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8,508Chapter 8: Part I Chapter 8

Edited November 2020

Part One, Chapter Eight

Izar didn't sneak in like he had imagined he would.

The Great Hall was packed with students and politicians. The French, Norwegian, and British Ministry politicians—along with their respective Headmasters or Headmistress—had somehow squeezed at the High Table.

At the moment, Headmaster Dumbledore stood at his golden podium, addressing the Hall and incurring most of the attention. However, there were a few eyes that turned in Izar's direction upon his entrance. Uncomfortable, but managing to remain neutral, Izar quickly moved down the steps and toward the Ravenclaw table.

Terry Boot, a fifth year Ravenclaw, had saved him a seat as he had every year.

Izar sat down gracefully, hiding himself behind the mass of students. He paid half-attention to Dumbledore as he spoke about hosting the other schools and about good sportsmanship.

Leaning back marginally, he caught sight of Snape entering from the side chamber, sitting only a few seats away from Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord watched Snape before gazing across the hall to Izar. The Dark Lord's expression was entirely impassive, though even from Izar's seat, he could feel the sharp twinges to the man's aura.

Evidently, the man wasn't very happy.

Briefly, he wondered if Dumbledore was aware of the alternative personality of Tom Riddle. Even if the old Headmaster was a bit barmy at times, Izar knew the man was as brilliant as any scholar. There must have been some suspicions on his part, even if the Dark Lord Voldemort hadn't presented himself to the world yet.

"…please welcome Hogwarts' new Defense against the Dark Arts, Professor Sirius Black."

Izar snapped his gaze away from Riddle and watched as the introduced wizard stood up to wave at the clapping students. Izar simply sat there, staring at the stranger. Sirius Black. Izar had to jog his memory of the Black Family tree. If he wasn't mistaken, Sirius was Regulus' brother. Which made Sirius Izar's uncle.

And they did share a few similarities, from the dark waves—almost curls—to the grey eyes. Sirius was a very handsome fellow. And there was the Black casual elegance and the sharp aristocratic features. But other than that, their similarities ended. Sirius was broader, more masculine. He was almost roguish. His grey eyes were darker as well, not nearly as vivid as Izar's.

Sirius' eyes skimmed the Hall and caught sight of Izar who sat frozen among the clapping students. The man faltered before clumsily dropping back into his seat.

You're an idiot. Izar reprehended himself. He must have looked like a fool sitting there, gaping at Sirius Black.

"Professor Black has taken a year off from Auror work to teach the students here at Hogwarts. I expect you all to be welcoming. He has vast knowledge in his field," Dumbledore continued. "Now, the moment you have all been waiting for, the feast."

The table in front of Izar sprang with all sorts of foods. Pleased murmurs swept through the Hall as the students all tucked in.

"Did you have a good summer?" Terry Boot asked, his words almost drowned out by the rest of the Great Hall.

After slapping some mashed potatoes onto his plate, Izar spared Boot a quick glance. He and Terry had gotten along fairly well ever since they were Sorted together. However, neither of them spoke very much, both enjoying each other's silent company. Terry was a smart wizard—like many of the Ravenclaws—yet he always seemed to make their marks a competition.

"Brilliant summer," Izar responded ironically. His left arm hung awkwardly at his side as he played with his potatoes. "And yours? Did you get the summer reading completed?"

"I did, I would ask you the same, but I already know the answer to that." Terry offered him a small, tart smile before returning his attention to his dinner.

Izar glanced sideways at the boy. Boot seemed a bit more lethargic today, if not bitter. "Do you really know the answer to that? Or are you just assuming?" Izar prodded, interested to know why Terry's attitude had turned sour over the summer. Normally, the boy was soft-spoken and never had a bad bone in his body.

Blue eyes remained stubbornly on the dinner plate. "I do know the answer, Izar. You skipped a year. It would only seem obvious that you've finished your summer homework in order to get a good footing on the new year. Wouldn't want to be bumped back down to your rightful level, would you?"

Ah. That was it. Terry was feeling envious that Izar had skipped a year. Izar couldn't remember a time anyone had been jealous of him. This was new—unfamiliar—territory. "My rightful level?" he repeated dubiously. Fortunately, their conversation was a bit muffled with the loud chatter around the Great Hall. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were adding to the noise, heightening the volume in the Hall. "You think I belong in fifth year?"

Terry's expression twisted with frustration. "I didn't say that, Izar." The boy stabbed the meat pie on his plate. "Admittedly, I think you're a smart wizard. But then again, every Ravenclaw is smart. We just haven't witnessed any proof that you should have been considered for skipping a grade when we weren't presented with the same opportunity."

We.

Izar looked around the table, catching a few eyes of the Ravenclaws. The Ravenclaw table was unusually quiet tonight. They usually weren't as riled as the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, but typically enough to rise in volume against the Slytherins. Tonight, however, the older students were quiet as they listened in.

His eyes caught those of Granger's. The Mudblood's expression held no doubt, only curiosity.

He looked back down at his plate. Let them think he wasn't capable. It wasn't like him to raise his hand obnoxiously in class and interrupt the professor when they made a mistake in their lectures. He wasn't one to brag. He wasn't one to boast of his achievements.

"You need to prove yourself a bit more, Izar, that's all we are saying. Bring some recognition to the Ravenclaw House if you really are declared a 'true prodigy'." Boot murmured quietly, his tone mocking at the latter part.

"Believe what you want, Boot," Izar replied sharply, his voice heightening in volume for the others to hear. "I will not change my mannerisms just because my House wants recognition." He met the eyes of the other Ravenclaw students. "If they want to be recognized, they can use their own remarkable intelligence." Izar calmly set down his fork. "Regrettably, if tonight is a reflection of their intelligence, it's a pity they will never be recognized."

With that, he stood from the Ravenclaw table and swept from the Great Hall.

Escaping the hot and loud Hall put Izar at ease, but with the solitude came a sense of stark loneliness.

He wandered up to the Ravenclaw tower, his path lightened by the dim torches. The farther he climbed, the more he realized that he wasn't tormented by loneliness, but by a sense of loss.

Was it possible to feel lost when one knew exactly where they were? Why, then, did he feel as if he were rooted in place as time passed around him? Why did he feel as if he were tumbling downhill and there was no solid root to hold on to? There was nothing stopping his downward protectory and he was afraid to reach the bottom.

Had he already reached the bottom?

His arm throbbed painfully and he paused on the staircase, his face crumbling with agony. Knowing there wasn't anyone around to see his moment of weakness, he slumped against the banister. Placing his face into his right hand, he breathed painfully.

Izar had once vowed he would never need anyone—no friends—no help. But at what point would he learn to accept the help offered to him? He was now owned by another. The Mark on his arm was proof of that. He didn't so much mind the cause he was supporting, but he did mind having a constant reminder of his lack of ownership over his own actions.

And then there was his House.

He'd never had a problem with Ravenclaw. But now that he was offered a chance to succeed, his Housemates were blinded with their own envy and discrimination. Just because he wasn't well known—just because he wasn't the poster child for Ravenclaw—he was declared as a fake. Someone to be viewed with resentment.

Did it really matter what they thought of him?

Izar straightened from the stairs.

No, it didn't matter what they thought of him. Izar had faced bigger betrayals, much larger than a few children being envious of him.

He should take this situation in stride. He had acknowledged earlier that no one had ever been jealous of him. Shouldn't he be proud that there was now something to hold over other students' heads? Decidedly, he would never boast about his achievements, but standing there, on the stairs, he realized he could finally feel confident, proud.

Izar grinned tightly.

Now that the issue with his House was calmly washed away from his mind, a weight was lifted. Dimly, he realized he was mediating, clearing his mind like an Occlumens would do.

But there would always be that one issue he couldn't meditate on. And that was his parentage.

He recalled Riddle's earlier words about the revelations being bitter pills to swallow— "once they go down, you realize the unnecessary energy you spent trying to swallow them." He was right. There was no point in trying to accept his parentage. He had no guardian during his most vulnerable years. He was independent now and would remain so the rest of his life. A parent would make little difference.

He scoffed, looking down at his enlarged arm.

Briefly, he considered Regulus. Severus Snape alluded to the fact that Regulus was alive. Such a comment had undoubtedly been intentional on Snape's part. Was he trying to push Izar towards Regulus? Was there some deeper mystery regarding Regulus?

Students' voices were heard around the castle as they poured from the Great Hall.

Izar leaned over the stairs, watching as they filed out. Even from where he stood, he could see the excitement in their bodies, the way their shoulders were strung with exhilaration at being back at Hogwarts and reunited with the others. And the added bonus of the Tournament put a flush on their cheeks and a gleam in their eyes.

He realized then that he needed to put the past behind him and look toward the future. And that had to bring better things.

With that determination fueling him, Izar threw back his shoulders and climbed down the stairs. His steps were quick, hoping he wasn't too late.

"Izar—" Boot called as he passed.

Izar ignored the Ravenclaw as he cleared the last step. He searched the busy entryway, bypassing many of the Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts students until he found the tall figure of Tom Riddle.

With a deep breath, Izar crossed the hall. Riddle was exiting the castle, undoubtedly returning home until tomorrow. But Izar wanted him now. He needed to bend his neck just this once, just this one time in order to get relief from the burning pain that had yet to subside.

"Mr. Riddle!" Izar called out, his heart in his throat when he realized he might have been too late. It would be another night of restless sleep that involved waking up in cold sweat because he had rolled over on his left arm. His concentration in his classes would be horrendous tomorrow morning. And he needed to be fully alert this year.

However, his voice was too quiet in the expansive hall. There were just too many students between the Dark Lord and himself.

Yet, somehow, Riddle paused in his retreat.

The man looked over his shoulder, his eyes immediately locking on Izar despite the countless of students between the two. The Ravenclaw took a step back, flabbergasted that the man had heard him. How? Suddenly, a tall student blocked his sights. Izar growled, hating his short height. He dodged to the side, searching for Riddle.

The man was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck," he whispered, dismayed—angry.

He turned, prepared to go to Snape for a Dreamless Sleep potion, but the tall form of Tom Riddle blocked his path.

"Language, Mr. Harrison," Riddle smirked, revealing his stark white teeth.

Izar tried to steady his racing pulse. The man had appeared so suddenly. Instead of voicing his shock, however, he schooled his expression. "I was wondering, sir, if I could speak to you privately?"

Riddle's charm diminished and he nodded sharply. The charmed brown eyes glanced around the hall before he placed his hand on Izar's shoulder, steering him away from the chatter and into the shadows. "I had wanted to speak to you and Severus anyway."

It couldn't bode well.

The Dark Lord led him down to the dungeons with a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Though Izar had just walked this path earlier, the distance to Snape's personal offices seemed endless this time around. Riddle remained silent and his magic wasn't much of a solace. It lashed around him in waves, all but vibrating Izar's insides.

He had been prepared for this. He knew there had been a possibility of an angry Dark Lord.

Eventually, Riddle dropped his hand in order to knock on Snape's door.

As if expecting them, the door opened silently. Snape stood stiffly behind his desk, watching them with dark eyes. Izar entered behind Riddle, shutting the door to his doom. Almost immediately, Riddle took his wand out, waving it. Bright silvery magic escaped from his wand, looking similar to small snakes as they slithered up and down the walls, sealing it in privacy wards.

Without so much as a pause, Riddle flicked his wand at Snape. Izar watched as the man went down to his knees, his expression twisting in pain. How could a silent spell be so painful? It shouldn't have surprised Izar that Riddle could cast nonverbal spells. And it wouldn't surprise him if Riddle could even do wandless magic.

Izar got his own taste of the nonverbal spell as Riddle cursed him next.

Like Severus, Izar went down to his knees, unable to support himself as the pain washed through his body. It wasn't the Cruciatus curse, not only would it be detected within Hogwarts, but the pain wasn't nearly as intense as the textbooks described. Nevertheless, this curse managed to pinch his nerves and make his body tremble and move uncontrollably.

Before he could deliberate on the exact hex, it was lifted.

He sighed with relief, staying in a relaxing position on the ground in order to settle his nerves. It was probably best he not stand in the presence of the Dark Lord anyway, especially when he was less than pleased.

"I specifically told the both of you that Mr. Harrison would come to me for the salve. I can't imagine what gave you the impression that it had been a friendly suggestion and not an explicit order," Voldemort hissed darkly, his steps slow and calculating as he walked over to the potions master.

Izar was almost positive that if Voldemort wasn't under his politician façade, he would appear twice as frightening. Even so, the crimson eyes bled through the brown, clashing strikingly with the wizard's incredibly pale skin. Riddle's expression was masked and cold, yet his magic and verbal tone spoke of his austere displeasure.

"It's not Professor Snape's fault, My Lord," Izar interrupted before Snape could speak. Riddle turned sharply, his eyes zeroing in on Izar. "I was the one who asked him for the salve."

From the corner of his eye, Izar felt the black eyes boring into the side of his head. Izar remained looking away from the potions master. They were both in submissive, passive positions, both their prides wounded. It would be best if they could avoid eye contact and not make their meek positions even more humiliating.

Riddle made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat as Izar volunteered to shoulder the blame. "That may be so, but Severus should have refused your plea. He heard my order at the initiation." Riddle narrowed his eyes down on the kneeling form of Izar. "Take your robe off. Quickly."

Blinking past the surprise at the sudden command, Izar struggled with his robes. The hex from the Dark Lord made his body on edge and shaky. It didn't help that his left hand was ablaze with pain, reminding him of the reason he had approached the Dark Lord in the first place. Fortunately, he struggled past it and managed to remove his outer robe. As soon as the material pooled on the ground, Riddle crouched down opposite of him.

It was a bit surprising that the Dark Lord would lower himself. Izar would have thought the man would have at least stayed standing, showing his dominance over both Snape and Izar.

With surprisingly gentle hands, Riddle took hold of Izar's sleeve and slowly rolled up the material. When his arm was revealed, Izar sensed Riddle's magic swiftly turn darker. The young wizard shuddered, trying to control his trembling at being so close to the powerfully potent magic and its ever-changing dispositions.

"You fool." With his eyes now completely crimson, he looked up at Izar. "You are a fool."

Izar refused to blush.

But like most things, it was difficult to control and he could feel his flush creep up the back of his neck and to the tops of his ears.

"You are too prideful for your own good," Voldemort whispered, his fingers tightening around Izar's swollen arm. The Ravenclaw whimpered and closed his eyes in shame. "It is rare, but there are a few cases in which a wizard's body rejects the Mark, and in turn, the salve. I have to personally remove the infection from their system but only if they are smart enough to ask. Otherwise, they end up losing their arm."

Izar's eyes opened wide. He looked at Riddle, watching as the Dark Lord examined his arm. "Surely I won't have to lose my arm."

"Surely, you should lose an arm for your idiocy," Riddle spoke calmly, his tone revealing nothing short of unsympathetic callousness. "There is a remedy," he continued with a wicked gleam in his eyes, "but it can only be implemented under one condition."

Izar glanced shyly at Severus. The man was looking down, appearing almost bored. But Izar knew the man was listening intently.

"On what condition?" Izar asked slowly, already fearing the answer.

Cold fingers splayed the length of his throat and the Dark Lord tipped Izar's head back ever so slightly. The man's eyes were bright with an unidentified emotion as they absorbed Izar's delicate features. "You'll have to ask me. Plead." The long fingernails scraped Izar's neck, careful not to break the skin this time. "Bend that pretty little neck of yours, Mr. Harrison."

The Dark Lord wanted Izar to submit, to become submissive.

If it was any other pain, any other hex or curse, Izar could have suffered in silence. Living at the orphanage had increased his pain tolerance. He had broken many bones and cut many parts of his skin. Eventually, he had come to handle the pain.

But this was entirely different.

"I…" he started off hesitantly. He had never asked for help before. It was difficult coming from his mouth. Fortunately, the Dark Lord's expression was neither eager nor arrogant. Instead, the man looked expectant and a bit peeved. "My Lord, could you please heal my arm?" Izar spoke to the ground near Voldemort's kneeling form.

The man tsked, his fingers grasping a hold of Izar's chin. "Look at me." Crimson eyes held Izar' stare, not allowing the younger to look away. "You have gone too long without anyone assisting you. It's time for you to accept help from your betters."

My betters. Izar scowled. "Am I really accepting help if it was forced on me?" Instead of being angry, as Izar had braced himself for, the Dark Lord's lips quirked once with amusement before his expression bore impatience. "I will never ask for assistance after this," Izar vowed heatedly. He was aware of Snape tensing, but he didn't look away from Voldemort. "My Lord, please, could you heal my arm?"

Voldemort released his jaw in a rather forceful manner before taking possession of Izar's arm once more. With sharp eyes, Izar drank in the man's proceedings, hoping this would give him more ideas about the Mark.

Izar's eyes grew wide as he watched the Dark Lord press his wand sharply against the Dark Mark. Izar gave a closed-mouth moan, his brows furrowing in pain. He needed to stay conscious.

No matter the pain, he needed to see this.

And just like that, without any spoken words, without any Latin-based charms, his arm slowly began to heal itself. Izar watched as his fingers turned back to their normal size and an invigorating feeling tingled its way up his arm at a slow, steady pace. He laughed with disbelief, feeling a bit light-headed with all the magic washing through him.

As his body turned numb, he rocked forward involuntary and found himself breathing in Voldemort's robes. No matter how hard he tried to push himself away from the Dark Lord, he found his body paralyzed, almost if his muscles had turned to liquid. So, instead of fighting against it, he closed his eyes, taking in man's masculine scent.

His arm… it felt so good.

Izar hoped he wasn't drooling.

A shuffling was heard from across the room. "I can handle a fifteen-year-old child, Severus," the Dark Lord said irritably. A hand wrapped itself around Izar's back, pushing him more securely against the Dark Lord. Izar closed his eyes, rather comfortable in the man's arms despite his usual disagreement when it came to physical touch.

Unexpectedly, hissing tickled his ear and Izar stiffened.

He had forgotten that Tom Marvolo Riddle was a Parseltongue, as were all of Slytherin's heirs. It wasn't publicized often, at least not by Riddle's supports. His critics, however, seemed to squeeze that bit of information in the papers as much as possible, just to remind the readers that the seemingly middle-aged politician had a potentially evil streak.

They were right all along.

But Izar had always been curious to know what Parseltongue sounded like. And he finally got what he wanted.

The hissing started off irate, perhaps a bit like a scolding. And then it softened into something of a croon that made the hairs on the back of Izar's neck stand. Merlin, was this really happening? Izar wanted nothing more than to blush, maybe back away. He wasn't prepared for the pleasant shivers making their way down his spine.

Merlin, he was such a bloody pansy today.

Fortunately—or unfortunately?—it ended quickly and Izar found himself being lowered to the ground. He opened his eyes, a confused frown marring his lips when he realized his arm was no longer burning and throbbing, but his muscles were still unusable.

"You should be able to move within a few minutes," the Dark Lord informed as he rose to his feet in one graceful motion.

"Your…" Izar started, his tongue heavy, "wand…"

Voldemort appeared highly amused. "My wand, yes, Mr. Harrison, this is my wand." The man's long fingers caressed his wand before he placed it up his sleeve.

It was the man's wand core that connected all the Death Eaters' Marks together! It wasn't a potion, or any spell, it was the man's core. Izar scoffed loudly at the revelation. The only problem? He needed to find out what the man's wand core was. And Izar knew better than to ask the Dark Lord. It was a private issue for some wizards and it would be seen as disrespectful on Izar's behalf to ask his master.

As his body began to regain feeling, he slowly sat up and observed his arm. It was back to normal. There was only a slight burn and tingle from his Mark and Izar had a suspicion it was because of Voldemort's proximity.

"Thank you," he muttered softly.

"You can do one thing for me, Mr. Harrison." Voldemort leaned forward, grasping Izar's chin in his hand and bringing his gaze onto his own. "Study hard this year. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Izar nodded sharply, watching as Voldemort dropped his hand and made his way to the door.

No one had ever expected him to do well in school. No one ever showed a concern. But something about the man's command made Izar unsettled.

Study hard?

There was something much more going on here.

Death of Today

"I just placed my name in the Goblet, father."

The Norwegian Minister smiled. It wasn't a reassuring smile, and if anyone were to see it, they would have grown leery. "Very good." The Minister stood. "We will destroy the British government yet again. Riddle won't stand a chance."

The smile turned into a deep sneer as he thought of the British Undersecretary to the Minister. That fool bet enough money to rival a family's life savings on this Tournament, foolishly vowing that the British would crush the Norwegians this Tournament. The Norwegian Minister remembered the egotistical gleam in Riddle's eyes as he had placed his bet.

Riddle had something up his sleeve this Tournament.

And the Norwegian Minister would play right back.

This Tournament was cutthroat. And he wouldn't be played as a fool, especially by Riddle.