The robe probably would have helped ward off the cold if it wasn't so big.

Suddenly, the door opened.

"He's ready to see you." The Death Eater—donning a silver skull mask—ushered them out of the room. Through his mask, the man's eyes jeered at them as they filed out the room.

Izar shivered, yet his expression was indifferent as they made their way down the corridor. In just a few minutes, they'd be marked.

The Mark.

All he had to do was focus his thoughts on the Mark and learn its properties. He had to admit, he was immensely curious about the Dark Mark adorning the Death Eater's arms. Had Tom invented the enchantment himself? And what, exactly, did the Mark do? It couldn't be a simple brand. From what Izar gleaned these past few days, Riddle was wickedly smart and cautious. Surely, he'd create something that ascertained complete submission from his followers.

He buried the questions in the back of his mind as soon as they entered a room.

The room was ridiculously enormous with many, many more servants than Izar had preconceived. The servants were all on their knees in a large semi-circle with Lord Voldemort at the point. Some wizards and witches were so far back, Izar wondered if they could hear anything. But when he noticed their masks, he realized that was intentional.

There was an obvious ranking system in Voldemort's army.

The Death Eaters at the back wore charcoal masks. They were the largest majority, perhaps the newest members. The second group wore silver masks, their numbers a lot less than their charcoal-masked comrades.

And finally, the smallest group—barely twenty Death Eaters in total—wore gold masks.

They kneeled in the inner-most part of the semi-circle, closest to the Dark Lord. As Izar approached, he intentionally reached out to feel their magic. Evidently, Voldemort's Inner-Circle wasn't comprised of the 'most powerful'—considering a few of the gold-masked Death Eaters had unimpressive auras—but rather on trust and years serving the Dark Lord.

Nevertheless, there were scarily powerful wizards and witches in the Inner-Circle.

Izar kept his eyes ahead of him in order to refrain from gawking at the Death Eaters. His group moved through the ranks and stopped in front of the Dark Lord inside the semi-circle. Izar was forced to go on his knees as the older wizard in their group went down first.

He bowed his head, feeling eyes boring into the back of his skull from the Death Eaters behind him.

"I thank you all for coming," the Dark Lord started quietly.

Izar resisted a snort in amusement. There was no choice but to come.

"You have chosen to join a commendable cause to fight against the discrimination of Dark magic. There will no longer be need for shame. We will comfortably cast Dark magic and teach Dark spells to our children at school." The man paused deliberately, drawing everyone's bated breath. "Not only will we normalize the superior magic, but we will also cleanse the world of Muggle taint. Muggles have slowly—but steadily—plagued our world. Wizarding children should not grow up unawares in the Muggle world, especially Muggle orphanages."

Izar looked up from his position on the ground, eyeing the Dark Lord. The man did not meet his eyes, yet surely, he said that for Izar.

Or himself.

Their backgrounds were so similar, after all.

"Our society has dumbed down in order to accommodate these Muggle-raised wizards and witches. We've grown stagnant. We've grown complacent. Our complexity and intricacy with magic has become stale. It is time to reclaim our preeminence and take control."

Here, there were pleased and enthusiastic murmurings from the other Death Eaters.

Izar was certain they had heard this more than once, but the thrill of hearing those promises rekindled their addiction and their captivity of the Dark Lord's visions of a better future. It was a never-ending cycle. The Dark Lord would preach, caressing his followers with his powerful and impressive aura, and in turn, the Death Eaters grew more enamored with the man.

They craved more. They needed more.

Voldemort sat down on his chair that many would confuse as a throne. "Tonight, we have four new wizards joining our cause. They offer us the advantage we need with exclusive skillsets and notable knowledge in the arts."

Voldemort cocked his head to the side, a sardonic smile spreading across his lips.

"Andrew Rowley."

The older man in the group crawled forward like a pathetic animal and came to a stop right before Voldemort. "My Lord," he murmured quietly, "I pledge to you my loyalty and my riches. I will bring pride to your name." The man—Rowley—then hunched down to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes.

Izar bit back a disgusted snarl, unable to see himself doing something as degrading as kissing a man's robes. Through hooded eyes, he watched as Voldemort leaned forward, pressing his wand against Rowley's bare forearm.

"Morsmordre," Voldemort hissed.

As the Mark all but tattooed into the man's arm, Rowley's shoulders shuddered before he screamed piercingly.

Izar leaned back on his knees, his curiosity getting the better of him. Just what was that spell? It must have been more than skin deep for the man to scream so excruciatingly. Did it affect the nervous system? The skin tissue was surely damaged, but Izar knew it had to go further. After all, couldn't Death Eaters simply carve off the Dark Mark if they no longer wanted to be a servant to the Dark Lord? Izar imagined Voldemort wouldn't allow it to be that easy to get rid of the Mark.

"Severus," Voldemort called, motioning for a gold masked Death Eater to approach.

Izar became taller in his kneeling form.

His eyes drank in the man who quickly approached Rowley and slathered a salve on the freshly branded arm. Severus? Severus Snape? Izar's hands splayed the cold ground as he leaned closer. He didn't know what he was more interested in. Why Severus was a Death Eater, or what the salve consisted of.

Izar would have to speak to the Slytherin Head of House this year when he returned to school. He had a respectable relationship with Professor Snape. It wouldn't be awkward to ask about the properties of the salve. Perhaps the man could give Izar an insight of the Mark itself.

Sitting back, he watched the last two boys go forward to get branded. All of them screamed, perhaps louder than the first man. Despite the promise of pain, Izar was looking forward to getting the Mark and feeling the after effects of the branding. His eagerness of obtaining the Mark was purely educational, of course. He wanted to solve the mystery of the Mark.

And he would try his best not to scream.

He couldn't.

"Izar Harrison."

It was his turn to approach. Unlike the others, Izar stood and walked to Voldemort before lowering on his knees. Severus turned his neck sharply at Voldemort's call, his eyes locking on charcoal-green before Izar looked away.

"My Lord," Izar started off like the others had done, "I pledge to you my undying loyalty. I will bring honor to your name."

He couldn't pledge Voldemort his 'riches' simply because Izar didn't have any. Instead, he dipped his head, gathering the hem of Voldemort's robes like the others had done. His fingers bunched the material, surely wrinkling it. He could feel acid build up in his mouth at the thought of having to do this in front of hundreds of eyes.

But a hand stopped him.

"Bless me instead, child."

Izar frowned, not comprehending the order. Around him, the Death Eaters whispered in surprise.

"My hand, Izar." The Dark Lord's voice was amused.

Izar wondered what was more mortifying, kissing the man's robes or his hand. Nonetheless, he shakily grabbed the long and pale hand in his own. Both of their hands were cold and shocks claimed Izar's arms, just as it always did when their bare skin touched.

He leaned over and kissed the back of Riddle's palm before turning it over and kissing the pulse point. As he pulled back, Riddle's fingernail scratched the length of his jawline. It drew blood, that much was for certain. Through stunned eyes, Izar watched as Voldemort tasted the blood on his finger, his crimson eyes incredibly bright and provoking as he eyed Izar.

Hurriedly averting his gaze, Izar lifted his sleeve, baring his forearm. He shivered when the Dark Lord's wand pressed into his arm.

"Morsmordre."

It was agonizing.

Izar clenched his jaw shut and his eyes slid closed as he felt the effects of the magic wash through him. Lightning-like flashes danced beneath his eyelids as the curse made its way through his bloodstream—rapidly increasing his body temperature—before eventually making its way up to his head and making him lightheaded.

His assumptions were correct. This was far more than just a simple tattoo.

Just as he was about to lose control, it was over.

Izar opened his eyes, panting. Even if the shocks were finished, the Mark on his skin still burned severely. He glanced up at Voldemort, noting the man's pensive gaze.

"You did not scream." The Dark Lord held up a hand, halting Snape's advance with the salve. "Perhaps you don't even need the salve."

Izar wanted to protest, but he remained tight-lipped. He had too much pride to beg for the ointment.

"My Lord…" Snape, surprisingly, was the one to protest.

Voldemort tsked. "If the boy wants the salve, he will need to ask me. It will no doubt bend his pride."

Izar bit his lip, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground before him. Everything was a light blur. Somehow, the cold in the room grew warm, heating his cheeks and even his feet.

He was sure it was a fever.

But he wouldn't ask for the salve. If he could make it without screaming, he could make do without using the salve.

Later, he was presented with his mask.

He was too disorientated to realize he was the only new recruit to obtain a silver mask.