Haifa, Israel 1950
The dusty streets were filled with throngs of people going about their day. The hot dry atmosphere had been the cause of more than a few arguments already. Ducking beneath a fist, a twenty year old Eric Lensherr buried his own in the flab of his assailant's belly. With a sad whine, the corpulent merchant who tried to hurt him sank to the ground gasping and wheezing. Sneering at the man, Eric took his purchases and left. Walking briskly through the crowd he cut across and went into an alley. It was deplorable, the state of Israel. Buoyed by promises of a land free from persecution but weighted down by the political, social and logistical realities of making that happen. It did not make a pretty picture. The conflict with the displaced local population would grow beyond shouting matches in the years to come. Eric too had come here looking for a home. But he soon realised that these people were not his people.
No one with the abilities he had. No one special. As the days went by he feared that his hope for acceptance would disappear for good. Stalking down the alley, his was a grim visage, the lines of his face deeper than before. As he passed a doorway however, a green flash of light came at the corner of his eyes. Next a truly horrific scream of pain. Wary, he placed his hand on the pistol hidden at the waistband of his pants. He peered in to a sight that shocked him. Two burly men were lying on the floor with the glassy eyed stare that only death brought .Another man was hanging in mid-air, face to face with the biggest snake the young man had ever seen. A cobra if Eric was not mistaken. And behind the cobra was a thin pale man, with carefully brushed hair, dressed in a suit and carrying a long thin ash white stick.
"Monsieur Carex, this is not done. You do not renege on deals with Lord Voldemort."
Eric was curious, no one was born with the name Voldemort, but it was certain this man was special. Another thing, hardly any Englishmen were walking around.
"Where is my book? Lucreada's Calamity of Magick is hard to track down. I have paid the price for your trouble." The man, Voldemort calmly stated. "M-m-mister-" the unfortunate screamed at the twitch of the stick. "I-I meant my Lord. The Mandate, they raided the shop. They have taken all my items of a Darker nature. They have no tolerance for magical folk." The man stuttered. Voldemort stroked his chin.
"You allow Muggles to control your actions? You are a pitiful waste of magic." The man sneered. Eric was startled by the amount of disdain when Voldemort said that strange word. But his got its meaning instantly. The chattel. Those without any redeeming attributes. Those without power.
"Where is the book monsieur?" Voldemort snapped.
"It is in the Authority Headquarters. It is defended heavily." The man gulped.
"Worry not, the walls are no obstruction to me. I will bring destruction and death to those who would seek to keep mine away."
A silence reigned shortly.
"You may not have to do that." Eric said leaning against the door frame.
Immediately Voldemort spun firing a green bolt at Eric. Eric not knowing what it could do, solidified metal dust into a shield, catching the bolt and emitting a gong as well as flaming. Eric sent the shield flying back, which Voldemort dodged. With a guttural hiss, the snake darted forward, fangs bared. With a negligent twitch, a pen flew from the desk and speared it through the eyes.
"Pax my friend. I only mean to discuss an opportunity." Eric said while subtlety drawing the metal girders out of the wall behind the wizard.
Voldemort's brown eyes turned scarlet as he drew his power in. He was wary. No wizard aside from him had displayed such mastery of wandless magic. To summon a shield from the nether that was able to block the killing curse? Unheard off. He would treat this wizard with the caution he deserved. Preparing the incantation for a Heart Stopper Curse he bade the man to speak.
Eric smiled, "I know a man. He works with the Mandate on resettling refugees. He will be amenable to helping us. A certain Charles Xavier"