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October 30, 1994.

When one goes searching for information, they usually don't expect to aim a wand at someone, unless the application of force was completely necessary. More so, one doesn't expect that someone to reverse the situation in seconds and then disappear without a trace. Such actions would leave a great number of people who are unaccustomed to such actions in a semi-dazed state, resulting from the shock to their psyche after the adrenaline high wore off.

Thus, Fleur Delacour was wandering the halls, somehow making it to the third floor without conscious thought about actually climbing the stairs.

Her back was aching, a slight twinge that acted up with every step from her sudden impact with a stone wall. She could have healed the slight bruising in an instant, but her mind was elsewhere. She replayed the scene over and over again, how she had threatened a man who belonged to a group that called themselves 'Assassins,' which meant they kill people in their line of work. That was not a smart move on her part, especially faced with Altaïr, who looked like he'd fought in more wars on more continents than she cared to think about.

"What brings a potential Champion this deep into our territory?" asked a feminine tone, breaking through her thoughts like a reducto.

Fleur spun around; nearly reaching for her wand before she caught sight of the almost mandatory white hood and cloak the Assassins wore. The combined sight of the deep cowl with dark shadows beneath it and the slight smirk had her hand freezing in mid reach, her finger a few inches from her wand. Another one? How do I manage to run into them in a castle this big?

"Good choice," said the Assassin, stepping out from the shadows of a suit of armor while flipping a galleon across her knuckles, clinking across the metal plated gloves she wore on both hands. "The 'not drawing the wand' part. The 'walking into Assassin-held territory' part is, in fact, not usually a wise idea."

"I apologize," said Fleur as she moved her hand back to her side, away from the hidden wand, into a neutral position. One encounter with an Assassin had rattled her enough to know she didn't want to tangle with another. "I was a little distracted…"

The Assassin nodded slowly, still rattling the coin across her knuckles as she leaned on the wall, watching the French witch with her head cocked to the side in thought. "This has nothing to do with Master Altaïr, does it?"

"How do you- never mind. Yes… it is about Master Altaïr... or who I thought Master Altaïr was."

The Assassin leant back against the pillar, intrigued. Altaïr had mentioned that the Frenchwoman had approached earlier, but was rather lax on the reasoning behind it. The lack of details was much like Altaïr`s normal way of describing things, only answering direct questions with as few specifics as possible. He was a very private person outside his small circle of friends, which made the fact that a young woman was seeking him out made it all the more intriguing to the white cloaked Assassin.

"Why would you go looking for him? He is a Master Assassin, one of the best in his field, and does not usually leave people to come after him."

"A Master? He's the head of your order?"

"A Master is the highest rank that an Assassin can attain without becoming the leader of the order," said the woman in white. "We still have our Grandmaster."

"If he's a Master, what are you?"

"Novice, if you must know. Keep in mind, however, that all Assassins are trained killers and I have heard every possible crack at my rank." A quick twist of her lips had her face as grim as any before changing back to a smirk. "Most of us, unlike me, don't take jokes or insults at our ranks lightly. Tread carefully around the others."

"So I would guess," remarked Fleur, leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded with her hands clear of her wand, just in case the Assassin felt threatened and decided to disarm her for the second time that night. "A man named Ezio Auditore came to my house during my birthday party, in May. He bore the same scar that Altaïr had as a statue back in the hall."

"And you assumed that he was this Ezio?" scoffed the Assassin, shaking her head. "All but the newest of our Order bear scars, both physical and mental, and that quickly changes for everyone. I can easily name a dozen who bear similar scars."

"Yes? Who else?" Fleur asked, her tone interested.

"There are three tenets to our Creed, mademoiselle," said the Assassin, her voice suddenly emotionless. Fleur frowned, confused at the abrupt change of tone from jovial to deadpan. "The third and most important: Never compromise the Brotherhood."

"I don't want to know everything about whatever you people are! I just want to know why I'm the only one who remembers anything about him!"

The Assassin looked up, the new information renewing her intrigue in the woman standing in front of her. "You remember him, but none of the others who were there know of him?"

"Yes! Even my father – whom Ezio had impressed with his knowledge of wine – forgot anything about him."

The Assassin stroked her chin in thought, the multiple possibilities flashing through her mind. Ezio had wiped himself? High level magic… especially after fighting a Templar and dissolving the body, that's what the report said… but she was unaffected by the magic… She froze mid stroke, one particular theory coming to mind. It was an incredibly rare occurrence, but maybe…

"Mademoiselle, I think I may know why you alone can remember him, but it may take me a while to find out if I'm right or not."

"You can?"

"Maybe, but I need something from you first."

"What is it? Money?" asked Fleur, prepared to reach into her savings should the Assassin require it.

"Non, non, nothing like that," replied the Assassin, waving away the offer of money. "I need you to cast a spell at me, anything at all."

"A spell? That's it?" Such a simple request had Fleur confused, having expected a more difficult task or something to that effect. After slowly drawing her wand, as to not provoke another meeting of flesh and stone, and at the Assassin's nod, she cast a low level jinx, a jelly-legs.

The spell sped at the Assassin, who made no movement until the last possible second, reaching up to catch the spell in the palm of her hand. Rather than affecting her, the spell formed a tiny ball of light that was quickly tucked into a box the size of her fist. "That will do. I'll let you know what I find out."

All Fleur could do was gape at how the Assassin had used no shield nor spell to stop her jinx, then went on to handle it like it was a physical thing rather than a construct of energy.

The Assassin swiveled on her heel and walked through the door at the end of the hall without a backwards glance. Fleur tried to follow, but the door had slammed shut in her face and resisted all attempts to open it, physical otherwise. How do they do this? Every single time?

The series of rooms beneath the third floor corridor, formerly those that made up the gauntlet led to the Philosopher's Stone, had remained empty for the three previous years, accumulating little more than dust after the traps, tricks, and puzzles had been removed. As most of the school knew little about it, all the students and teachers never thought of what it was used for now.

The Assassins had turned it into their own personal base, using the Chess room as a sparring room and a reference center, where Assassins could practice hand-to-hand combat – armed or unarmed – magical dueling, and such while others could contact the others back at Masyaf, Monteriggioni, Langley, or one of the several others scattered across the globe.

Sidestepping around the resident couple, Padraig and Alyssandra, who were raining and deflecting punches as fast as they could upon each other, the white-cloaked assassin slipped between the fighting pairs to reach one of the several links to the headquarters. With a low hum, the terminal activated and displayed the Assassin crest for several seconds, before melting away to reveal a hooded Assassin dressed in grey, one of the analysts who were either retired or on the waiting list to be healed and shipped back out to the front lines.

"Ah, Anaïs! Wonderful to see you again," said the Assassin, smiling beneath his hood.

"Safety and peace, Master Reeves," she said, bowing her head respectively.

"No need to be so formal, my friend," he replied to her greeting, waving his hand in a nonchalant manner. "What can I do for you?"

Anaïs pulled the shrunken spell box from her belt and placed it on a glowing circle of runes, a teleportation array specifically designed to transport items from one terminal to another. With a quick flash, the box disappeared from the pedestal. "I need an analysis of this."

Reeves raised an eyebrow beneath his cowl as he picked up the box. A quick flip of the lid displayed its contents, which made him roll his eyes as he closed it. "It's a reverse-type jinx, Templar style, specifically a 'jelly legs.' Did you really need me to tell you that?"

"Not that type of analysis, Master Reeves. I'd like you to check it against the common aspects of an Assassin's magical signature."

To say this surprised the elderly Assassin would be an understatement. Thousands of possible scenarios passed through his head and hundreds of reasons made themselves known in the span of that instant, leaving him cognizant to say only one word: "What?"

"Master Altaïr left a witness at the mission in May, earlier this year. She's retained the knowledge of the wipe when no one else remembers him."

"Truly?" asked Reeves, running through a list in his head. It wasn't a long list, so it made his next statement come earlier than most would expect. "Only ninety-three people have been resistant to the wipe in varying degrees. Only a third of those actually remember everything."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that this witness of Altaïr's is either a follower of the Templars or something…extraordinary. I'll have to do some tests before I know for sure and they will take a lot of time."

"How long?"

"A month…maybe more if more filming comes up. It's also depending on whether or not others need the equipment. Analyzing magical signatures and comparing them is a long, time consuming process, especially since it doesn't work if the person has used the 'Turners."

"Thank you, Master Reeves."

"Thank me in a month," he replied with a smile on his face before he cut the video feed, leaving the novice to her thoughts.

She sighed, shaking her head as she went out of the former chessboard room. Master Reeves was one of the best research agents… and currently working on several movies.

Supposedly, that "Matrix" movie he's talking about is going to be huge.

The Goblet of Fire sat in the middle of the Entrance Hall, surrounded by a smoky ring of blue light and a few students, around twenty or so. They remained behind the line, believing that Dumbledore's Age Line would stop them from getting too close. None wanted to test the headmaster's ability with magic, so a few feet remained between the students and the outermost edge of the ring.

Padraig and Alyssandra smirked as they leant back against the wall, watching the students who milled around – mostly Hogwarts students – and tried to speculate who would be the Champion of their school.

"How many do you think have tried to bypass the old man's screening?" inquired Padraig, nudging his other half with an elbow.

Alyssandra was silent for a moment, apparently thinking. "Four."

"How do you know?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity. "How could you possibly know?"

Alyssandra uncrossed her arms and tapped the wall with her right hand, the hand between the pair.

Padraig nearly jumped four metres in the air as a hood appeared from solid stone, an Assassin with three parallel black stripes running from peaked hood to coat tails stepping out of the wall as if he were walking through air rather than rock.

"Gabriel! What have I said about doing that!" yelled the shamrock marked Assassin, swinging a fist at the ex-thief, who merely stepped back into the wall, leaving Padraig's fist to bounce off it with a crack.

"Damn it! Why does he do that?" he hissed, tired of Gabriel's natural ability to phase his – and those of whomever he touched – molecules through any tangible object.

This led to the discovery of the ability to phase a part of his body through an opponent and then re-solidified his body, forcing the opponent's body apart to accommodate the intrusion.

Gabriel Silva, a native of Brazil, had been a world class thief before his induction into the Assassins. He had the misfortune of stealing a specific golden sphere from a Templar vault, which had the Templars placing an insanely large bounty on his head, over three and a half million dollars. This, along with his innate magical ability brought the thief to the Assassin's notice, who then offered him a place to stay, training, and the chance to get back at those who had tried to kill him.

Gabriel, who had spent four years on the run from Templar agents, was all too happy to join up. The Templars had messed with the wrong thief and his first act of vengeance was to clear out the first vault he had hit, four years ago, before moving on to other, more protected vaults.

Gabriel had stolen over nine billion dollars from the Templars during his time amongst the Assassins. As all Assassins kept a percentage of what they stole, Gabriel was in the list of the top ten richest Assassins.

"You can do it too, my dear. He just does it instinctively."

"One of these days, I'm gonna seal him in a tomb!"

"Not likely, you red haired mick," said Gabriel, sticking his head out of the framework on the other side of Padraig's head. "You couldn't catch me if I stole your chair with you in it."

Padraig swelled up in outrage, preparing a scathing retort, but remained quiet at the sight of Alyssandra's raised eyebrow and the appearance of Altaïr appearing right next to her, between the dhampir and the ghost walker's disembodied head.

"Ah, Altaïr! Safety and peace, brother. What brings you here?" asked Gabriel, walking fully out of the wall, positioning himself furthest from Padraig, who was still glaring at the Assassin covertly under the edge of his hood. "Hiding from your little French tart?"

Altaïr shook his head, a slight half grimace, half grin on his face, as he pointed towards the other end of the hall. The many staircases of the castle converged at that point and he knew that his prey were on the way down as he spoke. "I'm here for the entertainment."

All three of the Assassins wore identical looks of surprise and confusion at the statement, looking at each other in bewilderment before following Altaïr's finger.

A trio of students hopped down the stairs, laughing amongst themselves about the pair of vials in the hands of two red haired teens. A boy with his hair in dreadlocks followed close behind, grinning in the same way as the other two thirds of the trio.

"Done it," One of the identical twins said, talking in hushed tones to their brother. Altaïr smirked as both Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger – both of whom had been watching the older students put in their names – looked up at their elders with looks of equal parts confusion and intrigue. "Just finished it."

"What is 'it,' Fred?" asked Ron slowly, a wary look in his eyes. Life with the twins had taught him to be alert at all times when they were around.

"The Aging Potion, dung brains," said the twin, tilting the little flask of potion between his fingers.

"Only a little bit each," said the other, rubbing his hands together with glee. He could already see the thousand galleon prize in his hands. "We only need to be a few months older, not a few years."

"We're going to split the thousand galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," said the boy behind them, grinning broadly beneath his whirling dreadlocks.

"I'm not sure this is going to work, you know," said Hermione warningly. All the Assassins in the corner agreed with her statement, each forming a grin as they analyzed the Age Line and the spells woven into it.

"I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of this," she said, looking at the Age Line with the proper amount of apprehension on her face. "He's smarter than us, you know?"

Padraig pulled his hood down further over his head while trying to hide his chuckle underneath a bout of coughing as the trio ignored Ms. Granger's words of wisdom. He was the not the only Assassin who shared his point of view, though the only to show any outward sign of it. "How bad is this gonna get?"

"Just watch," replied Altaïr, putting a hand on Padraig's shoulder to stop him from fidgeting. "It's about to happen."

"Ready?" Fred asked, practically quivering with excitement. "Bottoms up!"

All of the hall watched, fascinated, as both twins pulled a slip of parchment out of their pockets, bearing the words Fred Weasley/George Weasley — Hogwarts respectively. With a show of linking arms, they downed the vials in one go, each showing identical looks of distaste at the sourness of the potion. After a moment of silence, probably to make sure the potion had time to take effect, they stepped forward over the line with the eyes of every single person in the hall upon them.

The crowd cheered as the line failed to react in the slightest way, a fact that made the twins yell and laugh as they danced around in the circled area. With a flourish of their arms, they simultaneously tossed their parchments at the mouth of the goblet.

Out of nowhere, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by a giant invisible hand. They landed painfully, rolling to a stop ten feet away from the Age Line on the cold stone floor. Before either of them could say a coherent word, both of them sprouted identical long white beards, almost rivaling that of their headmaster.

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other's beards, comparing the lengths and purity of color. George had the longest by an inch, but Fred's was a brighter white than his brother's.

"Your friend did warn you," said Altaïr in a deeply amused voice, causing everyone to turn and notice the four Assassins standing in the corner. He strode over and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. "Your headmaster is many things, but an idiot is not one of them… most of the time."

Both of the Weasley twins looked up at the Assassin in awe, who gave them a shove towards the staircases. "I suggest you both go up to your healer…Madam Pomfrey, wasn't it? She is already tending to two of your school, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little using alternate means. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours."

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter at the twin's predicament.

"Let that be a lesson to you all," Altaïr said as the rest of the Assassins walked into the Great Hall, turning half back to the crowd still clustered around the Goblet of Fire. "Trying to outwit someone only works when you're at least as smart."

The crowd broke up rather quickly under the weight of Altaïr's glare, scampering away as fast as they could while maintaining a semblance of normalcy. He allowed a small smirk to play across his face as a certain blonde crossed the hall, headed for the goblet.

Fleur Delacour stopped halfway through the motion of putting her own name into the blue flames of the goblet, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising. A quick look around showed nothing out of the ordinary… that is, until she looked at the door between the Entrance and Great Hall.

The red-and-white cloaked Altaïr stood there, framed by the veritable sea of black robed students sitting down for breakfast. He pulled at the edge of his hood, as if in greeting or salute, before he turned and walked into the Great Hall.

"Was that the Assassin you were asking Roger about?" asked Aimeé, coming up beside Fleur with her own scrap of parchment. "The one with a scar on his lips?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Fleur replied, keeping one eye on her friend and the other on the stylised hood. She tried the innocent look, trying to throw her friend off the trail.

"I know that innocent look you pulled on Roger last night," said Aimeé, her grin smug. She knew she had the upper hand, now that Fleur was off balance. "And I know when you're trying to avoid a subject. What's with you and that Altaïr guy?"

Fleur was silent, watching the group of Assassins at the table. Something, some strange feeling of recognition drew her gaze to their leader. "I'm not sure… the way he moves reminds me of someone I met a few months ago, but his face is not similar to the one I saw in May."

"And you think that whoever you met happened to be part of a group of mercenaries, whom claim either ancestry or the name of a group of semi mythical Assassins, whose magical prowess is beyond that of Merlin himself?" asked Aimeé, her tone growing more incredulous as she listed more facts. "That's who you think he is?"

"When you say it like that, you make it sound like I'm insane," said Fleur, glancing between her friend and the object of their discussion, who was eating his meal at an energetic pace , yet managed to eat every single bite without sparing a glance at it.

"Fleur, Fleur, Fleur… you are!"

"Has anyone seen Anaïs?" asked Padraig, looking around at the other Assassins entering the Great Hall along with the students of the three schools.

"Probably talking with Keanu again. She was talking to him last night, talking about some spell analysis she needed done," said Gabriel, slowly rising from the floor next to Padraig's ankle.

"Spell analysis? Novices know at least three hundred spells, mostly common. Anything more advanced would require one of the archivists."

"What was she looking at?" asked Altaïr, looking over the sea of black blue and burgundy.

"Not sure. We'll ask her later… though I wonder why she's not here," said Ronan, rolling his shoulder to ease the pain from a recent relocation. "The Goblet of Fire is about to pick the three champions."

"Perhaps someone traded patrol duty… or pulled rank to trade," said Alyssandra, lightly touching her left eye, which was quickly fading from blackish-purple to her normal pallor. "Was it necessary to hit me in the eye?"

"Was it necessary to kick me in the balls?" retorted Ronan, wincing at the memory.

"It was no holds barred!"

"It was a sparring match!"

"It was nothing personal!"

"You hit me three times!"

"Enough, the both of you," said Altaïr, waving the others to stand along the walls, where they would all have a clear view of the proceedings. "Settle your petty disputes later… and not in public."

The decorations of the Great Hall had changed greatly from this morning, where the light was provided by the rising sun projected from the enchanted ceiling.

Now, clouds of conjured bats swooped in loops around the hall, dodging between the hundreds of floating candles the lit the room to intensities of the midday sun. Pumpkins ranging in size from average to gargantuan sat in the corners in towers almost reaching the ceiling. Carved faces flickered eerily, lit by multi-colored candles sitting within them, leering at the amassed students with crooked, toothy grins.

~Are these the typical Halloween decorations of Hogwarts?~ asked Altaïr, amused. ~Or do you think that they're trying to impress their guests?~

~Probably the latter,~ said Alyssandra, the golden stripes on her uniform reflecting the light against the walls, making the two blood-red teardrops at her collar stand out that much more. ~This tournament is a huge international event. ~They're all trying to impress one another.~

~International prestige… bah! Why are we even here?~ asked Jordan, her voice hot tempered and loud. ~Templars are pulling operations all over the world and three and a half teams of the best Master- and Grand- class Assassins are patrolling a school full of teenagers!~

~Be. Calm.~ said Altaïr, his voice low, calm, and at sub-zero temperatures, opening up a private line to Jordan and cutting everyone else out of it. ~We are here for a mission, assigned by Al Mualim himself, which could lead us to one of the biggest Templar caches in the last three decades!~

~You don't mean…~

~Yes. The Templar Academy… their training grounds, their prison, their libraries, their missions… everything we would need to wipe the order out.~

~I'm sorry… I d-didn't know…~

~I know your family was taken by the Templars. I know they were tortured in an attempt to find you and I know that you had to kill them when they were turned into Templar agents,~ said Altaïr, looking right across the hall at her. His tone was sorrowful and sympathetic, knowing how much this hurt to bring up. ~Al Mualim gave me the choice of my team. I chose you because I knew you would be one of the best for this job. I know you want your revenge, but if we play this out, we'll have the chance at the Academy.~

Jordan looked away, her eyes brimming with tears as the memories started to play back. She'd washed her hands with all sorts of soaps and – when that didn't work for her – various caustic substances in an attempt to wash the blood of her mother, father, and elder brother from her hands, nearly damaging them beyond all magical repair. It took twenty hours to heal her hands to make sure she could still move her fingers, even with the best healers working on her surgery.

~I got the Templar's name…~ he said, making her jerk her head back up to look at him. ~He's at the Academy. He's called Benjamin Kane, the Mind Breaker.~

~How did you figure that out?~ Jordan asked, incredibly amazed. ~Of all the Templars I've interrogated, none of them told me anything about him. They didn't even know he existed.~

~You haven't taken down someone of your equivalent level of authority in the Templars. I took down one of the high level Knights. My missions are on a whole new level.~

~I'm a level ten, blacklist operative.~

~Level twenty, whitelist.~

~Never heard of it.~

~Never will.~

Unbeknownst to Jordan, Altaïr released the comm. limits when she told him her operative level and everyone heard the entire exchange. Everyone laughed when Altaïr pulled his last line, causing Jordan to jump and look at all the Assassins around the hall all roared with laughter through their comms. Several of them had to lean against the walls they were laughing so hard.

~What's whitelist?~ Jacinta, her own tone confused.

~Higher than blacklist… and that's all you need to know until you're asked to join.~ replied Ronan.

~You're one too, aren't you?~

~Yep.~

~Who else is one besides Altaïr and Ronan?~

Raphael, Talal, Piotr, Padraig, and Gabriel all winked their robes, making them flash a bright blue glow only seen by those wearing the Assassin hoods. Out of all of them present in the hall, only Jacinta, Jordan, and Alyssandra

~How are you all-~

~Quiet!~ hissed Gabriel from his position near the entrance. ~Dumbledore has removed the Age Line he put up and is levitating the goblet into the Hall!~

Everyone began to whisper as Dumbledore walked down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, his wand pointed at the slowly revolving and floating Goblet of Fire, which he placed in front of the staff table where everyone could see it.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" — he indicated the door behind the staff table — "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of multicolored semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluish-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting...a few people kept checking their watches...

"Any second," Lee Jordan whispered from two seats away from the Weasley twins, who were freshly clean shaven for dinner.

The flames inside the goblet turned a deep blood red. Sparks began to fly from it, as if there were a grinder hidden within it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air and a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped.

The first champion's name had been announced.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white from the deep red.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."

"No surprises there!" yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. The Assassins saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore, oddly duck-footed; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

"Bravo, Viktor!" boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. The Assassin closest to him had placed runes at each seating, which nearly blew out his eardrum as he yelled. "Knew you had it in you!

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons…" said Dumbledore. "-is Fleur Delacour!"

"Oh look, they're all disappointed," Hermione said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party.

'Disappointed' was a bit of an understatement, was a major thought among the students and most of the Assassins, who were watching all the Beauxbatons students. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. Most looked teary eyed, but most had a look of sadness on their faces, except Aimeé's, whose face was a mixture of happiness and sadness.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it in the air.

The Hogwarts champion next . . .

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

"No!" said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him but the Assassins with their enhanced hearing systems; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, slapping high-fives and shaking hands, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —"

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out —

"Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad."

As one, every single head in the Great Hall turned to look at Altaïr, who had been leaning against a pillar. As he became aware that he was now the center of attention, he slowly shifted his weight back onto both feet and looked towards the three Headmasters of the school.

Headmaster Dumbledore merely looked confused, while the other two looked downright pissed. Altaïr shrugged, not knowing why this was happening.

Dumbledore nodded, almost imperceptibly, before Altaïr waved his hand in a 'regroup' hand sign. With a burst of magical power, all the Assassins flew over to their leader and began asking questions.

~Altaïr? A Champion of the Triwizard Tournament? How did you manage that?~ asked Talal, sounding quite impressed with his friend, breaking through the number of questions of the other Assassins who were all equally surprised at the change of events.. ~I was under the impression that we were here to hunt Templars, not compete in a tournament.~

~I didn't do anything. I was only near the cup this morning, when you three were with me.~

~That means someone else put your name in the goblet…~ said Ronan, looking over his shoulder at the sea of students, who were all staring at the group and whispering amongst themselves.

~Could it have been a student?~ asked Jordan, her visor running through facial recognition to look for any students who didn't appear surprised while her recording equipment broke up the hiss of many whispers into distinct voices, scanning for abnormalities.

~Not likely,~growled out Piotr, disregarding the students chatter. The giant Russian turned his gaze towards the end of the hall, where the adults sat and stood. ~Focus on the teachers… they'd be the ones who would know how to confuse such a relic.~

~You think a Templar is here?~ asked Ronan, fingering the hilt of his sword as he scanned one face after another, watching for any sign of recognition from the database.

~I know one thing for sure,~ said Altaïr, flexing his hands against the triggers for his hidden blades.

~Whoever it is that has done this… is going to regret it.~

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