8,508Chapter 5: Part I Chapter 5
Edited October 2020
Part One, Chapter Five
Izar's eyebrows pinched together in fierce concentration.
The glass just wouldn't mold into shape. Every time he tried to measure the dimensions, they altered on him, making the glass plane impossible to mold with the rest of the material. Looking down at the contraption in his hands, he had to admit, this piece of invention was unsightly. But Izar wasn't a designer, and this was his first draft. What mattered was the magic inside the—well—he'd come up with a name later.
The shape itself wasn't even defined as a circle or a box, but rather something in between with a few sharp corners…
His fingers stilled. A pair of gloating eyes reflected back at him in the piece of glass he held. It took him a moment to recognize the person staring back at him, and as he did, he dropped the piece of spelled glass, watching in horror as it shattered on the table.
It didn't explode as Izar had anticipated. It should have bloody exploded if he had spelled it correctly. Inhaling deeply to control his frustration, he turned slowly, staring up at Tom Riddle with a mixture of surprise and irritation.
"Mr. Riddle," Izar greeted, "what are you doing down here?"
The first thing he wanted to ask was how the man knew he worked as an Unspeakable. But considering Izar hinted at his connections to the Ministry with his letter, this turnout was unsurprising. The man was only second to the Minister and would have access to the Ministry files.
What did the Dark Lord have in mind, exactly?
For a long moment, Riddle chose to remain silent, his eyes first observing the project in Izar's hands and then taking a longer time to examine his face. "Your lunch period is approaching in a matter of minutes, is it not?"
Izar pursed his lips, setting down his tools. They didn't do him much good anyway.
"I wasn't planning on taking a lunch break today, sir," he said respectfully. "As you can see—"
"A lunch break is clearly much needed."
Around them, Unspeakables paused in their work at the interruption. Their cool stares assessed the situation quickly before going back to their work. Some shared looks, while others shook their heads. Izar found he did not appreciate the silent communication.
Riddle smiled politely. "I would most enjoy your presence, Mr. Harrison."
It was an order coated with a sweetly sugared tone. Izar gave a light sigh as he stood from his bench. Perhaps a break would do him some good. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any choice in the matter.
As Izar followed Riddle, he passed the Unspeakables still working at their benches. Their inventions looked a hell of a lot better than his own. Izar was curious to know what they were constructing and the functions of each of their inventions. But it was an unspoken rule that everyone kept quiet about their works. Inside and outside the Ministry.
Once they reached the lift, Riddle reached over and placed a hand upon Izar's head. A Disillusionment Charm trickled cold tendrils of imaginary liquid down Izar's head, causing the younger wizard to shiver. "Just a precaution," Riddle murmured, patting Izar once more as if reassuring him he knew exactly where to find him despite the Charm. "At this point in time, it is best if less people see you and I together."
With that, the Dark Lord turned back forward once a wizard joined them on the eighth floor.
Izar recognized the benefits of not being seen with Riddle in too many public places, and yet...
Glancing at the Dark Lord next to him, he could not discern anything on the Dark Lord's expression. Was he furious with Izar? Feeling murderous because Izar had not taken the Mark? It was impossible to tell. The only thing putting Izar at ease was the man's magic. It was calm and tranquil today. As well, there had been several Unspeakables who had seen Riddle lead Izar away.
If Riddle was going to kill him, he wouldn't have allowed so many people to witness their departure.
When the lift finally came to an abrupt halt, Riddle escorted Izar out, his taller frame dwarfing the younger wizard as they swarmed through the mass of workers moving toward the Ministry's cafeteria. Izar noted several people stopping and staring at Riddle—as if startled at the popular politician's mundane desire to eat with common-folk—while others tried to wave him down.
Riddle moved quickly past, pretending he did not see them. He pressed close to Izar, his hand persistent and firm against his shoulder. "I hope you don't mind if we eat at one of the Ministry's subsidiaries. I find the cafeteria food rather bland and far too public."
The Ministry contracted with several cafés and restaurants. Izar didn't know their names—had never planned on eating anywhere for lunch, as he hadn't had the disposable income. Yet Riddle dragged him toward one of the numerous doorways located toward the back of the cafeteria. As they phased through the doorless archway, they entered a café that was entirely out of Izar's capability of comprehending.
Dishes and drinks zoomed gracefully overhead, utensils were sparkling, the tablecloths were giving off a rich sheen, and everyone was dressed immaculately. The place reeked of wealth and Izar found himself afraid to breathe and dirty it.
"Have you eaten at the Incantation before?" Riddle ushered Izar forward by sliding his hand from Izar's shoulder to the small of his back.
Izar tensed at the physical contact, not at all used to touches, caresses, or anything remotely similar. Nonetheless, he tried to ignore the controlling hand on his back. "No, I don't have the luxury to dine out." He studied the golden cutlery and empty dishes in front of vacant, decorated seats. "Especially at a café that looks as if they serve food upon gold dishware."
"Then consider it a birthday gift," Riddle remarked lightly. He nodded toward the hostess who stood at the front podium. She all but simpered at the sight of him, bowing her head as he passed the long line of waiting customers.
No one complained once they caught sight of who was skipping the line.
Izar felt odd as he passed the group of customers. Granted, they wouldn't notice him with the Disillusionment Charm, but that did not erase the uncomfortable feeling. Never had he had the privilege to walk out of turn, to be served out of turn. And he never had the privilege to have his own table at a fancy café like Riddle.
The secluded table was located in the back of the café, mostly obscured by a tall, stone pillar.
"A birthday gift?" Izar repeated questionably, not at all sure what the man was getting at.
Riddle motioned for him to sit. "For your birthday. Today." His tone was clearly amused, if not a bit discouraged. "Surely you did not forget your fifteenth birthday."
After taking his own seat, Izar took a mental note of the date and realized Riddle was correct. It was his birthday. August 16th. The orphanage caretakers had stopped wishing him a happy birthday at the age of ten, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was the first person outside the orphanage to ever wish him a Happy Birthday. "Quite frankly, my birthday was the last thing on my mind."
"And what…" Trialing off, Riddle leaned forward and placed a hand on Izar's head. The man's wandless magic tremored and the hot sensation of the breaking Disillusionment Charm trickled down his head. "Is on your mind?"
You, mostly.
Izar looked down and away from Tom Riddle's intense scrutiny as a waitress approached. With her came two levitating steaming cups of tea that were placed in front of Izar and Riddle. Her eyes remained lowered as she also placed two menus on the table. With a small curtsey, she left without a word, as if knowing how Riddle preferred to be served.
Watching her go, Izar contemplated on how to interact with Tom Riddle.
He wasn't skilled in the art of socializing or dancing politically with an Undersecretary to the Minister or Dark Lords. Loathe as he was to admit it, Izar was slightly thrilled to endure the man's attention again. Any man or women would be flattered that a Lord was giving them attention, especially after refusing their Mark.
He chanced a glance upward, catching the charmed brown eyes still waiting for an answer. "Work. Mostly. Among other things." He reached for his cup of tea, giving both himself and his hands a needed distraction.
"Yes, your work." Riddle's eyes brightened. "The Unspeakables. Tell me, how did you find yourself in their grasp?"
Izar had to remind himself that Riddle was a seducer. It was his intention to make those he recruited feel important and exclusive. Regardless of his intentions, Izar decided to play along. "It isn't entirely unusual for Unspeakables to recruit students when they are still enrolled in Hogwarts—"
"Fourteen?"
Izar stirred his tea. "Broderick Bode was the youngest Unspeakable recruit. He had just turned fourteen. The Department screens for wizards or witches who are inclined to perform well with experimental magic and innovations. They contacted me after I took my O.W.L.s." He paused. "It's mostly menial tasks now, but I get paid for it. It gives me experience."
Silence.
When he looked up, he noticed the man's attention was on Izar's spoon and his restless stirring. Immediately, Izar dropped the spoon with a clatter, feeling his face heat up.
"There is no reason to undersell your abilities," Riddle said.
"I'm not trying to sell anything." He peered closely at Riddle, wanting to know what—exactly—was driving the man. "I don't know what you've heard from others, but I am no genius. I just happen to have an aptitude with magic. It comes easily to me. Being young does not make it any more of a remarkable feat than if I were an adult."
"And that bothers you, does it not?" The all-knowing eyes seemed to peer through Izar. "Being reminded you are a mere child. That you are not meant to do—or accomplish—feats that are normally reserved for adults. When you manage to demonstrate these capabilities, you get a pat on the back in congratulations, yet all goes back to normal and you are once again treated like a child."
Izar felt his insides quiver with excitement and suspicion.
"You're a Legilimens," he stated darkly.
He envied Legilimens. He had never excelled in that art and he grew envious of the wizards who managed to excel. Both Dumbledore and Severus Snape were skilled Occlumens and Legilimens. Izar always felt exposed before both men. Exposed and defenseless.
"I am," Riddle acknowledged easily. "But I am not in your mind." He turned his attention on his tea and hooked a finger at the edge of the saucer, sliding it closer. "I understand you well, simply because I was once a child."
Izar scoffed with amusement.
An indulgent smile curled Riddle's mouth. "Orphans are a different breed of child. We learn young to stand on our own." He curled his long fingers around the handle of his cup, entirely ignorant to the sharp interest he'd garnered from Izar. "We hate being treated as children because we have gone through many adult trials. We have a desperate need to prove ourselves. We no longer want to be separated from the masses as orphaned children, but rather as formidable and imposing adults."
He hadn't known. "You were—"
"Yet you are still a child," Riddle cut him off smoothly, quirking a brow as he tasted the tea. "You have accomplished great feats for one so young, but you are still growing—learning." He looked at Izar from the corner of his eye. "And I greatly look forward to seeing what else you have to offer."
There was something unspoken there.
Izar stared, finding himself at a loss at the intensity and the secrecy Riddle exuded. Was this all part of the seducing? Was this one big show and demonstration he performed for all the other followers? To flatter, entice, and allude to something more?
Before he could think further on it, the waitress returned to take their orders. Riddle ordered something in French and Izar—not having looked at the menu yet and certainly not entirely fluent in French—simply ordered the same. That seemed to amuse Riddle greatly, which led Izar to the conclusion he'd just ordered something utterly revolting.
Or, as the waitress returned a moment later, illegal.
She placed the alcohol in front of Izar without question and promised to return with their food in just a short bit.
Riddle smirked into his glass without saying anything. Or rather, he let the humiliation settle properly before— "Here is to the first step into adulthood." He lifted his glass in mock toast, waiting for Izar to try—whatever it was.
Instead, Izar turned up his nose and slid the glass toward the Undersecretary. "I ordered it for you. Figured you may need the added support in dealing with Ministry politicians."
That earned a pleased chuckle from the older wizard who graciously took the tumbler.
They sat in a comfortable silence, both nursing their drinks while listening to the comfortable buzz of conversation from the other café patrons. Izar tried to refrain from anxiously stirring his tea again, having sensed Riddle's eyes focused on his averted face. The stare all but branded his skin, easily putting him on edge. "Are you going to come out and say it? Or do I have to address it first?" Izar asked. "Birthday or no birthday, you brought me here for a very specific reason."
Riddle squinted, humored at Izar's boldness. "You didn't take long to crack."
"I don't enjoy people looking at me like that."
"Oh? And do you find that many people look at you in such a way?" Riddle wondered. "Or do you just grow bashful at attention in particular?"
"I am not bashful." Izar suddenly wished he hadn't given away the drink.
"I think you are. You're unaccustomed to the spotlight and go out of your way to avoid it." Riddle placed down his glass. "Perhaps it best we get you acclimated to public attention. After all, you want to make a name for yourself, don't you?"
"When there is something worth being proud of, I'll endure the public attention," Izar replied. "Until that time—"
"Who says you will be prepared at that time?"
Izar finally looked away from his tea and leveled Riddle with a firm look. "I say."
Riddle's lips parted into a smile.
The waitress arrived with their lunch and Izar examined the entrée. It looked like chicken, though he wasn't sure he could trust it to be so simple. He ate it anyway, taking small bites and exploring the unfamiliar flavors of the dish. It wasn't like the food at Hogwarts—which was far more savory and heartier—nor was it like the orphanage food in its bland glory.
"There is another initiation tonight. I would like you there."
Ah.
Izar's shoulders stiffened.
"Whatever doubts, whatever uncertainties you have—as you expressed in your letter—I will address them now." Riddle placed down his cutlery. "I will not disclose the number of my followers, but there is a vast majority. I am confident we will hold our own against opposing forces."
He sounded so sure, so confident. It was hard to imagine there was going to be a war, but it was time Izar realize that sides needed to be drawn. "And when will you act?"
"At the right time."
Understandable. He wouldn't give Izar any details. "You—you just want to change how society views Muggles?"
"I want us separated completely from Muggles. I want wizards and witches to be able to practice Dark magic without having to concern themselves over its legality. Restrictions over what can and cannot be learned is a violation of our rights. It is time for the darkness to thrive, Izar. It is time for wizards to become the top of the hierarchy. And besides…"
Riddle suddenly leaned forward, his eyes alight with malicious excitement.
"Wouldn't it be fun?"
Izar's knife slipped as he was unexpectedly caught up in Riddle's energy. Would it be…fun? What kind of question was that? Would war—would death—be fun? Would it be exciting to destroy lives and the Wizarding world's very infrastructure?
Well.
Yes.
Izar smiled softly, lowering his lashes and looking back at his lunch. "I get to be branded on my birthday. What a particularly rememberable gift." Because they both knew Riddle would not tolerate another soft rejection. Riddle got what he wanted, Izar realized. And for some very strange reason, he saw it important that a fourteen—no—fifteen-year-old boy get his Mark.
"Trust me, child, having you wear my Mark is far more a gift to me than it is for you."
His ears turned warm at both the tone and the insinuations.
It was strictly about numbers for Riddle.
That was all.
He was just one of many.
Death of Today
Izar returned to the Department of Mysteries after a surprisingly enjoyable lunch break.
Despite the overwhelming reminder that he would no longer be a free man tomorrow, he had enjoyed Riddle's presence—as haughty and arrogant as it had been. But surely it wasn't the true Tom Riddle. Their interactions were fake, like a performance. The Dark Lord couldn't possibly be this friendly to his followers. They were all below him, after all. It was about receiving their loyalty.
He also came to the conclusion that there wouldn't be any dramatic alterations once he got the Mark.
He would still be the same Izar, completely independent and free. He would just need to answer to a Master on occasion. It would be inconvenient, perhaps, but it wouldn't change his life so dramatically. Moreover, he would be at Hogwarts for the next two years. Izar was more than certain the Dark Lord wouldn't make Izar and his other followers leave Hogwarts to attend a meeting.
It was impossible to be done. And that was Izar's safety net.
He would be returning to Hogwarts in a few days. And by that time, he would have more than several months away from the Dark Lord.
Denying the Mark a second time—especially with Riddle's unusual persistence—would prove impossible. He could have run to Dumbledore. He was familiar enough with the Headmaster to feel comfortable doing so. And yet, Izar was curious. His hand may have been forced, but that did not abolish his curiosity on what this all involved.
Riddle even said he'd be Izar's source in the Ministry if he needed assistance. As well, there was someone at Hogwarts who would be there if Izar ever needed aid.
"Don't be so smug," a voice leered in the shadows.
Izar stiffened, turning his heel slowly toward the Unspeakable behind him. The man's short hair was coated with a film of grease, drawing attention to his sunken and pale face. His expression was that of indifference, almost boredom. Izar dimly recalled his name. Augustus Rookwood. The Unspeakable who worked in the Time and Space Chambers.
"Excuse me?" Izar replied coldly.
The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth. Rookwood made a quick jerk with his arm and Izar tensed, ready to defend himself if the man pulled out a wand. He need not have worried, for his eyes zeroed in on the sleeve Rookwood pulled up. On the man's thin and pale forearm sat a dark tattoo. It was dim in the Department of Mysteries, but Izar could make out the slithering serpent emerging from the mouth of a skull.
"The Dark Mark," Rookwood whispered hoarsely. "You aren't the only one the Dark Lord sought after. Many of us have been favored with luxurious lunches and bathed with his attentions." Rookwood pulled his sleeve back down. "As soon as this Mark is on your skin, be prepared to be cast away. He will continue on with his next prey."
Izar's jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened at the cryptic warning.
It didn't matter. He enjoyed the shadows—just as Riddle had predicted. He excelled best when the attention was away from him. It wouldn't have mattered if he was cast away from the Dark Lord after he took the Mark. In fact, it didn't sound all that bad.
"You seem to be rather sour," Izar drawled. "Almost as if you don't look highly upon the Dark Lord anymore."
Rookwood gave a small laugh. "I will lay my life down for our Lord, boy. I am merely giving you a friendly warning not to get too drunk off his attention. It can destroy a man." Rookwood paused, his eyes narrowing into slits as he surveyed Izar. "The more I look at you, the more familiar you appear. What was your surname? Sure you're a Muggle-born?"
Izar cast the man a unfriendly look. He didn't want to speak about his parents. He had his own suspicions about his parents, and those suspicions did not settle well with Izar. Not after he tried to track them down in his third year. Not after that potion…. Not…..
He grimaced, pushing those memories away.
He was a Muggle-born.
"Rookwood, don't you have to get back to your Chamber?" a new voice interrupted.
Izar turned to Lily Potter, eyeing her as she stood her ground. Her petite frame was exaggerated with her heavy black robe, and her deep, auburn hair had the same layer of grease that Rookwood's hair possessed. Neither of the two seemed to take much pride in their appearance.
"Speaking of Muggle-borns," Rookwood murmured quietly, his eyes raking over Lily with revulsion.
Augustus then gave Izar one last searching look before turning and entering the Space Chamber.
Clear emerald eyes turned to Izar. The Ravenclaw noted the dark circles under Lily Potter's haunted eyes. Something must have happened for her to lose such hold of herself. Was James Potter not as great as a man as the books and Prophet claimed?
"I don't need your help," Izar said quietly.
Her shoulders hunched miserably, yet her eyes remained steadfast on Izar. "I came to ask for your assistance today. My partner has been ill this week. I need someone to assist me with my work. Would you mind helping? Not many are willing to be so close to the Veil."
Immediately, Izar's mood shifted. "I have been preoccupied with my own experiments," he replied shortly. He watched as Lily smiled softly, her cracked lips stretching knowingly. He returned the smile just briefly. "But I don't think I can pass up an opportunity to work in the Death Chamber."
He followed her inside the Death Chamber, his mind effortlessly turning away from the ominous aspects of today, eager to learn more about the Veil.