The Dark Lord has returned, and finds himself playing a thrilling game of cat and mouse with the enthralling and fascinating Hadrian Black, a mysterious boy who has just transferred to Hogwarts. But who is the cat in this perilous game of danger and desire, and who is the mouse?
Tags: Dark!Harry, Assassin!Harry, nonbinary!Harry
This is my first time writing a nonbinary character, and I'm not nonbinary myself, so I hope I'm not crossing a line here? The Hadrian from my exosphere universe identifies as neither male nor female, since he tends to change his gender the way most people change their shoes, and since I wanted to keep him as true to his OG character as possible I wanted to write him nonbinary here as well, so Hadrian doesn't identify as either gender. However, he goes by he/him when in his male form, and she/her when he's a girl.
Lots of Assassin's Creed references - if you've never played the games, it's not necessary to know anything about them.
A pair of striking, citrine eyes gaze out into the unfurling gardens of gilded gold and crystalline waters; they sparkle brighter than any gem or jewel, burn greater than any sun or star— and yet he has never seen anything quite so cold. The endless darkness around him, the sweet sound of birds chirping in the early morning dark, the way the wind and the shadows seem to twist him into something too sublime for humanly; it is all so breathtaking. He seems like something out of a dream.
He is intensely fascinated; enchanted and wholly enamored with the idea of this mysterious creature, leaning absently against the balcony.
Lord Arduin Cloutier picks his way through the palatial room, stepping over pooling blood and the slain bodies of his enemies, careful not to stain his robes. He stops as he nears the figure drenched in moon spill, still and silent and framed by the darkened view of the Versailles garden. It's the first time he's been still enough for the French lord to observe him fully. He is both larger than life and yet impossibly small; it occurs to the man that this assassin cannot be any older than a boy. A small boy, at that. Perhaps it is the legacy looming over his head that makes him seem so indomitable. He turns back around to the darkened room behind him, stained with the dead; his youth is clearly not a hinderance to his abilities.
The Lord of House Cloutier had not expected an organization like the Brotherhood to assist him in this election, and now that it has happened he doesn't quite know what to expect. The enigmatic and ancient Assassin's Order has existed since the dawn of time, operated under many names, changed the course of history many times, and yet little to nothing is known about it or it's members. Despite its infamous and illustrious history, even Lord Arduin did not truly believe in its existence. He thought it could perhaps even be just a myth. And yet, there is a figure dressed in darkness standing on the balcony terrace to prove otherwise.
But he did not know the first thing about it, other than its infamy. He doesn't know their aims or their goals.
The Frenchman frowns deeply; he does not know what they would expect in recompense, either.
"Don't worry, Liberalis Circulum does not work for money," the child calls into the night, as if plucking the thoughts from his head. Arduin rears back— did he? Or was that just an impressive guess?
Then the figure turns, and the intensity of those eyes fixates on him in full. "I'm not reading your mind," beneath the cowl over his head and the balaclava covering the bottom half of his face his features were impossible to discern, and yet Arduin knew he was amused anyhow; "that is almost always the first question asked. Followed promptly by the mind reading."
His accent was impossible to pin down, but it was distinct nonetheless. It certainly wasn't any he was familiar with.
The man folds his arms. "What do you want, then?" He tosses another glance behind him. Despite the carnage the grand room was surprisingly clean. Not a speck of blood to be found on the carpets or the furniture. His political assailants lay fallen on the marble tile only, bloodshed minimal. A truly clean kill— a truly professional kill.
The assassin merely tilts his head, remaining silent.
In hindsight, that was a particularly ambitious question of him. Of course the boy wouldn't answer. He has no need to indulge the Lord's curiosity, regardless of how intense it was.
Those electrifying eyes glance at him for a long moment. Then the figure is gracefully flipping onto the balcony; crouched low amongst the gargoyles, he could almost look like death himself. Arduin steps forward. "That's it then?" He crosses his arms. "Should I expect a follow up any time soon?"
The figure straightens. "No." He replies, distantly. He turns to look at him one last time, and with his head tilted like that, the moon reveals vibrant eyes and a slip of skin. "I'm sure you won't ever forget how you obtained your political power, Minister— and just who put you there in the first place."
"How about a name, then?"
The assassin looks at him oddly— perhaps incredulously. This too is a rather ambitious question, he knows.
To his endless disbelief, the boy blinks at him and says, simply; "Hadrian."
The man stares at him, evident surprise and awe in his eyes. "Hadrian," he repeats, quietly.
He disappears then, nothing but the slight rustling of the wind to even remark upon his existence here at all. Lord Cloutier shakes his head. No, he does not think he'll ever forget this momentous night for the rest of his life.
With the assassin gone, the French pureblood lets out an exhausted sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He had never considered himself a corrupt politician; he never wanted to be that kind of political leader. He had not gone into politics for money, fame or power. But this would surely count as corruption, wouldn't it? He would be forever indebted to the Assassin's Brotherhood for getting him into power. He wouldn't lie to himself, his main adversary, Lord Deschamps, had been favored to win from the start. He had no doubt the elections would be tough; he had the popular vote but Deschamps all but controlled the Senate. He was highly favored in influential circles— circles with deep pockets and even deeper connections, neither of which they were above using for their own gain. It was the exact sort of underhandedness that Cloutier was championing against.
Could he still say that with conviction now, though?
Deschamps was lying on the floor behind him, empty eyes staring at nothing. Murdered as part of a political ploy— one Cloutier wasn't even entirely sure of. Why would the Brotherhood want him in power in the first place? To call on favors? If that were the case, Deschamps would have been far easier. He was already amenable to bribes and it would take no effort on their part to keep him in power. Manipulating him would be easy for them.
Instead they send one of their assassins— elite, legendary killers of infinite value— to make it look like Deschamps was killed by Moorish rebels, as part of the Moorish separatist conflict. Instead, they vaulted a man who would have lost the election into the highest position in the French Ministry, and he was completely at a loss as to why.
Would it be naive of him to not look at it too closely? To blindly accept this gift and continue on in his career? To pretend as if this had never happened, and that the Assassin's Brotherhood will never come calling on him to return the favor?
No, that assassin was right. He would never forget who had given him this opportunity.
He could make true on his promises he made to the people; more trade, more social programs, more affordable schooling, better quality of life for all wizards and witches.
He would be indebted to the Brotherhood until the end of time, it seems.
"Hadrian," he murmurs the name again, the visage of vibrant, verdant eyes burned into his memory.
/ MISSION 01: FELICITY IN LHASA
import animusConsole
function getMissionFile() {
var agent = Harry Potter;
var status = Master Assassin;
var title = Hadrian Cloutier;
var credentials = agent, status, title;
function validateParameters(credentials) {
return (credentials).evaluate().getContent();
}
}
/ RUN MISSION FILE
/
Hadrian stares down upon the city of Jerusalem with something akin to fondness. The ancient city has grown on him; somewhere along the years of his time with the Brotherhood he had stopped considering it a foreign and intimidating place and learned to call it home. The city seemed endless. Even as an assassin he didn't think he could name each and every street— didn't think he had even scraped the surface of the city's many hidden secrets. There was always a new alleyway, a new corridor, a new sector to explore.
He'll admit though that he prefers this view; observing the city from the peak of one of its tallest mosques, a quiet, watchful shadow in a sliver of sunset, unbeknown to the world below.
"I didn't know you were back. Did you give your report already?" An invisible figure drops soundlessly behind him, not even a flicker of a shadow on the gold roof to show his existence. After a beat the disillusionment melts away, leaving a tall man lined in gold, the setting sun casting upon his fine features with great affection.
Hadrian smiles slightly at the sight, pulling his own hood back. "I did," he replies. "I suppose you have as well, then?"
The mood— which had not been particularly warm, but also not unpleasant— took a spectacular swan dive. The older assassin gave sigh, folding his arms. He could almost look benignly handsome, had the movement not revealed a sharp sliver of blade tucked beneath the shadows of his cloak.
"It is… odd to see him so invested in a single, particular affair," Hassan admits, frowning slightly. "Grandmaster Solomon was missing his usual ambivalence; if I had to guess, he seemed quite troubled."
Hadrian could not deny this at all. The same had occurred to him.
Getting people in and out of power was par for the course. Even Hadrian, as young as he was, had done it more than a dozen times across the globe. And yet the Grandmaster Assassin seemed markedly interested in the events of the French election. Cloutier seemed a reasonable enough man— bit paranoid, but a healthy dose of fear for the Brotherhood was understandable. He would do well as Minister. His open international policies were an impressively bold step away from France's normal affairs.
Missions are normally secretive, even between fellow assassins, but not all the time. Hassan had not been particularly forthcoming over his latest assignment, but Hadrian had known it was in Western Europe as well. He knew quite a few of his Brothers were deployed in that area. There was never such thing as coincidence.
Hadrian's gaze drifts to the east, where a tower in the mountains rises just beyond the city. The citadel; the stronghold of the Assassin's Brotherhood. Lately it has seemed so barren, the streets and rooms no longer crowded with familiar faces. Some, he knows, will never return. Others may take weeks, months— even years. That is the price they pay for this great honor and power. Not just anyone has the power to change the world.
"It's in the West, isn't it?" Hadrian murmurs, voice barely audible above the wind.
Hassan merely tilts his head. "Without a doubt." He returns, without missing a beat.
Hadrian's gaze lowers; a stunning strip of verdant green, burning in the dying light. His lips thin in contemplation. Then he turns around, facing the older assassin once again.
"Hassan, when was the last time this happened?" He asks, his eyes wide and grave, betraying the reality of his youth.
The boy in front of him is so young; he is merely a child. It is true, the Brotherhood is in no shortage of them— but they are normally in the training yards, in the safety of the citadel, learning lessons from their mentors or the monks. Not out in the field, doing the work of men many times their age. The price he must pay, for the power he has.
The man holds his gaze. "During Grindelwald's reign." There's no point in lying to him.
Hadrian must know this already, of course. He is merely asking for confirmation. Hassan smiles slightly; yet another sign of his age. Somehow, it is reassuring to know this cold and stoic young agent can still need reassurance or affirmation from time to time.
"I thought as much," the boy sighs. "So he's back, then."
"There have been rumors. But nothing concrete."
Hadrian's hands clench by his sides. A flash of— something, flickers in those oddly expressive eyes, before he settles back into impassivity. Hassan watches the brief, almost unnoticeable change with a clerical eye.
Hadrian's expression is too difficult to read. Hassan contemplates him further, before finally speaking again. "Have you eaten yet?"
This successfully surprises the younger assassin. He blinks. "...No, not yet."
Hassan beckons him closer. "I know of a new Shakshouka restaurant in the Muslim Quarter— Anaxandria considers it the closest to perfection she's seen in awhile."
Hadrian smiles slightly at that. Impressing the Egyptian native is a difficult thing to do. "Alright," he allows, stepping closer to the older man.
Hassan grabs him gently by the arm, and then the two are disappearing from the roof, only to reappear some distance away, in the comforting shadows of a back alley. The assassin's clothing melts away into nondescript shirts and pants; in this instance it unfurls into an unremarkable linen thobe that allow the two to blend seamlessly into the shifting crowds. Hadrian is forever impressed by the complex spells woven into their uniforms, allowing them to accommodate the local attire no matter where they go.
They reach the restaurant soon enough, ducking low through the dim restaurant to avoid the countless kettles and cauldrons hanging from the ceiling like lanterns. Like most of the buildings in the city, this place looks as if it has seen empires rise and fall and still managed to stay standing. It was impossible to tell when it was made from decor alone; candleholders line the stone walls, the interior is small and narrow, windows few and far between. The place looked timeless, as if it could have opened a thousand years ago or just last week. Hassan speaks quietly to one of the waiters, and then they are being ushered to a table in the far back, nestled between stone and shadow.
"It's been too long since I've seen you, my young friend." Hassan says once they've seated, sparing him a roguish grin. "You look good."
In response, Hadrian offers him one of his rare smiles; it is a well-guarded and extraordinary sight, so he can't help but relish the moment as it passes. It is good to see the boy again, after many months away. Unsurprisingly their schedules often misalign now that Hadrian is no longer an apprentice and takes his own missions. The boy has grown in the past few months since Hassan has seen him. His life is nothing but an unforgiving, ceaseless anarchy of desert that makes him appreciate the sight of him all the more; a calm, sparkling oasis amidst strife and chaos. He can't imagine Hadrian will stay pure and untarnished for much longer.
Hassan scrutinizes him again with mirthful, golden eyes. "And perhaps you've gained a centimeter or two as well."
Predictably, Hadrian bristles. "I've grown more than that, thank you." He retorts crisply, his height (or lackthereof) forever a point of contention.
The Persian assassin smiles thinly. "Yes, I suppose you have." He admits, quietly, feeling oddly lost at the reality of it.
He has known Hadrian ever before he even really existed. Hassan remembers the day the girl arrived, small and bloodied with the cold eyes of a killer— no older than five or six, with wild vermillion hair and haunting eyes and a scar atop her head. The scar and the girl he hasn't seen since, in its place was an equally small and wiry boy with equally wild black hair, the same scar atop his forehead and the same bright and dangerous eyes the color of death. Even then, there was a small string of innocence still wrapped around him; despite his reservations and the almost insurmountable barriers he had erected around himself to keep others out, he was still just a child starved for a comforting, guiding hand, a soft word of affirmation. He arrived and took the whole Brotherhood by storm; everyone from the capital citadel to the outposts in Singapore knew of Hadrian, a young assassin showing more promise than even Grandmaster Solomon at that age. He was a quick study in all arts, and his small build was well suited for the grace and precision of assassination.
He was an impressive scholar, a talented spell caster, and by his tenth birthday there wasn't a weapon in the weaponry arsenal he didn't know how to use. Of course he had been trained in jiu-jitsu since a young age, due to his small size, but as of recently he has expressed interest in expanding his knowledge of the martial arts. Last Hassan had heard he had intended to take a trip to Mount Hua to learn the ancient art of Wushu. Hadrian has long since surpassed most of Hassan's constituents, even the ones with decades of experience over the young boy. But that was to be expected; one did not achieve the title of Fifth Rank without reason. He would be a Master soon enough. He already had passed Hassan in many arts— although he had yet to beat the older man in the art of the blade.
Hadrian was the crowning glory of the Brotherhood; the epitome of perfection. A talented prodigy of such skill and proficiency; the perfect embodiment of their creed. Watching him was like watching a star ascend into the heavens; looking away seemed impossible.
Still though, for all his bountiful accolades and the greatness of the legacy upon his shoulders, he really was still a boy.
A boy currently trying to wheedle their server into serving him alcohol.
"None for this one," Hassan cut in sharply, before Hadrian managed to successfully manipulate the waiter with that silver tongue of his.
Hadrian scowls at him, but Hassan ignores it, moving on to order their food. He gives the boy a very unimpressed look over their water glasses.
"It's not as if I've never had any," the boy retorts, and it is such a normal, childish response for someone his age that it actually makes the man crack a smile.
"I'm sure you have," Hassan agrees. "But not under my watch."
"You're not my Mentor anymore, you know." Hadrian points out. "I'm a fully ranked assassin now." That was basically adulthood, as far as the Brotherhood was concerned.
"Humor an old man, would you?" He asks, winsomely.
Hadrian frowns. "You're not old." He's quick to say, not looking fooled in the least. Then he huffs, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat. "But attempting to argue with you is a waste."
"Old men don't change, Hadrian," he replies wryly, as the waiter returns to pour him a glass of wine.
Hadrian's glance is disbelieving. They both know an assassin will change at the drop of a hat, not matter how old or young they are. The boy merely shakes his head. "You never told me how your mission went," he says instead, rather leadingly.
Hassan merely smiles at him. The restaurant engulfs their brief silence; tinkling copper of ornate dallah pouring coffee from the table over, low murmurs of Hebrew drifting over them with the clouting smoke from hookahs and pipes, noise from the foot traffic outside. He watches Hadrian in the low light, the way his eyes give away his marked interest in the topic, even while his expression remains cool and disinterested.
The boy is… awfully invested in the whole affair.
It's intriguing, to say the least. Hadrian has never expressed such vested interests in the affairs of the world before. Normally he is content to follow what the Assassin's Order asks of him.
Hassan decides to indulge the boy. "I was sent to Vienna, to attend a meeting of Magical Ministers."
Hadrian leans forward. "What for?"
"Gathering information," the older assassin reveals. "Testing the waters, getting a feel for the general opinion in Europe."
"And?"
"Well, the vacuum left behind by Grindelwald's demise has created an opportunistic window for someone new to usurp his position— finish what he started, even." Hadrian's eyes are very wide as he listens with rapt attention. "Currently there is no one powerful enough to take his place, leaving the country's fractured and wary of each other."
The young boy furrows his brows. "What about Albus Dumbledore? He was the one to defeat Grindelwald, was he not?"
"He was," Hassan concurs, unsurprised to know Hadrian is so well-versed in this part of history as he is with the rest of it. "But he returned to the British Isles, and secluded himself there. Magical Britain in particular has always been isolationist; recent policies due to their last civil war only extrapolating that. At any rate, Dumbledore is too old now."
Hadrian nods silently. In the interim their food comes, leaving the silence prolonged as they eat. Hadrian can see why Anaxandria is so fond of this place.
"Enough of such depressing talk," Hassan says, once they've both polished off their meals. "I want to hear about you. How was your trip to Mount Hua? I hope Master Han was not too ornery with you."
Hadrian smiles slightly, willing to let the matter drop. "I was under the impression that was his usual temperament." He returns, mildly.
Hassan laughs. "Not untrue in the least." He agrees. "He's certainly a hard taskmaster."
"He was worse than you, I dare say!" Hadrian retorts with a scoff.
"Was he now?" His old mentor raises an interested brow. "How so?"
Hadrian settles in comfortably, as he begins his long winded diatribe to the woes of the irritable old man of the eastern mountains. "He starts by grabbing the wand out of my hand and throwing it into a nearby tree, telling me I would get nowhere if I had to rely on a piece of wood of all things...
var pos = {
Latitude: 31.2001 N
Longitude: 29.9187 E
};
}
Location:
Alexandria, Egypt
The desert sun scours the empty expanse of dust and sand. It beats down upon the crowds swimming through the bazaar. The smell of spices wafts into the still, warm air; thick and potent. A figure in white dives through the ocean of silk and woven baskets, a shark hidden in plain sight. He moves like the tide, a gentle brush of wind the only memory of his presence. Faceless crowds part for him without even realizing they are doing it.
The figure's eyes dart up towards the windows of the buildings above, the tender blue sky, the shadowed alleyways branching from the long stretch of market.
Suddenly he stops, rigid in a sea of movement.
Then he is gone, disappearing from the bazaar as if he had never been there at all. His footsteps are soundless as he turns down a back alley, following winding stone paths down intricate mews. Laundry crosses above him, masking him from sight from onlookers above, nothing but a slip of white cloth gliding beneath the exotic patterns floating in the breeze. He slips down a narrow corridor, stopping in front of a nondescript wooden door.
The hooded figure murmurs under his breath, drawing his hands up to the uneven stone walls. Magic shivers beneath his touch, the complex runework of a cursed ward burning to life beneath his fingertips. This does not deter the figure at all; within moments the wards have splintered beneath his own power, crumbling to pieces. The door itself is warded against spells. But the figure doesn't bother to try and tackle it; a ward like that would take hours to dismantle— instead he pulls out a lockpick from beneath his cloak and opens it within mere seconds.
Two men lounge at a rickety table placed by the firepit. They leap into action at the cloaked figure kicking down the door.
He disarms them with ease before they can even climb to their feet. He pivots, ducking low to avoid one of them while slashing through the second with a cutting hex. He shoves a dagger into the back of the first, already moving towards the stairs as the man's body crumples to the ground. His steps are light and quick as he ascends the spiraling staircase, drawing a dagger from his cloak as he crouches into the shadows.
A wild-eyed wizard dressed in dark garb erratically points his wand around the room, frightened gaze darting around in fear after hearing his comrades dying below. Hadrian observes him for a moment with a narrowed, calculative gaze. Two windows behind him, no furniture in the bare, rectangular room. Behind the man, pressed into a corner, is a huddled bundle of cloth.
The assassin steps out of the shadows.
Like clockwork the man rounds to face him, throwing a dark curse. Hadrian pulls a shield up before it can do any damage, and in the interim the dagger in his hands soars through the room. It lands dead center between his eyes. The man's body goes still before collapsing backwards.
Hadrian raises a hand as he strides into the room, the dagger wiggling out of the man's skull to diligently snap back into his palm.
He stops in front of the cowering heap of cloth.
Hadrian's gaze narrows out the windows; it's clear, for now. Keeping an ear out for signs of movement below, he crouches low in front of the silk, expression softening.
After a moment, big, amaranthine eyes peer up at him from beneath a slip of ultramarine silk. He observes the rich color and high-quality material, a luxury only awarded to the rich— or royalty.
"Hello," he says in Hindi, hoping she can understand that. He tucks one gloved hand into his mask, tugging it down to reveal the bottom half of his face as his other hand moves to pull his hood off.
The girl stares at him with her pearlescent gaze, eyes growing as wide as saucers as she looks upon his youthful features.
He smiles disarmingly. "Are you Princess Lhasa?"
She regards him with her amethyst gaze. After a beat she nods slowly, her small hands clutched against her relaxing a bit as she unfolds from her corner.
"You're far from home, Princess." He remarks wryly. He doesn't really expect an answer from the young, guarded girl, so he is unsurprised when she only continues to observe him distrustfully.
He glances behind him, wondering how much time he has before the comrades of the fallen men come for them. They must have already felt the wards of their fidelius collapse. He doesn't have much time.
He holds his hands out to her. "Your father told me to tell you that Chapal misses you."
This seems to break through the girl's skepticism. She still eyes him warily, but she uncurls just a bit more. He can hear the shouts of men from the alley below, but patiently remains where he is.
Hadrian smiles again. "Can you trust me, Princess?"
Again, she does not answer.
But she does place her hands in his, small and dark and delicate against his own.
He wrenches her forward with a sharp tug. The girl squeaks in surprise as he wraps his arms around her and hauls her into his arms as he leaps to his feet. The assassin hops onto the window sill, looking back just in time to see a crowd of men pushing their way up the staircase.
He jumps off the ledge, landing on an awning below. He doesn't waste any time darting to the adjacent one, and the one after that. He hops between balconies, window sills and canopies without so much of a breeze to mark his movement. He's impressed the girl hasn't started screaming yet; when he has an opportunity to look down, he sees she is latched to the straps of his uniform, eyes wide with terror, frozen in her fear.
Spells start flying through the air as the kidnappers race down the paths below, shoving through the crowds as they cast curses into the sky. Hadrian avoids them with ease, deftly maneuvering around the streaks of light as he bounds between building walls. He jumps high, grabbing the ledge of a building in front of him to vault himself onto the roof.
Hadrian scans the Alexandrian skyline, gathering his bearings as he gauges his current position. The intense sun beats down on his back; he squints out into the distance, examining landmarks and judging the distance to where he needs to be.
He's already in movement once again by the time his assailants struggle up to the roofs themselves.
Hadrian looks behind him, an exhilarated smile finding its way onto his face. This will be a close one. He shouldn't, but sometimes he finds he enjoys the chase— enjoys the way his enemies think they've backed him into a corner, only to realize they're the ones with nowhere to go.
He leaps and dives through spells, moving like the wind and avoiding them with ease. The Princess stares up at him through her silks with her big, sparkling eyes.
Hadrian finally skids to a halt, stopping on the edge of a clay roof at the end of the city, overlooking the deep blue of the Mediterranean sea. He backs himself towards the ledge, watching as his pursuers form a wide circle around him, caging him in. His eyes flicker up closer to the sky, to the towers and spires and building tops where identical figures dressed in white level their snipers at the moving figures. He takes another step back; the warm sea air buffets his cloak; seagulls caw loudly from the docks below. He looks back down at the young girl impressively still in his arms. Her eyes are uncanny and watchful.
"Are you ready?" He asks, gently.
And then he is pitching backwards, soaring through the infinite blue sky.
His fall is relatively short, but it feels like eons until he hits the ground. He can hear the sharp whistle of snipers taking their shot, the frightened crows of the gulls as they struggle to get out of his way, the shouts of men as their comrades are picked off around them, one by one. The sea sparkles beneath him.
At the last moment he spins in midair, landing on his feet as gracefully as a cat, on the quarterdeck of a ship docked in the harbor.
He turns quickly to the shipmaster. "Let's go." He orders swiftly to the man, in Arabic.
It's only after they've left the Port and made it into the open sea that he sets the Princess back down on her feet.
From someone of her age, he is expecting a lot of tears and hysterics. Instead, she simply gathers her elaborate Sari around her, straightening out the long layers of silken cloth. Hadrian watches her with unveiled curiosity as she merely fixes her veil and various drapings and jewelry, not looking particularly perturbed over her kidnapping and dramatic rescue.
Finally, she looks up at him. He wouldn't call himself particularly tall, but she is so short she has to crane her neck to get a good look at him. In the brilliant Mediterranean sunlight, he can see that the lilac of her eyes is so pale it is almost translucent.
A seer, he realizes, everything fitting into place. Those eyes are unmistakable.
"Agent of the Hashshashin," one of the crewmen addresses to him. Hadrian turns around questioningly. "With current nautical conditions, we shall reach Beirut within four hours."
Hadrian sighs. Four hours is far too long a time, but sometimes it's easier to keep a low profile and wait. Going through the port and into the city will avoid them detection.
He nods once. "Great, thank you."
The young assassin returns to his charge, motioning for her to sit under the shade, far out of the way of the crew.
With all the excitement of the afternoon out of the way, Hadrian has a chance to inspect her in earnest.
She is quite small, unsurprisingly, given her age. She has a reputation that precedes her. Princess Lhasa of Nepal; a half-goddess. Her father's family has been in power since the Malla dynasty, and her mother is said to be an Asuran deity. Supposedly, her tears are more powerful than even phoenix tears. Phoenix tears can heal someone on the brink of death— but, if legend is to be believed, this girl can bring people back from the arms of death himself. He's not sure what the scope of her powers is— or if there is even any truth to that claim at all— and he doesn't quite feel up to asking.
He does wonder if her seer abilities are part of her gifts.
He sits beside her, taking a moment to enjoy the shade and the cool sea breeze.
"Abinesh," she says suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. It is not a word he knows.
Hadrian turns to her. She is staring directly at him. "Is that me?" He asks, in Hindi. Unfortunately he doesn't know Nepali at all, although he does know the written language is the same and most Nepalese can understand Hindi.
She nods. Her elaborate headdress relaxes with the movement, fully revealing a full head of dark, wavy hair and a youthful face. When she smiles at him, he smiles back. One of these days this girl is going to grow up to be a real beauty, he thinks, rather fondly.
He wishes he could ask her what that means, but translation spells work very poorly with most languages of the Indian subcontinent and western Asia. He supposes he'll have to wait until he's returned to Jerusalem before he can look it up. He doesn't want to forget a word she says; meeting a seer like this is rare.
He leans back in his seat. "Well, we're in for a long ride, Princess." He remarks, idly. "What do you say to a game?"
/
Anaxandria raises an interested brow when Hadrian walks off the ship, Lhasa holding his hand and all but beaming up at him. Powerful half-goddess and seer she maybe, but she's still just a kid, and apparently nothing puts kids in better spirits than playing pallanguli over and over again until they've annoyed basically everyone on the ship.
His fellow assassin has been running intel here in Beirut, and does not look particularly enthused to see him. It's not as if Hadrian is here to step on her toes, or anything, so he doesn't appreciate the attitude. Anaxandria is always rather prickly on the best of days though, and more than likely she's put out that he and Hassan had shakshouka without her. They bring the princess to her father, who is impressively overjoyed to see his only child unharmed. It's nice to see such true affection between the two; from what Hadrian has seen of the world, it's not often for a father to care so deeply for his daughter. Father and daughter are reunited in an emotional scene that makes Hadrian's lips turn up slightly. As he watches he absently wonders what it's like, having a father.
He wouldn't know.
var pos = {
Latitude: 31.7683 N
Longitude: 35.2137 E
};
}
Location:
Jerusalem, Israel
He returns to Jerusalem in the rain.
It always makes him maudlin, the rain. He was found in the rain. He made his first kill in the rain. His first time in this city was met with rain. His first successful mission was in the rain— his first failure, as well. It was so strange, how something so mundane could have such a profound effect on him. Perhaps he was just becoming sentimental with age. Hadrian snorts. What age?
The citadel is quiet with the weather and time. It's just before dawn break; even the most devoted of apprentices are yet to brave the mud and rain for morning practice. He enters the ancient citadel, discarding his traveling cloak as he ascends the spiraling stairs.
Hadrian pauses at the entrance to the grand office, domineering shelves full with ancient and coveted books creating an almost endless corridor. At the far end, by the stained windows rests a curiously small figure. An old man. The old man— Rashid ad-Din Sinan. The old man of the mountain. Grandmaster of the Brotherhood. Hadrian supposes when you get to the age you often have more than one name, and more than a dozen titles.
"Hadrian," the man greets, kindly, not even turning around. "Thank you for coming in such short notice."
Hadrian takes this as his cue to walk forward into the office.
"The Princess?" He asks, as he turns a page in the tome he is perusing through.
"Safely returned to her father." Hadrian returns, as he steps closer to the man and holds out a scroll. Solomon takes it with interest, but does not move read the mission report. "They are making their way back to Nepal as we speak. Anaxandria is in charge of the security detail; the Lebanese terrorist cell has been neutralized."
"You're certain?"
Hadrian nods, folding his hands behind his back. "I received confirmation from Malik and his team on the way back. No survivors."
"Did the interrogation reveal anything?"
"There were hired out," he reveals. "The group was being paid handsomely by an unknown benefactor to smuggle the girl down the northern coast."
This stirs Solomon's interest. "To where?"
"They didn't know the final destination; they were only to take her as far as Casablanca, where another team would provide transport."
"Hmm, but for what purpose?" The old man murmured.
Hadrian wasn't entirely sure if he was expecting an answer. All the same, the assassin shifted his weight apprehensively, weighing his options. Finally he cleared his throat. "Grandmaster, if I may speculate; I would assume whoever meant to kidnap her intended to use her powers for their own gain."
Solomon turned to him then, gaze heavy. "And what do you know of her powers?"
Hadrian looked up, brow furrowing. "Well, there are rumors. Supposedly her tears can bring back the dead, and her eyes clearly denote her as a Seer. Either of those abilities would make her a much coveted target."
"So you believe in these rumors?"
Hadrian shifted his weight again. "I see no reason not to." More to the point, the Brotherhood would not have bothered to foil an abduction plot if she was truly just a princess.
"Abinesh," he says, suddenly, surprising the old man.
"Hm?" He returns, blinking.
"You speak Nepali, right?" The old man nods. "What does it mean?"
The Grandmaster assassin eyes him with interest. "The princess said this to you?"
Hadrian dips his head. "Yes. I believe she was referring to me. But without knowing its meaning, I can only guess."
For a while, Solomon says nothing. The old man wanders over towards his books, his eyes following the endless lines of scrolls. The vast knowledge in this hall is enough to consider it one of the great wonders of the world; there are scrolls and parchments from the library of Alexandria, the last remaining remnants of the impressive old world structure left in this world. Stone carvings from the time of Jesus and the Romans; papyrus from the Babylonians; magical items of antiquity; treasures thought lost to the crusades. Hadrian spent many hours of his childhood here, whittling away the hours on days just like this; too wet to go outside, too hot to even think about training, and despite his familiarity with this room, he doesn't think he's even scraped the surface of the endless knowledge locked in these long, towering shelves.
Hadrian is an avid patron of the martial arts, a devout advocate of arcane magic and an ardent student of darkness, shadows, and the assassin's creed. But he can admit his true passion lies in more scholarly pursuits. He could spend his entire life in this library and never once grow tired of it. There is a lost world in these ancient pages and he wants to discover it.
Knowledge is everything. It's part of the reason he, and all the rest of the Brotherhood, hold Rashid ad-Din Sinan in such high esteem. Empires rise and fall; civilizations crumble; dynasties collapse. The Assassin's Brotherhood has seen it all, and it owes its continued, thriving existence mainly to the man in front of him. Solomon the Wise. If this man has ever made a mistake, the world has never known of it.
At any rate, this just means Hadrian has the utmost faith in the Grandmaster, and unquestioned certainty in his actions.
If he does not want to tell Hadrian, then perhaps Hadrian does not need to know.
"I understand if you cannot tell me," the boy adds, after a long silence has come and gone.
The Great Solomon sighs.
"There has always been something special to you, Hadrian, as I'm sure you know." The old man says heavily, his gaze looking weary and tired.
Hadrian shifts uneasily.
He… may have noticed. But pride has been the downfall of better assassins than he, and Hadrian has heeded that warning. He has confidence in his own abilities, but not arrogance.
"You are correct about Princess Lhasa," he continues then, as if on a different tangent. "Throughout the ages the Brotherhood has protected divine Seers like her from those who wish to do them harm. Seers play an important role in this life, and an important role in the Brotherhood. We are their defenders and guardians, and in return they are our eyes."
Hadrian blinks.
"It is not through my own vigilance that this order has survived this long," Solomon reveals, eyes twinkling with mirth at Hadrian's unguarded surprise. "Without them, I'm sure we too would have succumbed to the inevitability of history."
Hadrian considers this thoughtfully, a frown forming on his face. "You're saying you've seen me, then."
"Oh yes," the old man replies immediately. "I knew you were coming, long before you showed up at the citadel doors. Your destiny has always been the subject of intense deliberation between seers."
This was news to Hadrian.
"My destiny?" He echoes, faintly.
Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
That was the creed's maxim, and words Hadrian took to heart. He didn't believe in the preordained— he didn't believe that there was a set destiny carved out for him since the day he was born. And he had thought the rest of the Assassin Order thought the same. Didn't they?
"Destiny is a choice," Solomon adds gently, before Hadrian can truly work himself up into hysterics. "And Destiny is dangerous. It is all too easy to use it as an excuse. No one is preordained to do anything; it is not a justification for your actions. Whether you choose to stay your blade or kill an innocent is a choice you must make, and it is a choice you must take responsibility for."
Hadrian nods deeply. This of course, he knows. It is the first tenant in the Creed; stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.
"But what of the seers, then?" Hadrian asks, confused. "What is there purpose, if the future is uncertain?"
"Seers see but one possibility of many. Some lead to ruin, others to salvation. It is the doctrine of the Brotherhood to change the course of fate."
"I see." He says, even if he's not entirely sure he understands.
He has known the Brotherhood his whole life, so it's difficult to see past it at times. Hassan had pointed out the hypocrisy of it all many times to him during his training. If they bend the rules in service of a greater good, what does it say of them? The Creed calls for Assassins to promote peace, but they commit murder. Assassins seek to open the minds of men, but require obedience to rules. Assassins seek to reveal the danger of blind faith, yet practice it themselves. Though it seems blatantly hypocritical, Hassan assured it did not undermine the Assassin's cause. Rather, it demonstrated the way in which they embraced contradiction; that one may be two things— opposite in every way— simultaneously.
"Abinesh,"
Hadrian looks up sharply, stirred from his thoughts.
The Grandmaster has seated himself behind his desk once again, framed by stained glass and a millenia of knowledge. "You asked me what that means," he appends.
Hadrian nods.
"It is a name— a Nepalese name, meaning; he who has no death."
The young assassin rears back in surprise. He blinks a few times, a frown forming on his face. Why would she have called him that? Did she mean that literally, or figuratively? He wished he could have asked her, but something tells him she wouldn't have explained, even if he had.
He frowns further. "Is that… a good thing?"
Solomon laughs. "I suppose that is up to you to decide." He returns, ambiguously, opening a drawer beneath his desk to unearth a packet of tobacco and a pipe. "Now, you must be tired after a long journey. There's no need to wait around for an old man like me to finish this mission report."
He nods wordlessly, recognizing a clear dismissal when he sees it. "Yes, Grandmaster."
"Don't stray too far," he calls, as Hadrian turns around. "I will brief you on your next mission tomorrow at sunrise."
The young assassin nods, disappearing into the shadows.
/
"So, you and Hassan went for Shakshouka without me, huh?"
Hadrian looks up at the familiar voice, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He drops out of his kata form, lowering his bade as he wipes moisture off his brow, slicking his hair back. A small, sharp figure leans against the doorway to the training room; her tan skin is slightly damp from the light mist outside, hair curling into wisps around her shoulders with the humidity. Her narrow, cat-like gaze surveys him critically; no doubt silently critiquing everything from his form to his footwork. Knowing Nylah, he probably doesn't quite pass muster. His former swordmaster has always been a difficult one to please.
"Not you too," he groans, slightly winded. "If I knew you all would be so offended, I wouldn't have taken him up on his offer."
Nylah merely tosses her hair. "I always want Shakshouka." She returns with a sniff, before pushing off the side of the door, stalking into the center of the room.
She holds a hand out to her side; a katana flies from its mantle on the weapon rack, snapping into her hand. The Bahraini unsheaths it in one fluid movement, and the next thing Hadrian knows he's rolling to the side to avoid the blade. He has just enough time to get his feet under him and draw his guard up, barely blocking her next strike. Nylah stares down at him from the length of her blade, brow raised. She steps back, looking impressed.
"You've gotten faster," she remarks, as he rises out of his crouch.
"Clearly not enough." He scowls. Despite his many months of training on Mount Hua, he clearly has room to grow.
Of course, comparing himself to the best swordsman in the Brotherhood might be a bit ambitious of him. It's not just her precision and flawless technique that makes her so deadly; it's the speed and perfection of her execution, her ability to read the flow of movement, feel the magic as it moves in the air. It's taken hours of endless meditation for Hadrian to even begin to feel energy in the same way— feel it gather in someone's hand, the tip of their wand, magnetic fields pulling and stretching.
Legend considers the Assassin's Brotherhood to be beyond human capabilities; throughout the ages they have been thought to have the powers of gods, worshipped and scorned at equal turns. It's not true, of course. The Brotherhood members are mere mortals, just like everyone else. But they are trained to perfection, and there is no room for failure when dancing on a knife's edge.
At any rate, sparring with Nylah lets loose a tension he hadn't realized had been plaguing him. By the end of it he feels thoroughly beaten to the ground, and renewed with a new inspiration to continue his training and work on his form. Nothing spurs him into action quite like defeat.
By the time the falcon comes for him, he is actually in a rather fine mood.
This is of course the moment it all falls apart.
He says farewell to the master swordsman, heading up the spiraling stairs towards the Grandmaster's office. The man hasn't moved much since he saw him a few hours ago, although he does wear an expression that is far more grim than the one he had sported earlier.
"Sit, please, Hadrian." He offers the chair across his desk. "I'm afraid this may take a while."
/
"Neville Longbottom, sir?" Hadrian muses quietly, flipping through the files in his hand. There are a couple moving photos of the boy in question; he looks rather unremarkable and lackluster, if Hadrian is being honest. His file is quite thick, though.
"Yes. With Harry Potter presumed dead, he is being hailed as the original prophecy child."
Hadrian looks up sharply at that.
It has been a long time since he heard that name.
"Excuse me, sir?" He says, faintly.
Solomon leans back in his chair. "Fourteen years ago now, a great prophecy was told in Britain. The greatest Dark Lord of our era, Lord Voldemort, was prophesized to be felled by a child— a baby, born as the sixth months dies, born to those who have thrice defied him." Hadrian stares at him with wide eyes. "The witch in question who spoke the prophecy is an asset of ours, which is how I know of it. It has been kept quiet, by Albus Dumbledore, I would suspect. As you know, Magical Britain is isolationist, almost to a fault, so most of our intel comes from a small handful of assets in precarious positions."
Hadrian nods, still feeling numb. "But this Neville Longbottom… he's not really the child spoken of, was he?"
"He could have been." Solomon steeples his hands, sighing heavily. "You see, both you and Neville were born as the sixth months dies, both born to those who have thrice defied him. Why the Dark Lord chose you, I do not know. But all the same his choice has set the prophecy in motion, with you at its forefront."
Hadrian looks away, hands clenching the paper in his hands so tightly it crumples into something almost illegible.
A prophecy about him.
A surge of want rushes through him— he wants to know. He needs to know. It's about him, for Circe's sake. The larger part of him tugs it back. A prophecy is only as powerful as you allow it to be. Hadrian doesn't plan on giving this one any meaning at all.
"However, the world thinks Harry Potter is dead. If that is the case, then it would be only logical to assume the prophecy would stand to fall upon Longbottom to fulfill."
"Because Voldemort isn't actually dead," Hadrian adds, darkly. And neither is Harry Potter, for that matter.
"No, he is not. In fact, I have reason to believe he has already returned."
This piques Hadrian's evident interest; the boy does not remark upon it, though, waiting for the Grandmaster to speak. It takes some time, as the old man takes a pipe from his drawer, calmly filling it with tobacco. He speaks again after he lights it, and takes a deep inhale. "Reason, I say, because there is no real way for us to know. We may have assets in Britain, but none in the specific circles the Dark Lord moves in. This is where you come in."
"What can Harry Potter possibly do?" Hadrian frowns, confused.
"Harry Potter? Nothing." A cloud of smoke rises into the air between them. "But Hadrian Cloutier? That is a different story."
Hadrian doesn't even miss a beat, so accustomed to switching in and out of personas, donning and discarding them as he would a traveling cloak. "And what can Hadrian Cloutier do?"
"Hadrian Cloutier is in a far better position to be placed in an advantageous position within Britain's pureblood society. He has the lineage, you see." Solomon explains, as he hands over another file to Hadrian.
Hadrian accepts it eagerly, placing Longbottom's folder to the side. His own face stares up at him on the first page; it is a recent photo, although he does not know when it could have been taken.
Hadrian Cloutier (Hadrian Black)
Age: 14
Born: October 14, 2003
Parents: Arielle Cloutier, Regulus Black
Appearance: 170 cm, black hair, green eyes
Origins: Versailles, France
Applied for transfer to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Application approved.
He tears his eyes away before he can read further.
"Arielle Cloutier?" He repeats, the name obviously familiar to him from his last mission in France.
"Indeed." Solomon agrees. "A rumored beauty; she died tragically almost fourteen years ago now, murdered during the French civil unrest. Her father, Lord Cloutier, was beside himself at the time. Reasonably so— it was not a merciful murder in the least. It would only make sense he would protect her child so fiercely the whole world had no knowledge of its existence."
Hadrian catches on easily enough. "But why then, did he allow the child to attend Beauxbatons?"
"Why, because the boy himself asked for it. A prodigy of unparalleled proportions, he had grown tired of his tutors, and wished to attend school."
"And Regulus Black?" Hadrian tilts his head curiously.
"Sirius Black is in Azkaban for the murder of Lily and James Potter; but none of our sources can confirm he was actually a Death Eater. Better to play it safe with Regulus, a known supporter of Voldemort— who, incidentally, is dead and can't confirm or deny the claim anyhow."
Hadrian nods in understanding.
Hadrian narrows his eyes. It's a solid enough cover. But its realism hinged upon one key piece. "Lord Cloutier is essential for maintaining this cover." He notices, aloud.
Solomon smirks. "It's a good thing he's in no position to deny us, now isn't it?"
var pos = {
Latitude: 48.8014 N
Longitude: 2.1301 E
};
}
Location:
Versailles, France
Cosette Marchand: fourteen year-old daughter of Louis Marchand, the French Minister of finance. Her patriarchal family has deep roots in Bourdeaux, her matriarchal family equally entrenched in Vienna. Her posture is impeccable, etiquette training from a young age, years of experience teachers her the rest. Her dark hair is wound tightly in a bun atop her head; lovely, heart-shaped face tilted slightly towards the window. She looks relaxed, but poised. Her piercing dark eyes give her away, as she observes him carefully in the passing reflection.
Hadrian glances down at the reflection on his watch face; her eyes glance towards him once again. He pretends not to notice her fumbling attempts at surreptitious surveillance, returning his gaze to the book in hand.
Cosette spares another furtive glance to the Beauxbatons latest student, once again finding herself unwillingly, yet irrevocably fascinated. Fleur Delacour is the part Veela of this school, and yet she would be hard pressed to say it is Hadrian Black. He has the deceptive look of an angel, sharp cheekbones, a handsome set brow; the fine features of aristocracy evidently apparent in the perfect geometry of his face. A halo of unruly dark curls, electrifying citrine eyes. She has only met his gaze once, and it certainly felt like an electric shock had jolted up her spine. It is no wonder everyone is so fascinated by him; a fascinating face and a fascinating history, is it really any surprise he is the talk of the school?
Minister Cloutier had escorted him personally to Madame Maxime's office. The Headmistress's shocked expression as they exited her office was enough to set all sorts of rumors alight. A handsome young boy by the Minister's side; their normally composed Headmistress so out of sorts she could barely make it through her welcome speech. The speculations were endless.
Fortunately a combined statement from the Minister, Madame Maxime, and the boy himself put all those rumors to rest.
"It must have been quite the shock for poor Madame Maxime, don't you think?" Juliette Renoir leans close to her, whisper caressing her ear.
Cosette nods just slightly, aware that they were easily in the boy's line of sight. "I would imagine so," she murmurs back.
The son of her deceased childhood friend, appearing after all these years.
Arielle Cloutier was said to have been quite the beauty herself, so it's no surprise she passed it on to her son. Cosette had never seen her, not even pictures, so she could only speculate on what features could have perhaps come from his late mother.
Well, even without Hadrian's appearance the Minister's daughter was a whole other set of rumors completely onto her own. She and her father— a Senator then at the time— had been estranged for many years when news of her untimely death surfaced. The papers reported it to have been an accident; but the whispers said otherwise. Rebels from the south had killed her, at the height of the insurgency. Brutally, viciously murdered her. Was it any wonder her father had taken her child and protected him with all his might, until not a soul even knew of his existence?
And now, with the conflict well over and his position solidified, Hadrian's existence was finally revealed. The son of Arielle Cloutier and a pureblood Englishman, Regulus Black. She knew even less about him. All she could find— and that included subtle probes to her father— was a history that ended in death some years ago.
Cosette still wasn't entirely sure why the Minister decided to enroll Hadrian here. Why now? Supposedly he was being taught by tutors. Why the change, then, if his method of schooling had been successful up until now?
It was an odd time to say the least.
Namely, because it was an odd year for the Beauxbatons students. A select few would be traveling to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year, to attend the recently reinstated Triwizard Tournament.
Perhaps that was the reason, then. Perhaps Hadrian just wanted to see the Triwizarding Tournament— or, more likely, to compete in it himself.
If his reputation was anything to go by, he would make an able and fine champion for Beauxbatons.
"Arielle was a rumored beauty, so I suppose it's no surprise he's so handsome," Juliette continues quietly, still studying the boy. "Did you find out anything about his father?"
"My father couldn't tell me much; his name was Regulus Black. Dead too. Supposedly he was a big supporter of you-know-who during his first rise." Cosette reveals conspiratorily, causing Juliette's eyes to widen in surprise.
"You don't say," she whispers back, furtively. Her shrewd gaze narrows thoughtfully; the boy in question continues to read his book, looking wholly unaware of all the attention his mere existence was drawing. "Funny, then, that he joined the school just as we were invited to Britain, no?" Juliette remarks, coolly.
"I don't like to get involved in that sort of talk." Cosette replies evenly, even though she has some concerns herself.
You-know-who was rumored to be back, after all. And Britain was so hard to get to these days, wary and unfriendly to foreign interests. If the rumors were true, then this was an intense situation indeed. Unfortunately, due to a combination of Minister Fudge's inept administration and Dumbledore's silence, there was no way to confirm the severity of Britain's political climate. But if it was true, it was an issue that would have lasting consequences beyond Britain. It was not just the Isles that would be affected by the war to come.
"We have nothing but speculation," Cosette continues, drawing herself out of her darker thoughts. "So there's no point in ruminating on it." She clears her throat. "At any rate, he was raised by Minister Cloutier, not his father. He has no allegiances towards the Death Eaters."
"He's a Black, though." Juliette counters. "That's a dark family if I ever knew one."
"He's also a Cloutier," Cosette retorts, "that's a light family if I ever knew one." She parroted back, loftily.
"Why not just ask him?"
Both girls jumped in surprise at the new voice. Cosette scowled darkly, turning around to come face to face with Leo Cartier's smug expression. She composed herself before Juliette, returning smoothly; "Come now, you can't tell me you're not interested, Leo."
"Sure I am," the sunny blonde sprawls himself next to them, shooting them a wicked smirk. "But I already talked to him."
"You did?" Juliette whispers fervently. "What did he say?"
"What do you mean? Nothing interesting. Kind of a boring guy, honestly." Leo shrugs.
"I don't care about his personality." Juliette rolls her eyes. "What are his plans? Why is he here? Who does he support?"
Leo reels back, blinking. "Circe, you two are really thinking about that?" He guffaws, lolling his head back.
"Of course we are," Cosette replies, crossly. "And you should be, too! How can you not care about things like this? The current political climate will affect all of us, you know."
"Sure, but what can I do about it?" Leo points out, lazily. "I can save worrying about that stuff for later. Way later, when I'm old and boring."
Cosette folded her arms, turning a deeply unimpressed look his way. "Now is the time to worry about it." She returns, sharply. "And there are things we can do. I for one, have already been entrusted with a specific mission by my father."
Leo rolls his eyes dramatically. "Oh, here we go again."
"It's true!" Cosette insists. "This is the first time Hogwarts has invited foreigners in centuries. It's a prime opportunity to survey the current state of affairs, and get a better read on Britain's citizens, and where they stand."
She's not wrong, Hadrian thinks, lazily.
The three continue bickering, unaware of the listening ear easily able to hear them. This was one of the best opportunities to infiltrate Great Britain the Brotherhood was ever going to get. The information Hadrian will manage to gather will be invaluable; there were assets in Britain, of course. There was even an asset currently in Hogwarts. But the well-guarded inner circle of the pureblood society— and further than that, the dark lord's inner circle— was a critical position that no one currently held.
Hadrian is an ideal choice, being a British native himself. He is also precisely at the age to assume Hadrian Cloutier's identity. Not to mention, he is inarguably one of the Brotherhood's best assassins.
More than that, he is Harry Potter.
But that's a trump card he's tentative to play. He's still unsure if he wants to reveal his hand— if he needs to, even. It could be useful in infiltrating the elusive Order of the Phoenix; an organization the Brotherhood has even less information on than the Death Eaters. Perhaps he could even use it to play both sides.
Hadrian taps his chin thoughtfully, vermarine gaze unfocused as he ignores all the students in the carriage around him.
There are many avenues available to him… and with such abstract mission criteria, even his ultimate mission objective is up to interpretation.
Some might feel lost and adrift without guidelines to lead them, without explicit instructions to follow, and it's true Hadrian feels something similar. However, he can't help the thrill of excitement it elicits with him at the same time; only veteran assassins are given missions like this. Only the best the brotherhood has to offer get the opportunity to exercise the freedom of their own judgement, and make critical decisions on the brotherhood's behalf. It's a lot of power to wield, and Hadrian would be lying if he said he wasn't apprehensive over it.
He hasn't been on such an open ended mission like this since he was Hassan's apprentice. But there is no Hassan to guide him, now. It's up to Hadrian to make the pivotal decisions with only his own judgement to guide him.
How he decides to approach the Dark Lord's inner circle, or even the man himself; how he chooses to interact with the Order of the Phoenix, if he decides to do so at all; how he maintains his cover; Hadrian has the endless freedom to decide his own destiny.
He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. A small smirk crosses his face.
Freedom always tastes so sweet.
/file end;
I promised I would start uploading all the random stories I had floating around, so I decided to start with this one. -.- will it ever be continued? who knows lol