8,508Chapter 11: Part I Chapter 11
Edited January 2021
Part One, Chapter Eleven
Hogsmeade was just like it was every time Izar visited; crowded, loud, and full of rude and overeager people.
With his hood drawn, he swam through the mass of bodies toward the Hogs Head. Considering the sensitivity surrounding his meeting, as well as his most recent fame, he didn't want to attract notice. The last thing he needed was someone from Hogwarts following him and identifying the recently resurrected Regulus Black.
He ducked behind the crowd and finally arrived at the putrefied footstep of Hogs Head.
He was here, but was he ready?
Pausing momentarily, Izar cursed his hesitancy and opened the door to the tavern.
Izar had sought refuge here enough times to anticipate the loud squeak resulting from the hinges. The tavern was typically his quiet escape from the normal hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade. While the patrons were rather dodgy, Izar found he preferred how they all kept to themselves. Most importantly, they were not throwing elbows or shouting among each other.
Aberforth Dumbledore stood behind the counter, his sunken eyes watching as the hooded figure lowered his hood. A small grin eased the grumpy lines across his face as soon as he recognized Izar.
"Hello, Aberforth," Izar greeted softly as he approached the vacant bar.
He tried to ignore his racing pulse, otherwise he would have to acknowledge how nervous he was to meet Regulus. There were several patrons scattered throughout the hazy tavern, mostly all cloaked in shadow or under hoods as they slumped over their frothy ale. His eyes did not linger. He would let Regulus approach him.
Izar carefully avoided dragging his only decent cloak across the ground. It was so filthy, it appeared as if the pub had forgone floorboards all together and merely used packed dirt and layers of gluey goo. With the back of his hand, he wiped off the dust and dirt from the stool before settling down.
Aberforth grunted. "Izar." His hands were preoccupied with wiping down a mug with a rag that appeared as if it had seen better days. "I heard you got yourself a bit of glory."
"Yes," Izar said wryly, "eternal glory."
The man's bright blue eyes rivaled those of his older brother's as he carefully assessed Izar. "Not too happy about the selection, eh?"
Izar offered the man a small grin. "What gave it away?"
Aberforth grunted again as he took the polished—or semi-polished—mug and poured a bit of butterscotch-colored liquid inside. "Why don't you have a butterbeer? On the house."
The older wizard slid the mug across the bar top. The liquid sloshed violently over the lip as Izar stopped it with the palm of his hand. He stared at the vaguely dirty mug, a bit surprised at the gesture. "No, no, I can pay for it…" He trailed off uncertainly as his hands went automatically to his empty pockets. He knew he didn't have any money on him.
When did he ever have any money?
"Don't be silly," Aberforth growled as he removed another dirty glass to polish. He sniffed as he worked a rather stubborn stain. "When you win your Tournament earnings, you can pay me back in threefold."
"It's a deal." Izar leaned forward and sipped the foam at the top.
It warmed his throat and eventually his whole body. He knew the first couple of sips would probably be the only ones he would enjoy, for he felt someone approach him from behind.
Here we go.
Death of Today
The photographs in the paper hadn't done him any justice.
Regulus curled a hand around his mug as he eyed Izar from beneath his hood.
The boy had a small stature, but that was entirely unsurprising considering Regulus had been just as small at that age. He'd experienced his growth spurt far later than his male classmates. Body stature aside, Izar may have carried traits belonging to Lily and her side of the family, but the Black qualities were painfully evident and rightfully dominating.
He possessed the Black patrician features with the prominent cheekbones and the delicate, but sharp jawline. A straight nose was faultlessly situated over full lips. And the eyes… Regulus had been fascinated with their color when he had observed Izar in the papers. The shape of them were entirely Lily's, but the color was a unique green with enough grey to set them apart from hers.
Izar was a thoroughbred aristocrat.
Was it wrong for Regulus to feel proud over something as trivial as appearances? Was it wrong to revel that this child resembled the Blacks? No, he imagined it was entirely justified.
He sat up, knowing he could not gaze at a distance forever. There was a certain excitement over the prospect of getting to know this child. He knew nothing about Izar. Merlin, he didn't know if Izar knew about him. Lily must have raised him. But then why was his surname 'Harrison'? Why did Izar wear robes that appeared as if they were secondhand? And trainers that looked worn?
As he took note of Izar's robes, he observed the Ravenclaw colors.
Regulus experienced a quick twang of disappointment that Izar wasn't in Slytherin like the rest of his family. But Ravenclaw was a noteworthy exception. Both he and Lily would have excelled in Ravenclaw, after all, they had both turned out to be Unspeakables, if only for a short time on Regulus' part.
Regulus stood up abruptly when he noticed a dastardly looking wizard approach Izar from behind.
It had been many years since Regulus had interacted with people. He just hoped he would appear capable enough in the eyes of his son.
Death of Today
Izar expected Regulus to come up behind him. However, he did not expect the cold and greasy hand lingering across the back of his neck and the foul smell of unwashed body to encompass him.
If this was Regulus, Izar would turn his heel from the pub and never look back.
His eyes flashed as he eyed the man pushing up close beside him.
"Back up, Gorgon, he's only a school boy," Aberforth growled distastefully.
Gorgon wheezed as he pressed closer to Izar. "I just wanted to see if he wanted a bit of fun, Ab. Nothing to worry your head over." Filthy eyes turned back to Izar, who gazed jadedly back. "What do you say, pet?" Gorgon leaned forward with a lavish lick to his lips. "Want a bit of a 'toss?"
A ring-clad hand suddenly grabbed hold of Gorgon's greasy head before promptly slamming it against the bar. A bit of blood splattered on Izar and the counter as Gorgon slumped to the ground dazedly, blood dripping steadily from his nose. Izar caught sight of the flashy heirloom ring on his savior's hand and knew instantly that it was Regulus Black.
Izar sighed deeply, trying to cover up his anxiety of finally meeting the man. He wiped the bit of blood from his sleeve, mourning the stain on his decent robe, before gathering his courage and looking into haunted eyes.
He ran a quick eye across the wizard. "Well," Izar started off dryly, "at least you don't smell like body odor, but a bit of grooming would go a long way."
One word to truly describe Regulus was rough.
The paranoia Regulus carried, and the ghostly look in his eyes nearly detracted attention from the heavy beard across his face.
Regulus offered a bit of a grin as he stroked his beard. On his index and middle finger, a ring flashed back at Izar. "I usually don't grow a beard or allow my hair to grow long, but it disguises me a bit." He clearly didn't speak much, for his voice was hoarse and raspy.
"You mean people will hopefully mistake you for your brother."
It was true. Despite Regulus appearing a bit lither than his brother, he did resemble Sirius with all that hair.
All pretenses suddenly fell away once Regulus realized that Izar knew of his identity. He abruptly took Izar's face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead. The man then took Izar in his arms, clutching him to his chest. "Forgive me," he murmured into Izar's ear, "but I cannot make myself shake hands with a son I was cruelly kept away from all these years."
Izar hadn't…expected this.
He had imagined Regulus being like all the other smug, entitled pure-bloods. He would have thought Regulus had known about his existence and had readily abandoned him. He didn't expect to see a man who looked as if he had been on the run—or rather in hiding—and he certainly didn't expect his first hug to be from his long-lost father whom he'd cursed for the better part of his childhood.
Izar sat stiffly, unaccustomed with the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Then you must forgive me for not trusting you yet," he said rigidly.
Regulus slowly pulled away and nodded. With a surprising amount of impassiveness, he ushered Izar off the stool and escorted him to a table in the corner of the tavern.
"You must have heard about me," Regulus started the conversation as soon as they sat down. "You appear to know me—of me—and our situation. Lily must have told you then." The man's face darkened and an unnerving smile crossed his face. It reminded Izar of Bellatrix's smile. "I can only imagine the lies she has spread. I wonder why you even bothered to meet me."
Regulus then looked frantically around the pub, as if he expected Lily, or perhaps Voldemort, to spring out of nowhere.
Izar reclined further against his chair, frowning at the tabletop full of scratches, stains, and nicks. He gazed slowly back up at the man, assessing him thoughtfully. It could be a rouse, but Izar was beginning to suspect that Regulus truly hadn't known.
Anything.
With a bitter smile, Izar leaned forward. "Lily didn't raise me. I don't even know her." He scowled. "I was—and am—residing in a Muggle orphanage."
Regulus' expression crumbled into weariness and he ran a hand down his face. Grey eyes then focused on Izar. "Then how did you know about her? About me?" He sighed. "I don't understand why she would do this…"
Izar ignored the last bit. "I just found out recently. Before then, I brewed a heredity potion a few years ago." He grinned humorlessly. "Someone had blocked my lineage. I realized my father or mother was magical and they didn't want me to find out about them. I stopped caring when I came to the conclusion that they'd been embarrassed about their bastard son."
Regulus slammed his palm against the table and leaned forward. "That is not what happened, damnit. You must know that I had no knowledge of your existence. She lied, she betrayed, she was and is a cruel bitch. The only reason I found out about you is through the Prophet. Your picture—you look so similar to me when I was a young man. And your age fit exactly…"
"Where were you?" Izar asked bitterly. "Everyone thinks you're dead. Lord Voldemort thinks you're dead. How can you fool them?"
Regulus looked around the pub before pulling up his left sleeve.
Izar's eyes widened when he witnessed Regulus' naked forearm.
"I'm not a Death Eater," Regulus whispered quietly. "My family was very loyal to the Dark Lord. When I was young, I did him many favors, but I was never Marked because I was still attending Hogwarts." His eyes clouded with past memories. "I betrayed him, yes, but that is another story entirely, a story Lily participated in just as much as I did." He paused. "Severus Snape was the one ordered to kill me."
Izar sucked in a breath. "Professor Snape betrayed the Dark Lord's order? He made everyone believe he killed you while allowing you to run? Is he really disloyal to the Dark Lord?"
Regulus appeared reluctant. "Severus is loyal to the Dark Lord, but he and I shared a friendship that surpassed that loyalty. We agreed I would never return to Britain, and that we would never make contact again. Even if I am not wanted by the Ministry, I cannot show my face because Severus would be in great danger. But I can't possibly stay away when I have found a son—a son who was raised by Muggles."
Regulus reclined against his seat, his eyes intent on Izar.
"What I want to know," he continued with a protective bite in his tone, "is how you found out about us if your lineage was blocked?"
Izar knew it would come to this. It was better if Regulus knew now rather than later. It was evident the man already had his suspicions. "My second cousin had the decency to provide me with the information. She told me she witnessed your 'pathetic affair' with Lily…"
"And how did you get in contact with Bellatrix? The last I knew she was wanted for questioning by the Ministry and chose to stay in hiding." Regulus' jaw clenched as he glanced at Izar's left arm. "How did you get in contact with her, Izar?" he repeated again, this time oddly serious and every bit livid.
"I think you know the answer to that," Izar said. "I met her during my initiation."
Regulus laughed dreadfully. "The Dark Lord is Marking rather young, isn't he? He must be feeling a bit pinched with the lack of followers."
Izar remained silent, feeling a slight twinge in his Mark. As he happened to glance out the foggy and grimy window, he saw none other than the Dark Lord approaching Hogs Head.
Bloody hell.
Izar quickly turned back to Regulus and frowned. This wasn't how he wanted things to turn out. "I think you should go back into hiding. I am loyal to the Dark Lord, Regulus, but I will commit this one act of treason because I am fond of Severus Snape. I appreciate your attempt to include me in your life, but I don't need you or Lily," he said bluntly. "I can handle myself."
Regulus shook his head stubbornly. "I cannot do that, Izar."
Izar stood up. He reached across the table and lowered the man's hood with a certain amount of remorse. "Then you would be risking not only your own life, but Severus' and mine as well." Izar allowed his fingers to linger across Regulus' cheek before pulling away.
A hand gripped his wrist, holding him back. "You are my child—"
"I'm doing this for your own safety. Bow your head and don't get up to follow me."
Regulus frowned at his persistent tone, but his fingers reluctantly unshackled Izar.
The younger wizard made it across the room just as the tavern door squeaked open. If at all possible, the atmosphere in the pub grew considerably darker. The Dark Lord's magic wickedly rejoiced as it gleefully encompassed the wizards and witches in the pub. Men hugged their mugs closer, hunching in on themselves as they avoided eye contact with the stranger who was eerily silent but possessed an incredibly loud presence.
Curious, Izar glanced over his shoulder, instantly noticing the Dark Lord did not have his glamour up.
He didn't think he would ever get used to the Dark Lord's magic.
It was exhilarating.
He was curious to know what Regulus had done to betray the Dark Lord if the man hadn't even been a Death Eater, but Izar had to muffle his curiosity on the matter. He carefully tried to clear his mind of the meeting, not wanting the Dark Lord to catch any thoughts on the matter. Izar sent a silent prayer to Merlin, hoping Regulus would go by undetected.
From the corner of his eye, Izar watched as Voldemort stopped at the bar directly next to Izar and placed his hand on the counter.
Izar cupped his hands around his lukewarm butterbeer, trying to keep his eyes away from the Dark Lord. It was difficult, especially because he felt the red eyes roaming the side of his face.
"How much for the room above? I only need a half an hour at most," Voldemort inquired.
Aberforth looked between Izar and the Dark Lord, his expression blank. "One Galleon."
Aberforth's eyebrows rose as he watched the Dark Lord remove a Galleon from his cloak and slide it across the bar. The pub owner then took the Galleon, biting on it once before taking out a key from his pocket and presenting it to the Dark Lord. Izar set his mug down as he felt the cool hand curling briefly around the nape of his neck.
"You, child, are going to accompany me."
The wizard offered the slumped and dazed Gorgon a brief, considering look before leading the way to the back of the tavern. Sliding off his stool, Izar followed the Dark Lord's tall frame into the closed space of the stairwell, feeling Regulus' eyes trail after him.
Don't think about that…
"Why am I not surprised to find you here?" Voldemort started unkindly as they made their way upstairs. "If one needs to locate Izar Harrison, all they must do is search the least populated and most forsaken dark corner."
Izar did not respond as he watched the Dark Lord fit the key in the rusty lock and open the door.
No good could come from this visit.
Once they were inside, Voldemort turned and lowered his hood. "I want you on your knees." His tone was cold and unfriendly, very similar to the tone he'd used last week with the Mark fiasco.
Izar dropped to his knees before proceeding to lower to his forearms. He knew the Dark Lord wouldn't just want Izar on his knees. He would expect a formal bow, and Izar got into position before the man had to ask. As he placed his forehead against the floorboards, he watched the boots reposition intentionally near his forehead.
It was to establish submission and dominance and Izar hated every second of it.
He closed his eyes against the floor and tried to envision himself elsewhere, and while that worked for a time, the seconds stretched into minutes of complete silence. He grew uncomfortable as the Dark Lord's gaze all but burned a hole through the back of his neck. Was he to say something? Was he missing an important step to this whole master-and-servant game?
"I—" Izar cleared his throat as he spoke to the floorboards. "I can't think of any reason for you to doubt my standings, My Lord. I have done nothing—"
"Exactly. You have done nothing."
Izar frowned at the harsh tone. "Then forgive me, My Lord."
Voldemort's robes whispered as he moved into a crouch opposite of Izar. A light, nearly non-existent touch swept through Izar's hair, tugging at a particularly stubborn curl. "Do you even know what you are asking forgiveness for?" The tone this time was tight as the Dark Lord struggled and failed to hide a note of amusement.
The Dark Lord oftentimes demonstrated extreme shifts in moods. Perhaps even more extreme than Sirius Black.
"No," Izar muttered as he glared at the floor. "My Lord," he carefully added a moment too late.
"Look up at me."
Offering the ground another glare, Izar cleared his face and his mind before raising his head. Red eyes caught and held his stare.
"Most wizards and witches have goals, ambitions. Some struggle years—decades—before obtaining opportunities, and even longer to receive a sliver of recognition. Yet you…you have received a quick and instant path to a vast array of different possibilities from this Tournament. Many can only dream of being presented with such an opportunity."
Izar had a hunch he knew where this was going. And he did not like it.
"The spotlight is on you." Voldemort's tone cooled. "And what do you do with it? Instead of taking advantage of showing the world what you can do, and what a brilliant mind you possess, you hide in the shadows, you skip meals to avoid attention, and you snub your nose at such a golden opportunity. The only thing you are portraying to the world is that you are a coward."
"I am not—"
"Silence." Long fingers curled around Izar's jaw as Voldemort shifted closer. "Had you been someone else, your actions would have been inexcusably shameful, though I would not go out of my way to address it. But you are representing Hogwarts and Britain, and you are representing the Death Eaters. Moreover, I have high expectations of you becoming a prominent figure in the political world. I cannot have you skulking."
That sent a spasm of panic through Izar. "But… My Lord," he managed past the hand to his jaw, "I wish to remain an Unspeakable."
Split-crimson eyes narrowed and the fingers tightened. "That Mark on your arm represents your loyalty to me and not the Ministry, correct?" He didn't wait for Izar's reply. "You will be—and become—what I want you to become."
Izar seethed. "As My Lord requests," he hissed.
Voldemort's fingers dug possessively around Izar's jaw before he released him. He seemed to find something humorous, but such sentiments fell way as he stood. "Experimenting is where your passions lay, Izar, and I will not pull you away from your enjoyment." He glided across the room. "However, I also expect your name to be well known throughout Britain."
Izar was relieved the Dark Lord wasn't intending to take him away the Unspeakables. "I understand what you want of me, My Lord, yet I am not good with public interactions." Voldemort glanced at him. "I don't like people."
The Dark Lord's smile was open. "Do you think I enjoy people, little one?" Dark eyebrows rose. "But you are a Black. Blacks are all but bred to occupy political court." At Izar's glower, the Dark Lord inclined his head. "I apologize," he said, not at all remorseful. "I promised I wouldn't mention that, didn't I?"
"It looks as if you'd forgotten."
The Dark Lord waved his hand dismissively. "Start slowly. Attend meals. Engage your classmates in conversation."
"Sounds absolutely dreadful."
"Think of it as a game," Voldemort continued without acknowledging Izar's comment. "Find their weakness and learn everything there is to know about them. Play with them. Charm them." Voldemort clearly read the apathetic expression across Izar's face. "There will not be much time this year, but I anticipate bringing you to Ministry gatherings next year. It is best you practice before such an elite environment."
There were many things wrong with that statement, but Izar honed in on one particular detail. "Next year?" Izar pondered. What was happening next year as opposed to this year?
The wizard's expression was entirely blank. "You may stand."
Unsurprised he would not be getting any answers, Izar stood and brushed the dust from his cloak.
"There is another reason I brought you up here." Voldemort glided forward, appearing suspiciously delighted. "I have a project for you." The man slowly began to circle Izar. "It will take your mind off other…" Voldemort trailed off and raised his wand.
Izar's eyes narrowed at the sight of his current obsession.
"Disobedient projects you have in that mind of yours."
Voldemort placed his wand against Izar's cheek, tapping it smartly before slowly drawing it down the Ravenclaw's jawline. The man was a bloody bastard. Izar kept his unhappy gaze focused directly on taunting crimson. It was settled then. Somehow, the Dark Lord knew of Izar's plan to find out his wand core. Was it Legilimency? Was it truly that easy for him to dive into Izar's head?
Briefly, he wondered how long Voldemort would torture him if Izar were to reach out and grab the man's wand.
It was just one little spell and Izar would know the core.
"What project do you have in mind for me, My Lord?" Izar asked stiffly, trying—and failing—to pretend the wand meant nothing to him.
"I want a portkey." Voldemort removed his wand after one last tap against Izar's cheek. "Not so much a portkey, but I want this device to be small and undetectable. I want it to be able to stick to another object—an object someone can grab hold of."
"You…want a minuscule portkey to attach to something that can't be made into a portkey?" Izar asked, a bit bemused. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you just told me the situation you're going to use it for."
The Dark Lord leveled him a warning stare. "It will be used during raids," he said shortly. "For example, if I was in the Ministry, I would place your invention on Minister Fudge's desk. Someone could touch his desk and it would bring them to a location where the other Death Eaters await. I want this portkey to be a timer of sorts, transporting all said army back to the Ministry without them having to touch the portkey. After all, how could my whole army crowd around and touch a portkey? It wouldn't be possible."
"I see." Izar's mind raced.
It would be relatively easy. He would just need to shrink a portkey and replicate its effects onto the object it stuck to. There was also the added challenge of making it a self-timer as it transported a group of wizards within a certain radius.
"There are restrictions, of course," Izar started. "How big would you like the radius to be? How long would you like the timer for? Will the Death Eaters be in position before the portkey arrives? And the location?"
Voldemort's lips quirked. "For this portkey, I will expect a…twenty-meter radius. As for the timer, let's set it for twenty seconds, no more, no less. The Death Eaters will be in position, and I would like to be the one to set the location." His eyes scrutinized Izar closely. "Do you believe you can accomplish this? If not, I will ask another—"
"No," Izar interrupted quickly, insulted. "I can do it just fine."
The Dark Lord continued to watch him. "It is not that I doubt your capability, but rather the time constraints with the Tournament. You will need to put effort into preparing for the Tasks as well."
Izar shook his head. "If I find myself short on time, I will inform you, My Lord. However, I believe I can complete it before Christmas holidays." He lifted his chin confidently, hating himself for preening under the Dark Lord's pleased expression.
"Good." Voldemort motioned toward the door. "I will let you go. Enjoy the rest of your Hogsmeade visit."
Izar bowed stiffly at the waist before turning for the door. Before he could safely make it out, however, Voldemort stopped him.
"By the way, who was that man downstairs?"
Izar's pulse skipped a beat. "What man, My Lord?"
"I believe he was nearly unconscious next to your stool."
Izar turned back around, relieved.
But then the man continued. "Who did you think I was referring to? I certainly wouldn't be asking after the man in the corner with the Black family ring on his finger."
After a moment of composing his reactions, Izar looked away from the red eyes, scoffing. "That was Sirius Black," he lamented. "I thought it would be beneficial to ask for his help with dueling this year. I thought, with the Tournament and all, I would need a bit more help."
His whole body flushed.
Voldemort would detect the lie, and quite frankly, it was a poor lie.
Surprisingly, Voldemort did not call his bluff. His expression was entirely blank and he seemed to hug his magic close—for it did not give any clue to his mood. "Dueling," the Dark Lord repeated quietly. "See to it that you do set up a schedule with Professor Black. It will be vital going forward, especially with the Second Task. I will check in with your progress."
The Dark Lord then lapsed into a silence and stared at Izar. Realizing Voldemort was dismissing him, Izar offered a hasty nod before opening the door. With a cautious step, he made it safely into the hallway without a hex to his back. He paused, turning back to look at the Dark Lord. The man still stood motionlessly; his gaze unnervingly observant.
Without wasting another moment, Izar turned and fled from the room.
As he made it down to the tavern, Regulus was nowhere in sight.
The only problem?
Izar would need to actually ask Sirius Black for assistance with dueling. As well, he should probably beg Severus Snape to help him with Occlumency. But then Izar remembered Voldemort admitting that he didn't enter one's mind gently. Izar hadn't felt anything enter his mind—not even a tickle.
Izar had a hunch that the man was just that good. No one could hide anything from the Dark Lord. Well, Severus Snape was an exception. After all, he was able to fake Regulus' death without Voldemort being none the wisest.
…or had he been?