Click Clack. BOOM BOOM BOOM.

The sound repeated itself as Arcangelo Crocifissa Gurreiro, a pureblood wizard of 17, unloaded the clip of his 9mm Glock 19 into a paper target. Arcangelo, Arc for short, had been in the basement shooting range of his families mansion for almost 5 hours today, honing the skills he had been brought up learning. For your average 17 year old pureblood wizard, these skills would be all manners of magic, speech skills, how to present yourself in public, what to wear in the presence of others, and all kinds of boring aristocrat stuff. And Arcangelo had learned all of these things, but he also had learned other things. All manners of dark magic, guncraft, the use of explosives, knife skills, first aid techniques, how to infiltrate high security buildings, and most importantly, how to kill skillfully and with no emotion. Like I said before, Arcangelo Crocifissa Gurreiro is not your average 17 year old. He was a member of a clan of wizard assassins, The Morte Regalo Assassinos, translated into The Death Gift Assassins. The constant repetitive noise of the Glock had given him a headache, so he proceeded to lazily toss one of his handmade stainless steel throwing knives into the wooden wall of the shooting range.

"Accio Knife" he muttered. The knife zoomed across the room and had just entered his hand when he heard the door open. He had no need to check who it was; his father was the only other person to come down here.

"Arc, I have something very important to tell you," his father said with no emotion.

Arc shot him a look of surprise, which he quickly covered up with the emotionless mask that he wore at all times. His father rarely talked to him, let alone delivered important news. "Which is?" Arc replied levelly.

"You are being transferred this school year. You will no longer go to Durmstrang."

Arc nodded, this was good news, traveling all the way from Italy to Bulgaria every school year was a pain.

"You will now go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in Scotland." His father finished with a flicker of a smile playing at his lips.

Arc was surprised. "Scotland?" He thought. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. That's even farther than Bulgaria!" While he harbored these thoughts on the inside, on the outside he kept his cool, his face keeping the same look indifference that he had been taught as a young boy.

"What is the meaning of this, father?" Arc asked, knowing that there was a reason other than just education.

"You have been given a contract, my son. A contract to kill. Your mark is a student there."

Arc looked up from the table where he had been cleaning his Glock. Although he had been trained all his life to kill, to fulfill contracts for the many people across the world that wished someone else dead, he had never actually been assigned a contract. Most people wouldn't pay money for someone to be killed, only to have the contract be given to a 17 year old who would, in their minds, screw up somehow. But Arc knew he wouldn't screw up. He was born to kill. Bred to kill. He was born into the most infamous assassin family in the business, initiated into the most professional clan of wizard assassins there is, and trained by the best in the business. Arcangelo Crocifissa Gurreiro could sneak up behind you, slit your throat, and sneak away without being detected in less time than it takes most people to lock their front doors. There would be no failing this contract.

"Who is the contractor?" Arc inquired.

"There is no specific names, but we know it was issued by the Death Eaters."

Arc nodded, the Death Eaters were good business partners of the Morte Regalo Assassinos. "And who is it I am supposed to kill?"

His father smiled. "It is three people actually. Three people who I am sure Voldemort has been wishing to get out of the way for quite awhile. They go by the names of Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter."

Three Days Later

Arcangelo sat at a darkwood table in the spacious dining room of his families mansion in Venice, Italy. He was reviewing the information his father had given him on his targets before he left for Hogwarts the next day. He would become an expert on the lives of the three Gryffindors he was tasked with killing. He knew their schedules, where they slept, who they were close to, when they were alone, everything. When he finished reading and rereading the pages, he walked up stair to his large bedroom. Actually, bedroom was an understatement. It was more like a grand hall. Killing people paid well. Arc then proceeded to check over the equipment he would use for the contract. He had all his standard school supplies, including his wand, obviously. He also had a few other things. The information said that Hogwarts had wards that prevented muggle technology from being used inside of school boundaries, so Arc had to alter his usual set of tools. He was bringing his trusty dagger, a few throwing knives, a coil of long, thin rope, a black facemask, and various poisons. He was also bringing a new item, one he had just invented a few days ago. It was made of light steel, and was place on ones lower arm. It had a housing for a dagger, and a button that was inbetween ones thumb and index finger. Pushing this button caused the dagger to slide forward, into the palm of the wearer, while still staying attached to the casing. And last but not least, Arc was bringing his Glock 19 and some ammo. It would most likely prove useless, but hey, it was a comfort thing.

Two Weeks Later

Arcangelo looked down at his Rolex, nervously tapping the floor of the Rolls Royce with his foot. Although he had been trained his whole life for what was about to start when he stepped out of the car, he was still anxious. He was on his way to Kings Cross to board the Hogwarts Express. He was hoping to maybe gather some more information about his targets from some of their classmates while aboard the train. He kept checking and rechecking his equipment, and almost had a heart attack when he thought he lost his wand (Mahogany, 12 ½ inches, Dragon Heartstring core). He sighed in relief when he found it in the pocket of his BAPE hoodie. Although he was Italian, he had a thing for clothing that was popular in America. Right as he finished tightening the laces on his immaculately clean Nike Air Force Ones, the car glided to a stop. The driver stepped out and opened the door for him, while another family butler retrieved his luggage.

"I do hope you have a nice term Mr. Gueirro," the driver said in a thick Italian accent.

Arcangelo simply nodded, and started to walk towards the train station, his butler trailing behind with his luggage. As he approached Platform 9 ¾ , he caught a glimpse of one of his targets. The Weasley, by his red hair. Arc quickly locked on and followed the Weasley through the crowd of muggles on their daily commute. But it appeared he had lost him, for the bright haired teen was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated with himself, he began to think of where he could have gone.

"The train!" He told himself. It seemed pretty obvious now that he thought of it.

He began to search for Platform 9 ¾ in earnest. However, it was nowhere to be seen. He saw platforms 9 and 10, but there was nothing in between. But he did see a crowd of kids, ranging from little kids to teens that appeared to be around the same age as him. He figured that they were wizards, and that the wall between platforms 9 and 10 was the entrance to Platform 9 ¾, but Arc could not figure out how get through it. And while he was staring at the group of adolescents, thinking of how to get through the solid brick wall, one of the kids broke off from the group, sprinting full speed at the wall between platforms 9 and 10. Arcangelo winced, knowing the kid was about to slam into the wall, hard. But there was no crash. Arcangelo opened his eyes, looking around in confusion for the kid who was supposed to have messed himself up by now. He was nowhere to be seen. This time, when the next person broke off from the group, Arc watched carefully. The boy, who couldn't have been older than 13, jogged at the brick wall with less speed than the boy who went before him. And instead of having his face smashed in, he simply went right through the wall. Poof. Like it was smoke.

"What the hell? No way that just happened. I'm not seeing right. It must be the early hour." He assured himself.

But, lo and behold, the process repeated itself yet again. Poof. Like the wall wasn't even there. Arc had to watch several more teens, and the occasional parent, travel through the seemingly solid wall before he convinced himself that his mind was not playing tricks on him, and that the people before him were indeed traveling through the wall.

"So that's how it's done," he thought to himself. He glanced at his watch. The train would be leaving soon. "Well, I better get to it then."

Arcangelo relieved his luggage from his butler and placed it in a nearby luggage trolley. He walked calmly to the front of the pack of Hogwarts students, cutting off a young girl who was about to go.

"Hey, you cut me! I was just about to-." She was stopped by the look Arcangelo threw her, which clearly said, "Keep talking and see what happens, bitch." She shut up.

Arc then stared the brick wall down, as if preparing to do battle with it. He was nervous, though he would never admit it. Pummeling his nerves into submission, he proceeded to sprint at the wall full speed. He closed his eyes, preparing for the crash that he was sure would happen-

And he wasn't disappointed. He opened his eyes and found that the crash had not come from slamming into the brick wall. No, he had made it through the wall just fine. The crash had come from slamming into a dark haired young man who appeared to be about his age.

"Watch where the hell your going!" the young man shouted.

Arc was about to open his mouth and teach the insolent fool some respect, when he got a closer look at the mans face. He was most definitely Arcangelos own age, with dark hair, and green eyes. He wore glasses and had a scar on his forehead. A lightning shaped scar. Arc quickly decided to apologize, and not ridicule his target, for maintaining the illusion of being your targets friend helps in getting close to him.

"Oh sorry. I wasn't paying attention. I'm new to the whole running threw walls thing. In fact, I'm new to this school," Arc said, layering his voice with a touch of concern and anxiety, to make himself appear the nervous newcomer.

"Oh, well that explains a lot. Welcome to Hogwarts then. I'm Harry. And you?" Harry replied.

"Arcangelo Crocifissa Guerreiro. I'm from Durmstrang, but I live in Italy." Arcangelo replied with a touch of pride.

"That's a pretty odd name. What does it mean?" Harry asked with a curious look.

"It translates to Archangel Crucifix Warrior." Arcangelo shot back.

"Oh, that's pretty cool. Well, we better get going; The Hogwarts Express is about to leave. So I'll see you around then?" Harry asked.

Arcangelo gave him a malicious grin. "Oh yeah, most definitely."