Lord of No Fate – Perhaps I am undercover. Why would I advertise myself to the Templars? And no, Skeeter will not be assassinated…yet. She still has a purpose in the story, though I must admit, I find it hard to get into her style of writing. Gives me shivers.
Kira Kyuuketsuki – I needed a name for Harry to use as he prefers his real identity to remain a secret, at least outside the Assassins.
Force 'Hog - #1. Random wizard who worked for Templars. #2. Good question. Keep thinking, it will come to you. #3. I'm Irish as well. Also, I never said the Irish drink more than any other country. I merely stated their wizards know how to make a good drink.
Please note: I copied some of the original Goblet of Fire for this chapter. This is JKR's stuff, not mine.
August 15, 1994. 0800, Masyaf Fortress, Al Mualim's Office…
Al Mualim had just sat down at his desk with his customary cup of coffee and newspaper.
Things were starting off great. He had gotten a good sleep, his coffee was hot and he had no paperwork to distract him from the paper. He leaned back and sighed, totally relaxed.
He took a sip as he held up the paper, glancing at the headlines. The headlines had him doing a spit-take.
Killer at World Cup
Despite the dramatic Irish win over Bulgaria, the night ended on a tragic note.
A group of cloak wearing wizards went on a march that night, blasting tents and levitating the Muggle owners, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.
Ministry wizards and Aurors quickly Apparated to the scene to quell the riot, though their services were not needed, as the troublemakers disappeared as quickly as they arrived.
The Aurors and Ministry Wizards charged the area where the aggressive wizards were last seen, but stumbled to a stop when they saw what had taken their place.
A young man in a white 'hoodie,' as the Muggles call it, stood over a corpse, its head lying a few feet from its body. The man held a large knife in his hand, the blood of the corpse still staining the silver blade.
The man cleaned and sheathed his blade before throwing a small sphere onto the ground. It released a wave of smoke that obscured the area, allowing him to disappear, unopposed by the assembled Ministry wizards. The smoke itself was resistant to Magical dispersion, only fading after half a minute.
The corpse of Walden MacNair, an executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, has been identified by the Aurors. Questions arise from this development, mainly: why was Mr. MacNair, a Ministry servant, dressed in a black cloak and a white mask at the time of his death?
Going back to his mysterious killer, one must ask how the man was able to carry such dangerous weaponry into a public event, without any impediment from the Ministry.
Apparently the Ministry security has been lax for a very long time, judging by the ease of which the mysterious killer hid his weapons.
One can only hope the incompetent Ministry will be able to protect us at the next event.
The article was accompanied by a black and white magical photograph of the young man in question, throwing a sphere onto the ground before disappearing into the smoke. The picture then reset and began again, playing again and again.
Al Mualim set his coffee down and placed his head in his hands, slowly rubbing his temples. There goes my good day…
"Harry Potter!"
August 28, 1994. 0800,Unknown location…
Rain poured down from the dark sky, soaking the jungle floor, turning dirt to mud and beating a rhythm into the trees. The wind whipped the giant leaves of the foliage around, adding to the din of the storm.
The assassin crawled through the jungle, a rifle in one hand while the other fended off large leaves. Her uniform was smeared with mud and the jungle greenery, her breath coming fast as she swiveled her head in many directions as possible, searching for the target.
Her team had been methodically taken apart, each one falling in silence. They never knew what hit them until it was to late, their silence marking the moment when their target had made them disappear.
One by one, their indicator lights on her HUD went dark, meaning they had been taken out by their wraithlike target.
She watched the trees, the ground, the bushes, everything, almost panicking as she tried to scan every piece of moving scenery, a difficult enough task without a rainstorm.
Add in her near hysteric state of panic and you have an impossible task. Things were not looking well for the assassin.
It gets worse… the target knows where she is.
Amidst the canopy, the target, dressed in full jungle camo, smirked as he sighted down the scope of his own rifle, targeting the slowly moving assassin. These assassins never learn, he thought as he zoomed in on her face. She had mud smeared across it for camouflage, her eyes wild, darting about, never focusing on one thing for to long.
He breathed slowly, calmly, as he squeezed the trigger, maintaining his shot with practiced ease, honed over approximately four years of training with that particular rifle.
He smiled as the assassin's chest was knocked back by the impact of his round, red liquid blossoming above her heart, staining the white fabric.
He slid his rifle back into its sheath, specifically made to protect his rifle from all types of weather conditions, and jumped out of the tree he was currently hiding in. The camo-netting he wore blurred his shape, making him look more like a blur amongst the greenery than a man.
He walked the four hundred yards to his target, acting as if there were still more assassins out in the jungle even though he knew there weren't.
As his contact in the Ministry always said: "Constant Vigilance!"
Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody was a useful ally to have. The target smiled at the memory of how he met the battle-hardened Auror: he had been fighting near Mad-Eye's house and the aged Auror decided to lend a hand, helping the target butcher the thirty-five opponents he faced. I still laugh at the memory of him beheading one with a Cutting Curse and then animated the corpse to crush the windpipe of another, all within three seconds.
The assassin had a look of shock on her face, her eyes frozen wide open. He chuckled as he reached up under the ghillie suit's hood and pressed two fingers to the radio headset he had placed there.
"Training exercise 42 has been completed. Endex, repeat, endex."
The jungle disappeared, slowly dissolving like a mirage fading away, leaving a large white room in its place. After that, the twelve other assassins the target had taken out woke up, the Stunning paintballs wearing off. They stood, silently rubbing their injured limbs, their bruises caused by landing on the Conjured jungle terrain.
The assassin frowned and shook his head as he shed his ghillie suit, letting it fall to the ground with a rustle of cloth. "Anyone know why you all failed?"
The assembled novices bowed their heads in embarrassment. Not only had they failed their training mission, they had done it so well that they could hear the disappointment in the voice of the most famous living Assassin.
"We Assassins work alone when necessary," said the assassin, walking around every novice in turn. "But, whenever possible, we work together! Every single one of you did your own thing, throwing away a tactical advantage that could have had ensured a win!"
"If the combat prowess of one assassin is of near legendary skill, imagine if you had a second along with you. That effectively squares the power of the team," barked the assassin, sounding like an Army drill sergeant. "Teamwork. Use it when you can, miss it when you can't."
Glaring beneath his hood, he grabbed his camo and threw it over his shoulder.
"Hit the showers!" he yelled, heading for the door. The slam of the door had the room shaking from the force. I hate this job…
2200, Masyaf Dueling Room #3
"Again!" barked Al Mualim, standing along the sidelines of the dueling ring. He was going through his list of candidates for the Tournament Mission, though there were some who were not on par with the requirements.
He had hand picked a group of thirty-six assassins, ranging from greater to master, all who were experts in many different fields. The ten that exceeded his expectations would accompany Harry, Farah, and a few novices.
The novices were coming along as apprentices, still learning from the higher ranks. Al Mualim believed in the 'practice through doing' philosophy. Those novices could do worse than the best.
The two assassins in front of him were sparring again, each attempting to get the other on the ground into a 'killed' position. Meaning on the ground, pinned while the other had his hand to his throat, as if his hidden blade were lodged in his throat.
The attack was swift, almost so that Al Mualim didn't see it. The assassin had locked the other's arm and then used his own leg to kick out his opponents, leaving him to fall a meter onto the hard, unforgiving stone.
The assassin landed with a gasp, all his air leaving his lungs at once. Momentarily stunned, he had no chance to defend himself when the other assassin planted a knee on his chest and curled his fingers around his throat.
A bell chimed, signaling the kill. Al Mualim nodded and clapped his hands, politely applauding his assassin's actions, despite how one had lost.
The two assassins leapt to their feet and bowed to him before walking out the door, their work here done.
Al Mualim made a note on his visor, silently adding the final name to his list.
The team is assembled… Al Mualim thought, walking back to his office, quietly humming a cheerful tune.
August 29, 1994, Headmaster's Office
Dumbledore looked down at the simple dagger, still embedded in his desk. All attempts to move it had been met with unmovable resistance. The damn thing was stuck in the desk, leading to several awkward questions when other staff members had come to call.
Dumbledore turned to his faithful familiar. Fawkes was sitting on his perch, trilling softly and cleaning some ash from his wings. His Burning Day had come a few days ago and the ashes of his former self were somewhat hard to remove immediately.
"Should I call the Assassin?" the aged man asked the Phoenix, a thousand different possibilities running through his mind. He brought a hand to his chin in thought, absentmindedly stroking his beard. The Assassin's offer in intriguing, though I'm hesitant as to why they've come to us at this point in time. Furthermore, how did they know the Tri-Wizard Tournament was to be held here? Only the Ministry and I knew…their informants must be spread throughout the Ministry…
Fawkes spoke up, trilling a beautiful tune, one that Albus recognized as a sound of encouragement. He smiled at the Phoenix, always wondering how he could cut through his musings and get right to the heart of the matter.
He placed a hand on the hilt of the dagger, pushing a small amount of magical energy into the rune inscribed on the blade.
"Ah, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," said Altaїr, appearing behind the elderly wizard. Dumbledore spun around and paused, dumbfounded, at the object held in the assassin's hands.
"You've caught me at a bad time, though I do believe you could be of assistance in this matter," said the assassin, twirling the object in one hand.
The object in question was a two foot, double-edged blade mounted on a steel hilt three feet long. The blade had two parallel blood grooves running from the hilt to just short of the tip. A gem with an odd erratic pulsing glow was embedded in the pommel, a trio of vine-like fastenings keeping it in place.
"An odd weapon, Mr. Altaїr," said Dumbledore, examining the complex rune system that stretched from pommel to sword tip. "An everlasting edge rune array. Very impressive rune work, young man…" Dumbledore trailed off as he examined the gem at the hilt. Impossible… such a thing no longer exists!
"Now these I haven't heard of for a long time. I thought all the Hoseki stones were destroyed during the Second Crusade."
The assassin smirked as he held out the weapon to the Headmaster. "We've been around much longer than that. Our predecessors stored about a hundred thousand or so of these in one of the ancient tombs of the Assassin Darius, the man who killed Xerxes I. Until recently, we had no use for them, nor did we know how to use them, though now I am able to use one and withdraw one for my own personal use."
"Why an orange Hoseki stone? Surely the red or blue variations imbue the wielder with more power and defensive capabilities. Even the green stones have the added effect of automatic healing," asked Dumbledore, drawing on his memory of the tales of the Hoseki stones. It was all rather vague, though accurate on some parts that count.
"A red or blue or even green stones may affect the battle prowess or the injury resistance, but I chose not to use them as they have a flaw: they draw directly from the wielder. They amplify the power, yes, though they use a small amount of extra power to fuel the effects. Take a simple Stunner, for example. A wielder of a blue or red stone would create a Stunner with three times the power of a regular Stunner, though they use a half again as much power as a regular stunner," said Altaїr, taking back his weapon and beginning to trace a new rune at the handle. "Some may say that it is an acceptable loss of power for the extra effect, though I disagree."
Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a few moments, contemplating the advantages of an orange stone over the rest. The orange stone was the least known about in terms of abilities… What does this assassin know that I don't?
"What are the properties of an orange Hoseki stone?" asked Dumbledore, coming up empty on his mental review of the Hoseki stones. "Why would you choose it over the other, more powerful stones?"
"That would be telling, Headmaster," said the assassin, pulling a pencil shaped object from his belt. "Now, I assume you know the five runes of Structural Integrity?"
Dumbledore accepted the rune-steele and started tracing the curve of the first rune. They worked in silence, listening to the faint trilling of Fawkes.
"I assume you have not activated the dagger just to discuss my new weaponry, said Altaїr, his gaze focused on the rune he was drawing. "Have you decided to accept my offer?"
Dumbledore nodded as he finished the first rune of the array and began work on the second. "I have been wondering: what are the terms of your proposition?"
"A team of sixteen of my colleagues, excluding me, will arrive at Hogwarts at the start of term feast. We will introduce ourselves to the students and will explain our purpose: We are here to keep everyone safe, by any means necessary. We will enforce your rules, whatever they are, as long as they do not go against our Creed."
"All are acceptable, thus far. What else do you require?"
"We will be allowed unrestricted access to any location of Hogwarts. If not, we can do it anyway, as you can see. Our style of magic allows us to bypass your wards," said the assassin, finishing a graceful curve on a large flowing rune. "We will police our own, so any problems your students have with us will be brought before me."
"What do you ask for payment?"
"The ability to train our newest novices is payment enough. Two of the sixteen are of the novice rank. The rest are what we call Grand's and Master's. The Master and I will be paying my higher ranked colleagues the amount they have deemed necessary to take themselves off the mission list. Basically, three and a half teams of the Order higher ranks will provide the tightest security you have ever seen."
Dumbledore set aside the steele and went behind his desk, sinking into his chair with a hand at his chin, stroking it as he mulled over his decision. On the one hand, the Order's finest would be there to provide security free of charge. On the other hand, the assassins were an unknown player, the history books having no record of such an order.
It did make sense, however, that an order of assassins had been working behind the scenes all these years. Tales spoke of Salah ad-Din being target of assassination, back when he was attempting to bring the tribes together under his banner to retake the Holy Land. His attempts to unite the people were met with resistance. Rumors circulated about how one head of a tribe had hired the Assassins, the best killers in the world, to deal with him.
One night during his time near Antioch, he spread a meter of white sand around his tent and posted guards to watch every angle. Assuming he was safe, he went to sleep, confident that his protection was more than adequate. The next morning, he awoke to the sight of a loaf of bread with a dagger stuck in it. A note was pinned to the loaf. "Leave" was the single word upon the paper.
Examination of the sand revealed no markings and the guards swore they never saw anyone.
That day, Salah ad-Din left Antioch to try and recruit some of the nomad tribes.
Sometime later, Salah ad-Din returned to Antioch. Like before, he prepared for the assassins. Salah ad-Din spread white sand two meters around his tent and stationed nearly a wall of guards. Thinking he was safe for sure, he went to sleep.
The next morning, he found a dagger pinning a note to the ground next to him, the blade nearly touching the side of his head. The words "Next time, you're dead" were written upon it. Once again, the sand was immaculate and the guards saw nothing.
Adding in the fact that Salah ad-Din was a wizard with skill in wards causes one to hesitate in believing this story. How could Assassins walk right past the defenses without leaving a single mark or alerting a single guard and leave a dagger
"Ah, the story of Salah ad-Din and the Assassins… true in every aspect. As I said, our style of magic allows us passage through wards with no reaction. Alarm wards and such do not activate, allowing us to be undetectable. Though, if the target is smart, he'll try tripwires and such, something we can not avoid using our style of magic alone."
Dumbledore smiled, still wondering how Altaїr read his mind. "Well, if the story is true, I would say that the offer of service is quite acceptable, given the fact that I get a small force of warriors for no cost."
"Excellent. We will meet again, on the start of term." With that said, Altaїr disappeared, leaving the Headmaster more confused than ever.
"How does he do that?" he wondered aloud, looking over at Fawkes.
Fawkes looked at him and shrugged, going back to his grooming. The ash was really beginning to tick him off.
September 1, 1994. 1900, Great Hall...
A mass of black-robed students sat at four long tables spanning the length of the hall. They all talked amongst themselves as they waited for the first year students to arrive after the traditional boat ride across the Black Lake. A few ghosts traveled amongst the students, greeting friends of the past years, asking how their summers were, were they excited for class, that sort of thing.
The doors opened and allowed a strict-looking professor and a stumbling line of soaking eleven year olds into the hall. All communication quickly died as the professor led the firsties to the end of the hall, towards where the teachers sat at their own table.
She pulled a three legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty and patched wizard's hat.
For a moment, silence reigned supreme. That is, until a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth and the hat broke into song.
As the hat finished its song, the green-robed professor unrolled a large scroll. "When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she told the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table."
She began to call out the names of the first years, calling them forward. Each one placed the Sorting Hat atop their heads and, after a few minutes, the Hat would yell out the name of the House they would stay in. Some went to Slytherin, others to Gryffindor, and even others to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.
After the Sorting ended, the professor removes the hat and stool and walked away, clearing the way for the Headmaster to address the students.
Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet, drawing the respectful attention the entire student body. He was smiling around at the students; his arms open wide in welcome.
"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall, his eyes twinkling as if he knew some great joke. "Tuck in."
His announcement was met with some cheers as the golden dishes filled themselves with all sort of food, ready to be devoured by the ravenous students. Once the food had been consumed, desserts of all shapes and sizes appeared before the students.
When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again.
The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.
"So!" said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.
"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.
"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."
This announcement had quite a few of the students in an uproar.
"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -"
But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling.
He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers' table.
A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.
The lightning had thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike anyone had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening.
One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was whiteness.
The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words the students couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.
The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it.
He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.
"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."
It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students chapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.
Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground and below the table, students saw several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Tri-wizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" said a student loudly.
The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke.
Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.
"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar."
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.
"Er - but maybe this is not the time... no. . ." said Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah yes, the Tri-wizard Tournament. . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.
"The Tri-wizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities - until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."
The announcement of the deaths being a regular occurrence did little to curb the enthusiasm of the students, who all now turned to each other to discuss the Tournament.
"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.
"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Tri-wizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."
"I'm going for it!" a student hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, an observer could see students either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the
Hall quieted once more.
"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Tri-wizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" - Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the red-haired Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious - "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion."
His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over many of the student's mutinous faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected."
Dumbledore's smile grew wider as he looked over to the giant doors leading to the Entrance Hall. "The last thing I wish to announce to you all is the arrival of seventeen men and women who will be making Hogwarts a safer place. I present to you… The Assassins!" he said as he raised a hand to the end of the hall.
The doors of the Great Hall opened slowly, allowing something akin to mist to seep pout into the halls. Despite the illusion of it being slow moving, the Hall was quickly filled with the low mist, making the students shift nervously.
Out of the cloud that obscured the Entrance Hall walked a cloaked, hooded and masked figure. His cloak, hood and mask were all white in color, traditional for the assassins. His clothing, however, had various distinct markings on it.
His armor was decorated with grim looking red streaks, almost like blood spray, marking his armor in lines and arcs. The joke among the other Assassins was that it wasn't dye that marked his combat robes; it was the blood of his enemies. The assassin would smile when asked about it and reply that, if it was indeed blood, his robes would have been pure red years ago.
The shadows beneath the hood and above the mask flashed with a tinge of green as he looked around the Hall. The students felt tremors of fear crawl up their spines as the empty space beneath red spatters seemed to pierce their souls.
As he stepped away from the entrance hall, other assassins formed up behind him, their armor and markings similar, though their robes had different designs, focusing on graceful lines, tribal swirls and runic-looking symbols of various colors. Varying shades of orange, blue, green, yellow and brown were present, making the gather assassins look like a wall with varying symbols in paint.
Only two assassins that entered the Great Hall had no markings on their uniform, their robes the traditional unmarked white. These were the novices, those who still needed more training before they could attain higher ranks and begin customizing their own marked armor. Any assassin at or above the rank of
The lead assassin reached Dumbledore and inclined his head in respect. After Dumbledore returned the gesture, he spun on his heel and faced the stunned students. The rest of his group lined up on either side of him, eight assassins moving to either side of their mission leader.
"It is my honor to introduce Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, leader of the Assassins assembled before you," said Dumbledore, indicating the assassin directly in front of him. The students felt a second twinge of fear as the assassin gave them another look, somehow exuding an almost palpable aura of lethality. "He and his team will be here for the entirety of the year. Their purpose here is to protect you all, by whatever means they deem necessary."
Altaїr turned around and stepped up to Dumbledore's section of the table, leaning over to whisper a few words. The Headmaster nodded in agreement before looking back at the students.
"Mr. Altaїr has asked me to relay that he will not be answering any questions you have tonight, due to the fact that he and his colleagues are not familiar with the layout of Hogwarts. If you wish for information about your new protectors, Mr. Altaїr has agreed to answer questions tomorrow at lunch time."
The assassin lifted his hand, fingers spread wide, before clenching it into a fist. He then pointed forward with the same hand, two fingers pointed back at the doors to the Great Hall. The assassins began to move as one, heading out of the Hall, Altaїr leading them. Dumbledore paused for a moment as he asked himself that one question he had not asked before: where are the Assassins going to stay?
He put it aside for the moment. I'll just ask him later, he thought as he turned his gaze back to his students. "And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.
As the students walked towards their common rooms, the assassins leapt from the front steps, heading for the Forbidden Forest.
Who can guess who I'm basing the Assassins off of?
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