Assassins' Guild, London

"Silas," her voice was cold, but with a quality one would describe as almost fond. It did not suit her.

The figure turned, blank green eyes mirroring the flawless face she knew was underneath that hood, "Did you receive it?" Her voice was smooth and rich, just the perfect pitch to add to her inherent grace. It was powerfully seductive.

"I would not be here, otherwise." His own voice was equally as smooth, baritone, with a hint of restrained power. The figure reached into his cloak, pulling out a sheet of rolled up paper. Sliding it across the singular table in the room, he waited as she picked it up calmly, unrolled it, and allowed her eyes to flick across the page.

"Excellent. Then you know stage two of the plan?"

The figure inclined his head. Without waiting, he swiveled on his left heel, and exited with powerful, even strides. As soon as the door closed, she allowed herself to smile, gazing at the spot where her prize had just left while her left hand reached up to twirl a lock of her straight hair, so dark it was almost blue.

He was one of a kind, not a puppet as all those others who served her, but an asset. And in her world, assets were sought more than money or gold. She snapped her fingers, snuffing out the only light in an otherwise darkened room.

Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton

Silas checked his hood discretely one more time before apparating to the meeting point. He was not disappointed. A single Death Eater stood there, and Silas was sure that from the curl of his lips, he was scowling behind that white mask.

"Severus Snape, I presume?" He confirmed, repeating the name given to him in the missive.

The Death Eater nodded slightly, dipping his head and allowing his lank, greasy hair to fall in front of his face, "The Dark Lord has been expecting you." He reached into his robes and brought out a galleon, clearly charmed to be a portkey.

Silas touched it without hesitation, bringing his aura in slightly just incase of deceit. It would give him more control over his own magic.

It seemed that Lord Voldemort was waiting on his throne, as imposing and as magically powerful a figure as he had expected. Letting his aura spike slightly, he smirked as Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He was no less intimidating a figure himself. The shadows wrapped around his body like flames, flickering and dancing around his feet. Although the black cloak and inner garments did little to reveal the lithe form underneath, he had made sure that they were now on equal footing. The cloak shifted to the side ever so slightly, the flash of sliver realized as a blade at his belt, one of many hidden on his person.

Voldemort inclined his head, now somewhat more cautious than before. He was dealing with no mere potential ally now—these were a group of men and women made to kill. And, judging by the man's (or was it woman's) appearance and demeanor, Blade must have sent one of her best.

Blade was not her true name; few knew what it was. She was as illusive a character as her organization of Assassins. Hideouts were present in all the major cities of the world, though none had been able to find them, the muggle police, Voldemort thought with disgust, or the aurors themselves. It had taken him years to even get a hint of where they may exist or who to contact.

From what he did know hower, Blade herself was a leader, of sorts. She was essentially the figurehead of the mysterious organization, as well as its ruler, so to say. She made the laws, and created new ones to make sure the previous were upheld. She accepted each and every new assassin herself, and dealt with any betrayers harshly. In essence, she was the Assassin's Guild, the only known name and the only known identity of an otherwise blurred and shrouded society.

He was cut out of his musings by the soft, but cold voice, definitely male, "Lord Voldemort, you required our presence?"

Voldemort's brows furrowed faintly at the use of "our". It seemed, perhaps, that the assassins were a more close-knit group than originally thought—which was understandable considering they were a small organization despite however many cities they were rumored to operate in.

"I am assuming, of course, that you have been briefed?"

"Of course."

"Then you know my goals. You also know my enemies."

"Yes."

"You know what I offer you should you join our cause."

"What you offer we already have," the assassin leaned, forward, his eyes glinting in the flickering torchlight, "You offer us power, Lord Voldemort. What greater power is there than to wield death?" His very words dripped with challenge.

The dark lord paused in thought, lips pursing as he thought of the perfect phrasing, "To defeat it," Voldemort's blood red eyes gleamed, accepting the challenge readily.

The figure laughed, a mocking smile faintly visible on his face by the shadowed curve of his lips, "Only fools chase after an eternity of life."

The Death Eaters curved around their Lord and the strange figure murmured angrily, glaring at the stranger as he so blatantly insulted their Lord. Voldemort, however, merely smiled coldly, the expression foreign on his face.

"Some would say that those who deny such knowledge and power are perhaps even more so."

The assassin's vivid emerald eyes narrowed. "And some would question the source of your own power," the figure paused, "when you were so easily defeated by a mere half-blooded child."

It was Voldemort's turn to narrow his own blood red eyes. It was not his downfall seventeen years ago that the man was referring to, it was his heritage. The Death Eaters around them were silent. It was time to end this.

"Then you refuse? You would go to that old fool instead?" Voldemort inquired calmly, an undercurrent of cold steel lacing his voice.

"We choose to remain neutral for the current time. We are neither accepting the proposal of either side without absolute certainty." The figure's green eyes gazed intently into his own, as cruel as his own, "Should we change our decision, She will send you a proposition."

He inclined his head fractionally, "Lord Voldemort," and turned on his heel with that parting acknowledgement, and left for the apparation point, fully confident that he would not be attacked.

Assassin's Guild, London

Blade flicked open her cell phone as it vibrated.

The emotionless voice came through, "It is done."

She smiled as she snapped the phone shut. It did little to soften her otherwise chiseled aristocratic face.

La Chanson de la Sirène—Paris

Silas walked in with powerful strides, merging with the grinding bodies that moved to the loud, screaming music. Despite the sweat and the blood, it was a beautiful place where similarly beautiful people came to enjoy a life of darkness and desire. It was another Assassin Hideout.

The world of assassins was deceitful yet honorable. It was paradoxical in the brutality that was bred out of a society of killers, yet beautiful beyond belief in the harmony that was brought about by such a bond of occupation. Each assassin was bound by a code of laws, submitting to the darkness willingly and eagerly. They lost all trace of their former identities, becoming mere individuals in a significantly more important whole.

It was a world in which beggars became princes, in which children from the most brutal brothels in the city became visions of a graceful deadliness. A world in which kings were spies and spies were royalty, in which jesters danced while plotting the instant the poison would be consumed. It was a world in which orphans created more orphans, in which life and death were an ever-continuing cycle with which beauty and brutality were so harmoniously merged.

And Silas found that he could ask for no less. It was his world, and never had he belonged so fully anywhere else. His eyes darkened. Certainly, the Dursleys had never cared. They had forced him to endure the darkest days of his life—an unending mix of pain and starvation. They had kept him as a slave and as a toy. His vivid green eyes—the only physical gift from his mother—had been both disgusting and arousing to them. Certainly Vernon, the despicable monster that he was, had derived his pleasure from his own pain.

When he lay beaten and broken on the floor of his cupboard, dying not only of extreme blood loss but also of dehydration and starvation, the Dursleys had not been in the least bit troubled.

And yet, something had given him the strength to move. Something had healed his legs and mended his arms and given him just enough energy to run away. Something had unlocked the six padlocks on his cupboard, allowed him to drag himself to the sink for a drink of water, and then gave him the ability to quickly and quietly slip out of the house.

It was then that he met Her, his mentor and the only individual he would ever pledge his undying loyalty to. She had saved him from a life of misery and servitude on the streets, where men and women merely used him for his attractive features, young though he may have been. His petite stature and vibrant emerald eyes had been both a gift and a curse. They had forced him to endure four years of selling himself and his body, while struggling to retain a shred of his dignity.

When he had almost given up any hope of a better life, she had come. She had sensed the magic that shimmered underneath his skin, that fueled his sprit and his mind, and had told him who he was. For the first and last time, the woman had revealed to him his own identity, had told him his name—Harry Potter. Then she had offered him a home, and he had readily accepted. So she gave him a new name—forged him a new identity—Silas.

"Silas!" a small girl with blond pigtails in her hair and a soft, lavender dress rushed up to him and jumped in his arms. She giggled, "Mummy told me you would come, but I didn't believe her," she pouted, "You don't ever come anymore!" Her eyes narrowed in a mock glare.

Silas laughed, the sound surprisingly soft yet masculine.

"Alanna!" a woman came up behind him, "What have I told you about bothering peo…" she trailed off, her eyes landing on Silas' form. Suddenly, she smiled, a sad yet joyful smile which seemed to light up her face and smooth the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes. Her crystalline blue eyes themselves seemed to sparkle momentarily, as she brushed her dark blond hair from her face.

"Silas, we have missed you." Her voice pronounced the French words in a lilting, musical voice.

"I have missed being here," the assassin spoke in perfect French, glancing around at the moving bodies around him, the energy that was almost palpable in the air.

The woman turned, setting her eyes on her daughter fondly, "Alanna, what have I told you about listening to Mummy?"

The girl put on her best puppy-dog face, "I'm sorry, Mummy. I'll believe you next time."

Her mother sighed, turning her face back to Silas slowly, who gazed at her face intently, "How have you been, Katherine?"

"The same, I suppose."

The sentence implied more than what was said. Silas narrowed his eyes, "Alan?"

"I'm managing."

The growl made her head snap up. His eyes blazed, "I'm sure I can arrange—"

Katherine shook her head wildly, "Don't even suggest it, Silas! I know that he just needs some tim—"

"How much more time, Katherine? He's already had six years. How much more do you want to wait? Until he starts with your daughter?"

"Don't you dare bring her into this!" Katherine hissed, clenching her hands and causing her manicured nails to bite into the palms.

"She is already into this, whether or not you like it. How much more time do you think it will take, before he starts noticing her?" Silas paused, his eyes narrowing cruelly, "Noticing how much like her mother she is, how beautiful she is—"

"Shut up!" all her grace was thrown away as she screamed wildy and put her hands to her ears, bowing her head.

"—how much like her mother she looks, how much like her mother she would be in be—"

At the words, Katherine did what he least expected her to do. She slapped him. Alanna glanced at her with wide eyes and then back at Silas' face again, utterly confused at the conversation that had just taken place. Silas' face was emotionless, as if he had expected her to do so.

Suddenly, Katherine broke down, sobbing as she clutched at Silas' cloak, grabbing her daughter from his arms to hug her desperately. She looked up at him with red-rimmed, puffy eyes, still beautiful even while teary, "I don't know what to do, Silas. Every time h-he…r-r--…d-does that to m-me, I try to believe that I'm worth something to him. That he l-loves me."

Silas watched her, his green eyes blank, his face wiped of all emotion. He was being the perfectly calm pool that accepted her grief.

"He keeps doing i-it, over and over again, and I can't st-st-op him! Yes! I am afraid for Alanna, but what do I do? I have no where to go, and no job or money, and…"

Silas shushed her softly before she could continue, "Katherine, take Alanna and go to my flat. Tell Elly that I requested that you be shown to a guest bedroom. Give her this," he took off a simple silver band off of his finger and passed it to her and paused, "We will discuss this later."

Katherine looked up, "A-Alan?"

Silas' eyes darkened significantly, "I won't let you live with him anymore."

"Don't kill him."

A questioning glint came into the other's eyes.

Katherine merely narrowed her own, a glimmer of darkness shrouding them, "I want to deal that blow."

Silas stared at her intently, and then nodded. All the while, Katherine had anxiously held her breath.

Paris, France

Alan closed the front door, locking all three locks that were fastened onto the door. It never hurt to be cautious. He glanced around, good mood immediately turning into anger as he realized that his worthless wife and daughter were absent. Breathing harshly, he checked all the rooms, before abruptly stopping as he came to the living room.

In his chair, right in front of him, was someone he had least expected to see here. Fear coiled in the lower pit of his stomach as he locked his own hazel-eyed gaze upon a vibrant, piercing, emerald one.

"Silas."

The man's lips twitched in dark humor, "Alan. How have you been?"

Alan narrowed his eyes, "What have you done with Katherine?"

"What she needed."

"Bring her back!" he growled, barely restraining his temper.

"So you can rape her again?"

Alan took a step back in rage, "I have done no such thing! How dare you—"

Silas' eyes narrowed as he stood up, drawing up to his full height so that he seemingly towered over the other man, "Simply because she did not struggle did not mean you had the right. Would you have hurt her more if she had?"

"You have Alanna as well, don't you? Bring her back as well!" There was a hint of perverse interest in his voice that made something in Silas snapped.

He walked two quick steps forward and whipped out a poisoned knife to the man's neck, "Do not mistake me. The only reason you are alive is because Katherine chooses to kill you herself," he smirked, "And I fully approve. Come within a sixty mile radius of them and you will realize why they call me 'Shade'".

Alan masked his fear well, "You could do no such thing," he scoffed.

"Do you want to test that? Are you truly willing to have your own blood drench your hands?"

His eyebrows scrunched in anger, "Don't think you can come in here, in my home, kidnapping my who—wife," he slipped, quickly regaining composure, "and daughter, and then threaten me with things you can't even carry out!"

Silas gazed at him momentarily, his green eyes darkening to the point of almost black, and Alan had never felt more fearful in his life. Those that knew Shade had always said that his eyes turned black the instant before he killed. Fear coursed through his veins like fire, inflaming his insides and making him hyper-alert of Silas' face. This truly was 'Shade'.

"Crucio," the words were whispered as if in a caress but the pain that came with them was anything but pleasurable. Alan writhed and screamed wildly as his insides were stabbed repeatedly, burned, and cut open. It was after one never-ending moment that Silas stopped the curse.

"The only reason you are alive," he whispered softly, his tone holding an edge of deadliness, "is because I do not take a life that is meant to be another's to take. The only repayment Katherine will accept, is your soul."

Although Alan did not know what that meant, the words made a shudder rush up his spine. Silas turned on his heel, leaving the man trembling on the floor as he exited the room, cloak flailing behind him.

…………………..

Voldemort glared at the mindless simpleton that cowered into the room. He glanced at his other Death Eaters approvingly as they seemed unnerved by his anger. His aura was flared and his eyes were blazing. There was a distinct edge of hostility lacing the air and his followers could feel that.

How dare that man deny him? How dare he refuse him?! Voldemort was used to getting what he wanted, and this refusal was, a figurative slap in the face by the Assassin's Guild. Voldemort narrowed his eyes. He would have their loyalty, no matter the cost. They would regret defying him before the end—before they were mere puppets in his game.

…………………

Author's Notes:

Yes, yes, I know…some of you are probably completely confused. Although I tried to make it a bit explanatory—but it is the beginning so it is bound to be a bit confusing.

Where are the order members? They're coming in soon enough. Voldemort has already, and he is going to be more intelligent than what Rowling portrays him as. I hate her Voldemort. You would think a teenage genius wouldn't turn out to be so stupid.

But note that he hasn't lost any of his temper—so Voldemort might show some bouts of stupidity here and there—but he is overall a lot smarter.

As for the current plotline? The assassin's guild? I don't know—feedback would be appreciated—come on—all you have to do is press that button down there.