Ultimate-Zelda-Fan – Hm… interesting thought.
Lord of No Fate – You would dare sic Altaїr on me? How can you send someone after himself?
Harry's Lair, August 1, 1994…
'Altaїr' smirked, stretching a scar on his lips, as his friend's jaw dropped open, recognizing him for the famed Master Assassin he was. He walked over and gently placed a finger under her chin.
"Careful," he said, closing her mouth. "We wouldn't want you to catch flies."
Farah acted as if she was attempting to speak, but the sounds never made it out of her mouth.
After a minute of her opening and closing her mouth, she asked, "When did you figure out who I was?"
This made Harry smile as he turned to the entrance and began to walk out, beckoning to her over one shoulder. "Come, I'll show you."
As they exited the ruins, Harry pointed back to the ruins, indicating the top of the ruins hidden by a giant dune. A quick apparition had the pair on top of the dune.
Harry pointed down the slope, causing Farah to gasp.
The dunes behind Harry's lair was shaped like a cove, sand forming walls that isolated this small section of desert from the rest of it. Harry grinned as Farah recognized the area.
This dune was also the site of Farah's training zone, the one where she trained her moves as Dancer.
"It's amazing what my security runes can pick up," said Harry, tapping one finger on the side of his head. "I've watched you train during the times that I wasn't."
Farah glared at the black-haired assassin, making his smile grow. "You're a stalker!"
"Ah… no. I was here first, therefore, had you known I was here, you would have been stalking me," said Harry, dodging a quick punch. "Easy now!"
Farah smiled, good naturally throwing an elbow into his ribs. "Nice to know someone takes their work seriously."
"So, now what?" asked Harry, turning away from Farah's training area. "Are you going to expose the identity of Altaїr?"
Farah opened her mouth to answer, but was immediately tackled off the roof. She rolled down the sandy slope, protected by Harry's arms, the displaced sand flying through the air marking their passage.
At the bottom, Harry released Farah and sprang to his feet, drawing his sword with his right hand, his left palm crackling with pulsing green energy.
"What's wrong?" asked Farah, drawing her own sword.
"Someone's coming. My wards have been breached," said Harry, a tinge of green lighting the shadow beneath his hood.
Farah turned away, placing her back to Harry's as she scanned the other dunes. "I don't see anything.
"You're not supposed to," said Al Mualim, appearing out of the shadows.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Dancer, Altaїr," he said, smiling at his assassins as their eyes widened slightly at the mention of their Fight Club identities.
"Good evening, Master," intoned Harry, bowing his head in respect, Farah copying his motion.
"A pleasure as always, Altaїr."
"If I may, Master," said Harry, tilting his head slightly. "How do you know of my alias?"
"Every time you've fought, I've been in the crowd," said Al Mualim, grinning as Harry's jaw dropped. "I'm also the one who suggested the nickname, since I've seen the skill Altaїr displayed back during the Crusades."
"You named me?" asked Harry, touching a seal on the palm of his gloved hand, activating the Transfigurement of his Altaїr robes to that of the normal assassin.
"Well, after seeing you wipe the floor with the Twelve Guards, I had to name you something… dramatic… besides, one of the Seers seems to think you're Altaїr reincarnated," said Al Mualim, smiling.
"You know, I really wanted to talk to you about the prowess of your fabled Twelve Guards," aid Harry, dusting off his shoulder. "They sucked."
"Yes, I realized that as I watched you beat them."
Farah smiled as she watched the exchange. It's almost like their family rather than commander and soldier, she thought as she, too, activated a rune, changing her uniform to that of the assassins.
"Now, I'm not here for a social call," said Al Mualim, his abrupt mood swing from joking to seriousness giving Harry whiplash. "The Seers have had another vision."
This had Harry's attention. The Seers of Masyaf have predicted many things and a stunning ninety-nine point nine percent of their predictions came true. Their predictions had saved many lives, though they always claimed the life of one or more.
"Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, will be returning this year. He will use the Tri-Wizard Tournament as a way to pull the strongest witch or wizard from the group and use that student to enact a ritual to give himself a body."
Harry threw his arms up in the air and walked a few paces away. "Haar'chak!"
Farah looked at him weird, not understanding the language he had spoken. I know six different languages… I don't know that one…
Harry, noticing the look, said "What? Never heard of Mando?"
Farah and Al Mualim rolled their eyes and exchanged amused glances as Harry ended his dramatics for the hour.
"So, I assume that I'm to go to Hogwarts?" asked Harry, smirking as he began to plan torture for the man who killed his parents.
"Since Sirius Black is still at large and Hogwarts is hosting the Tournament, Headmaster Dumbledore will probably want a security force on site to keep things under control," said the Master, stroking his beard with one hand.
"Team?" asked Harry, his grin widening. "Choice or assigned?"
"Fourteen assigned, though you can pick two personally," said Al Mualim. "That is, if you chose to accept it."
Harry pulled his hood back up, smiling beneath his hood. "Farah, want to go to Europe?"
Farah brought a hand to her jaw and adopted a thinking pose. "Let's see… I've got nothing going this year. Sure, why not."
"Master, I accept the mission."
"Excellent… now, sometime this week, go to Hogwarts and convince Albus Dumbledore to hire your team as a security force," he said, before disappearing soundlessly via Apparition.
Headmaster's office…
The assassin smirked as he hung from the ceiling, watching the elderly Headmaster work. It had been easy to enter the castle, as he had done so on two separate occasions and things had not changed.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, sifting through the large amount of paperwork he had to go through in order for the Tri-Wizard Tournament to be hosted at Hogwarts. A number of silver instruments on a desk near the corner were clicking and whirring, adding an almost relaxing rhythm to the room. Some produced small puffs of colorful smoke, though their meaning was unknown to the hidden assassin.
A bowl containing sweets was on the corner of his desk, just within reach of the Headmaster. By the smell, the assassin assumed it was Sherbet Lemons, a sweet and tangy treat that Dumbledore had developed an addiction to about ten years ago.
A strange perch sat a few feet away from the desk. It had the traditional bar on which a bird would sit, though it had a strange tray beneath it. Its purpose became clear when, in a small burst of flames, a phoenix appeared and flew to the perch, trilling happily to its companion.
"Hello Fawkes," said Dumbledore, taking a break from his paperwork to speak to his familiar.
"What do you mean 'there's a man on the ceiling?'" asked Dumbledore, slightly confused. He looked up and saw nothing but the pale stone of the roof, no trace of any man to be seen.
"Damn… your phoenix is good, Professor Dumbledore. The last phoenix I met didn't even sense me until I was actually touching it," said the assassin, still invisible.
"You have me at a disadvantage, stranger. I can't see you and I assume you can see me."
The assassin leapt off the roof and allowed himself to succumb to the pull of gravity, pulling him towards the ground. At the last possible second, he flipped himself around and fell, light as a feather, on his feet.
"You may call me Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, Albus Dumbledore," said the assassin, his face emotionless beneath his hood. "I've come to offer my services and those of a number of colleagues as well, for the right price of course."
Dubledore, startled to say the least, stood up from his chair and stared at the man who stood before him. Fawkes isn't reacting to him as if he were unfriendly. Perhaps he's just a messenger…
"Who- and what- are you?" asked Dumbledore, slowly circling the desk to stand in front of the man, trying in vain to see his eyes beneath the cowl he wore. His outfit seems familiar for some reason…
"That would be telling, Headmaster," said Altaїr, standing at ease before one of the most powerful wizards in the world. "Since Hogwarts will be hosting the Tri-wizard Tournament, the Master thought it would be prudent for us to propose a deal."
"Who is your 'master?'" asked Dumbledore, still reeling from the fact that he had not sensed the man at all.
"That is neither here nor there. There are dangerous criminals on the loose, the infamous Sirius Black among them. Since we know he came to Hogwarts last year, we have reason to believe that he might come back," said the assassin, turning away from Dumbledore and walking about the room. He stopped at a table in the corner and lifted a small glass sphere. "A wytchlight? I haven't seen one of these in a long time."
"Now I know where I heard about that uniform," said Dumbledore, a memory from a year ago surfacing at the mention of Sirius Black. "You're an assassin."
"Very true, though I wouldn't call us that to our faces. Some of us do not appreciate it," said Altaїr, replacing the wytchlight on the desk.
"Whatever your preference in the name of your occupation, why would I trust a killer with the safety of my students?" asked Dumbledore, trying to remember exactly what Ms. Granger had said about the two white-clad warriors that she had seen a year ago.
"I have trained for fourteen years. Every single day that I'm not on missions, I'm training," said Altaїr, walking slowly towards the elderly wizard. "I've fought upwards of fifty highly-trained men of my Order and walked away with little to no injuries. I've fought rabid werewolves in their home territory. I've walked into the crypts of Dark vampires and eliminated them all with out a scratch. I've killed more Dark creatures than I can count."
Altaїr stopped a pace away from the Headmaster, his stance tense but non-threatening. "Do you doubt my skills?"
Dumbledore paused, contemplating what the assassin had just told him. If he's telling the truth… we could use men like him for the security of Hogwarts.
"My thoughts exactly, Professor Dumbledore," said the assassin, his lips twisting into a slight smile. As Dumbledore gave him a questioning glance, the assassin simply said, "I am also proficient in the arts of Legilimency and Occlumency."
Dumbledore's legs nearly dropped out from under him. He read my mind and I didn't even notice? Impossible.
"If you think that, you really don't belong in this world. Everything is possible," said the assassin, turning away from the professor. He walked to the door, opened it and paused.
He looked over his shoulder and said, "Think about the offer. If you want our services," he said, casually drawing a throwing knife. He hurled it into Dumbledore's desk, the blade moving faster than the Headmaster's eyes could follow. "Touch the rune on the dagger and I'll be back to talk."
With that, he Disapparated silently, letting Dumbledore slump to sit on the edge of his desk, wondering how even he couldn't Apparate through the castle's wards, yet the white-clad assassin just did.
World Cup Stadium, August 14, 1994…
The stadium that housed the 422nd Quidditch World Cup was immense. One could only see so much of the giant golden walls, in which about ten cathedrals could fit in comfortably.
A hundred thousand witches and wizards, young and old alike, were taking their places in the seats which rose in levels around the long oval pitch. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden glow that seemed to come from the stadium itself.
From high above the field, the pitch looked as smooth as velvet. At either end of the pitch stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high. Opposite of the highest box was a gigantic blackboard; gold lettering flashing advertisements dashed across it as if an invisible giant's hand was scrawling upon it and before wiping it clean again.
Around the top of the stands, giant lights sat embedded in spike-like formations. Of course no one noticed this, choosing to pay attention to the field than the lighting.
Standing atop the spike, an assassin balanced himself perfectly, silently watching the game. He chose this spot for a reason, as the white light hid him perfectly in the shadows behind the light.
"Ladies and Gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of four hundred and twenty second Quidditch World Cup!" shouted the announcer, his voice booming from every corner of the pitch.
Thousands of spectators clapped and screamed, thousands of them waving their flags and adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The giant blackboard wiped itself clean for the last time before displaying Bulgaria: 0 and Ireland: 0.
The assassin winced slightly, the crowd's cheers sending a wave of feedback into his cowl. God damn… I got to talk to Muyassar about feedback with these things, thought the assassin, tapping the side of his head, reducing the sensitivity of his audio-runes.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"
The assassin activated the zoom function on his HUD to see the tiny figures making their way out onto the pitch. Ah, Veela, he thought, watching them saunter onto the field and begin to dance. He smirked as he watched the reactions of the male populace, the charm the Veela were putting off making them act quite strange. The assassin himself had never felt the allure that Veela were said to put out, though it was apparent that their dancing was magically seductive to males, judging by the flexing and posturing the men were doing.
The music stopped and the dancing Veela returned to their seats along the outside of the pitch. The andgry yells from the crowd made it clear that they didn't want the Veela to leave.
"And now," roared the announcer, "kindly puts your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
A second after the announcement, a green and gold comet came soaring into the stadium. It performed a circuit of the pitch before splitting into two smaller comets, each arcing towards the goalposts. Once they reached the goalposts, a rainbow connected the two comets, bathing the pitch in a multitude of colors. After a multitude of 'oohs' and 'ahhs,' the pair of comets left the goalposts and rejoined each other, now forming a giant shamrock in mid-air, raining gold down upon the heads of the spectators.
The assassin refocused his HUD and saw that the comet was actually a multitude of leprechauns, each holding a lantern of green or gold. The shamrock dissolved and the leprechauns floated down to the pitch on the opposite side of the Veela.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!"
A scarlet-cloaked figure blurred out to the field from an entrance far below to wild applause.
"Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! And Krum!"
Each name was punctuated by another red blur, each one forming up on the tail of the first. They took a lap of the pitch before lining up on their side of the pitch, red robes flapping in their wake.
"And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled the announcer. "Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! And Lynch!"
Several green blurs swept onto the pitch. A few taps on the side of his hood slowed down the blurs enough so that the assassin could read their names off their backs and the tiny 'Firebolt' inscribed on their broomsticks.
The mass of green that was the crowd screamed and cheered as the Irish team circled the pitch, their flags waving in the air.
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quiditch, Hassan Mostafa!"
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a giant mustache, wearing golden robes to match the pitch, strode out onto the pitch. A silver whistle protruded from under the mustache and he carried a large wooden crate under one arm.
He put the crate on the pitch floor, mounted his broom and kicked the crate open. The four balls burst from the crate: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the miniscule Golden Snitch.
The assassin smiled as the referee blew his whistle and started the game, though the assassin's eyes didn't follow the Quaffle as the other fans did. He was watching the path of the Snitch, his eyes tracking it across the pitch with great accuracy.
The Irish Chasers were superior, quickly scoring goal after goal. Bulgaria, on the other hand, was doing badly, barely making a single goal against the superior Irish team's chaser.
Everyone gasped as Krum and Lynch went into a steep dive, hurtling towards the ground as fast as their brooms could carry them. At the last possible second, Krum pulled out of the dive, leaving Lynch to smash into the ground with a thud that was audible to the crowd.
Well, well… the Wronski Feint. Not bad for a guy still in school, thought the assassin as he continued to watch the Snitch, currently circling the goalposts on the Bulgarian side of the pitch.
The game continued till Krum and Lynch went into a second dive. Once again, Lynch was left to slam into the dirt while Krum spiraled off, the Snitch firmly clutched in his hand.
The crowds went ballistic, seeing how the score was Bulgaria: 160, Ireland: 170.
The Irish team took a lap of victory, the slightly rattled Lynch held up by two of the Chasers, before they went towards the top box where the gleaming Quidditch Cup stood waiting with the minister of Magic.
The assassin was surprised to find that the redhead and Ms. Granger were in the box as well, surrounded by what looked like the rest of the redhead's family. One face in particular made him do a double-take.
He shook himself, remembering his duty: one of the thousands here had to die today. The problem was it had to be done secretly. This disappointed the assassin as he could not cause a large amount of destruction like he usually does.
The man he sought was three seats below his position, cheering on Ireland's win over Bulgaria. This particular wizard was nothing special, though he had made a fatal error: he had joined the Templars.
Unbeknownst to him but knownst to us, death awaited the wizard, soon to be delivered by one of the best.
A quick jump had the assassin landing behind the wizard unfortunate enough to be his target. A quick stab in the shoulder was all that the assassin needed before he disappeared, quickly Disapparating too quickly for anyone to notice.
The wizard was dead, though he didn't even know yet. The assassin had merely pricked the man, though the damage was done.
The blade had been modified and strengthened, allowing a hollow blade without compromising the integrity of the blade. Through this cleverly hidden needle/blade, poison could be delivered straight into the victim, usually causing the poisonee to feel drowsy, very violent and, finally, die.
Quite enjoyable to watch, thought the assassin, once again standing atop a spike, though this time he was across the pitch, watching the man start swinging his arms and stumble around, knocking into the other spectators and generally causing a ruckus.
Within a minute, the wizard collapsed, missing a crucial part of living: a pulse.
Mission completed, thought the assassin as he turned away from the pitch. He smiled as he spread his arms and dove off the side of the pitch, hurtling down to the darkness below.
Later that night…
The assassin smiled as he lifted a pint, celebrating the Irish win along with the rest of their fans. I've completed my kill, though something still feels amiss, he thought as he swallowed the Irish stout. I suppose it will be better to wait and see what happens rather than hear about it later.
His assassin robes had been Transfigured into regular clothing: a white hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. Even if he wore his uniform, people would probably be to drunk to notice. This is why he loved being among the Irish.
An explosive bang made everyone jump, even though the fans had been setting of fireworks all night long. This burst of sound was a lot closer to the ground than the fireworks however, which made the assassin sigh and put down his drink.
There's always something, thought the assassin, sighing as he activated his rune HUD, allowing him to stride through the growing cloud of smoke with little difficulty. He had made it about ten feet away from the makeshift bar before he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back to the bar.
Grabbing his mug, he quickly downed the rest of his Wizard Guiness, enjoying the taste of the liquid courage. Damn… the Irish know how to make an excellent drink.
Slamming the mug down, he turned around and charged into the chaos.
A dozen odd men in black cloaks and skull white masks were marching on the campgrounds, occasionally blowing a tent out of their path. Flames leapt around them, making them flicker spookily in the night. Above them floated the non-magic's that ran the campground: the park manager, his wife and their two children.
The Death Eaters roared with laughter as they spun their wands, causing the levitating Muggles to spin like tops, becoming whirring disks in mid-air.
The Death Eaters were so focused on having a blast, reliving the glory days of Voldemort's reign, that they didn't notice the assassin until it was too late.
The first fell to the ground, a blade having severed his neck, cutting clean through his vertebrae, his white masked head falling to the ground in silence as the Death Eaters realized that one of their number had fallen. They stared at the corpse, still standing upright.
The corpse collapsed, falling to its knees before falling on its side. His temporary cover of the dead man now gone, the assassin smirked beneath his cowl, the blood of the man at his feet dripping off his blade to mix with the dirt at his feet.
Baring his teeth in a fear-inspiring grin, he asked, "Who's next?"
The Death Eaters looked at each other and acted as one: They Disapparated, leaving the assassin standing amidst the ruins of the campground, flames burning higher around him.
"Forward!" shouted a voice, coming from behind the assassin. He turned to see a large group of Aurors and Ministry officials surge out of the smoke, wand ready for battle.
He sighed as they stopped, staring at the one man in the middle of the clearing of scorched earth. This is going to be difficult to explain back at HQ, he thought, quickly slashing his blade to fling off the blood.
He noticed one man in particular: a red haired man wearing shabby robes. He winked at the assassin, holding up his left hand, the ring finger bent down, leaving only part of the digit in view.
The assassin nodded slightly before shifting his focus back to the Aurors assembled before him.
After a moment of awestruck silence, the Aurors seemed to come to and attacked, flinging a multitude of curses and Stunners, all aimed to not only hit him but to blanket the area in spell crossfire, just in case he were to dodge the spells that were intended to hit him.
A flash of light filled the air as the assassin simple held up his hand, drawing on his own power to from a wedge of magical energy, splitting the assorted curses, hexes, and spells like Moses separating the Red Sea.
The Aurors were stunned. Not only had their target remained where he was, he had wandlessly diverted their spells.
The assassin sheathed his blade and pulled a small sphere from his belt. A wave was the last thing the Aurors saw as he threw the marble sized object to the ground.
From the sphere came a giant wave of smoke, covering the entire clearing in magically Conjured smoke. The Aurors tried in vain to Vanish it, coughing and sputtering as they waved their wands and hands in attempts to ward off the smoke.
A few seconds later, the smoke slowly vanished, leaving the Aurors to stare at the empty spot were the strange man had been.
A man and woman stepped out from the tent they had been using as cover.
"Please tell me you got that," pleaded Rita Skeeter, looking at the camera man with a undisguised look of pleading. At his nod, she broke into a large smile.
Tomorrows news, here I come.
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