Altaïr glared beneath his hood, his patience tested as he set himself about looking over the entire room with a slow, deliberate sweep, cataloging every face that stared back within his database and noting the glow that surrounded them.

"How many here have had the Op. done?" he asked, watching the masses of white surround him, flagging each profile whose silhouette turned blue against his sight. Potential allies are always so hard to come by.

Flickers of red stood out against the masses as well, hard light clashing against the soft glow of blue and white that permeated the air. He marked them and their profiles, flagging their descriptions for all of the team to see and placing a mark on their skin, invisible to any other eyes than that of a hooded Assassin.

Eight acknowledgment lights glowed green on the hoods of those around him, also marks only visible to the Assassins. They all could see as he did, see the enemies arrayed against them sitting in the room, the wolves amongst the sheep that sat by their neighbors and watched the Assassins as if innocent.

Altaïr nodded as they searched the room, each person scanned added to the tally of occupants in the entire school. With twelve Assassins out of sixteen in the room, it was quite easy to see everyone within the room.

"There's a few missing. Five students out of three hundred twenty-two missing, two teachers out of Hogwarts staff, one of Beauxbatons and one of Durmstrang," said Padraig, reading off the counter. "Everyone agreed?"

All nodded, waved their hand, or made some signal to the affirmative as Dumbledore swept down the aisle, his eyes no longer twinkling as he looked the Assassin dead in the hood.

"What is the meaning of this, Altaïr?" asked the Headmaster, his voice low and tense. "Is this some sort of plan you and your group have cooked up?"

"We are as surprised as you are, Dumbledore," said Alyssandra, her own voice calm and steely.

"Then why is your name coming out of the Goblet of Fire?"

"I don't know, Headmaster, but we intend to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible," replied Altaïr, tightening one of the straps for the knife on his back and rolling his shoulder to adjust it to a more comfortable fit. "Now, if you excuse me, I have to join my fellow champions."

With a look at Alyssandra, he walked along the wall to the door off the Great Hall and entered silently, not even his clothes or the door making a sound.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered, aged canvas beneath glass peering at him with a modicum of intelligence. I prefer regular pictures, he thought as he saw the wizened witch who had flit out of the frame of her picture in the hall, through the ones next to them, and into the one which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear, talking about what she had seen.

Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. They all looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames in a relatively dark room.

Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. His head was bowed and arms folded, his eyes twitching underneath his lids as if in REM sleep or thinking intensely.

Cedric was standing with his arms folded behind his back, staring into the fire with a look of confidence mixed in equal parts with nervousness. He hid it well, but a slight twitch in his facial muscles gave him away.

Fleur Delacour was the model of calm, sitting daintily upon one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knees and hands placed lightly in her lap. She was happy, that much Altaïr could tell, at the turn of events, seeing how her lips curved upwards from time to time as the thought crossed her mind of winning the tournament.

Altaïr coughed behind his fist, bringing their attention to the newcomer in the room. Cedric jumped slightly at the disturbance, Krum merely opened his eyes, and Fleur watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Those eyes widened a great deal when she saw the uniform, especially when she saw it was Altaïr's distinctive red coloring across the white.

"What is it?" she said, her accent thicker than it was normally. Playing it up for the unsuspecting, he wondered, watching her stand with a toss of her hair. "Do they want us back in the Hall?"

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Altaïr just stood there, looking at the three champions with hints of a smirk on his face. He'd already felt the presence of Dumbledore, Crouch, Maxime, Bagman, and Karkaroff approaching the door, but only Bagman was at the door as the rest stopped to talk.

Everyone looked around him as there was a sound of scurrying feet behind him and Bagman entered the room, smiling as if this was the event of the year and he was the star.

He tried to take Altaïr by the arm and found himself kneeling on the floor with his arm in quite the awkward position, his wrist manipulated to an unnatural way of bending. A simple quarter turn of Altaïr had him head over heels to be sprawled on his back, looking up from the floor with a dazed and confused expression.

"How did I get here?" he asked, sitting up awkwardly with his arm cradled, sore from being flexed a bit too far.

"In the future, Bagman," said Altaïr, pulling him to his feet by his collar with a single arm. "I would advise you not to touch people without permission. Some take offense to it."

Without glancing at the teachers and officials who were coming through the door, Altaïr joined the champions at the fireplace, whispering to Bagman as he passed. "Haven't we learned that particular lesson two years ago?"

"Extraordinary!" he muttered while paling slightly, twisting his arm to remove the last vestiges of stiffness and pain. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen . . . lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. "May I introduce — incredible though it may seem — the fourth Triwizard champion?"

Viktor Krum straightened up at this, slightly alarmed. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Altaïr, noting the way he held himself. He'd heard the chattering of the students at the Slytherin table and had heard the legends of Assassins whose abilities Altaïr and his get claimed. If the legends and myths are true, rather than fantasy as most assume, my chances of winning are getting very small…

Cedric looked nonplussed, knowing he must be out of his league with someone like Altaïr. He looked from Bagman to the white cloaked Assassin and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said.

Fleur's smile dropped away at that particular comment. An Assassin in the tournament was going to be a large problem. She put up a smile in the millisecond afterwards and said, "Oh, very funny joke, Mr. Bagman."

"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Altaïr's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

Krum's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned.

"But evidently there has been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. "He cannot compete. He is not a student of any of the competing schools."

"Well . . . it is amazing," said Bagman, watching the smirking Assassin out of the corner of his eye. "Despite the fact that he is not a student of any of the schools, he has to compete, seeing as his name's come out of the goblet . . . I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage. . . . It's down in the rules, you're obliged . . . Altaïr will just have to do the best he —"

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. Altaïr heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

"Madame Maxime!" said Fleur in French, striding over to her headmistress with an almost outrage look on her face. "They are saying that this Assassin is to compete also!"

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled in apparent outrage.

"What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" she said imperiously, glaring at the hooded individual by the fireplace. "I was not aware that your security was participating in the tournament."

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions — or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

He gave a short and nasty laugh which ended abruptly as he caught the Assassin's shadow filled hood swivel to face his direction. The raising of the tiny hairs on the back of his neck told him right now was a good time to shut up.

"C'est impossible," said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur's shoulder. "Hogwarts cannot have two champions. It is most unjust."

"We were under the impression that your so called Assassins were merely guards rather than participants, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever and his tone was quieter, trying not to garner any more attention than he already had. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

"It's no one's fault but the Assassin's, Karkaroff," said Snape softly. His black eyes were alight with interest. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for the actions of one man."

"That man is standing right here, Potions Master."

"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore, smiling, and Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted through his curtain of greasy black hair, a side effect of working with potions all day.

Professor Dumbledore was now looking at where Altaïr's eyes would be if the not for the shadows. The Assassin looked right back at him, already discerning the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles as curiosity mixed with amazement with a dash of apprehension.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Altaïr?" he asked calmly.

"No," said Altaïr, shaking his head. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely, particularly Fleur, still trying to make out features beneath the shadows.

"Did you ask any of your team or any of the students to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" said Professor Dumbledore.

"No," replied Altaïr in the same deadpan way of his. "The Assassins have no need to participate in this tournament."

"Ah, but of course he is lying!" cried Madame Maxime, her voice rising as her outrage grew.

Snape was now shaking his head. He'd spoken with a few of the Assassins during their time at Hogwarts, and he doubted he could find a more truthful set of individuals. They either answered the question truthfully to the best of their ability or they claimed it was against their code to relay that information to outsiders. A man of rules himself, Snape respected them.

"He would not have crossed the Age Line," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "I am sure we are all agreed on that?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as did everyone else

"Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half-darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

"I insist on this Assassin being removed from the competition," said Karkaroff, his unctuous tone of voice gone. His strained smile also disappeared, leaving a very ugly across his features. "He is an adult with extensive magical training. He has too much of an advantage."

"It doesn't work like that," said Bagman, trying to be placating to the increasingly angry Russian. "He's already been chosen as a Champion and he cannot leave until the tournament is over. He has to compete or risk losing his magic!"

Everyone looked over at the Assassin, who had suddenly begun coughing into his hand. At their inquiring looks – and Dumbledore's offer of a spell to remove whatever was obstructing his airway – Altaïr waved a hand at them, gesturing them to continue talking and ignore him. His coughing fit elapsed soon after that, though his shoulders seemed to tremble every few seconds.

"He'll be free to leave at the conclusion of the tournament. Next tournament –"

"— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door, Altaïr saying the same thing from the other side of the room. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk. Altaïr moved aside for him, giving a slight nod in greeting

"Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

Everyone could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into fists and were trembling minutely.

"Don't you?" said Moody quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put the Assassin's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone wished to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple!" said Madame Maxime.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff, bowing to her.

"I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the

International Confederation of Wizards —"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Altaïr," growled Moody,

"but . . . funny thing . . . I don't hear him saying a word. . . ."

"Why should he complain?" burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. "He has the chance to compete, hasn't he? We have all been hoping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! The honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — this is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Altaïr is going to die for it," said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "Moody, old man . . . what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the name in that goblet. . . ."

"Ah, what evidence is there of that?" asked Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands, her face looking perplexed. Altaïr decided it was not the best look on her.

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament… I'm guessing they submitted Altaïr's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…"

"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody," said Karkaroff coldly, "and a very ingenious theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously…"

"There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage," Moody retorted in a menacing voice. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff — as you ought to remember. . . ."

"Alastor!" said Dumbledore warningly. Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction — Karkaroff's face was a blotchy red.

"And yet he was proven right, wasn't he, Karkaroff?" asked Altaïr, shocking everyone who had forgotten about him standing there. "The egg had been transfigured into a carriage clock and would have reverted back to an egg around midnight and hatched in the early morning had he not smashed it."

The amount of smug satisfaction in Moody's scarred face nearly threw the old Headmaster into a fit.

"How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Master Altaïr has been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, he will do. . . ."

"Ah, but Dumbledore —"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

Altaïr could hear the snark in the man's voice and couldn't help but grin at the gentleman with half-moon glasses.

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one either. Karkaroff looked livid; Bagman, however, looked rather excited.

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes . . . the first task . . ."

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Altaïr thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.

"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Altaïr, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor. "So we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard . . . very important. . . .

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

"The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests, not that it will be a problem for Mr. Altaïr."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I've left young Weatherby in charge…Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…"

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — a nightcap?" said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. They were talking fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall, complaining about the Assassin's arrogance in entering the tournament. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

"Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," said Dumbledore with a kindly smile on his face. "I am sure Hufflepuff is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

Cedric left with a nod at the Headmaster and a polite goodbye to Crouch and Bagman, slipping out the door with a smile on his face. From the sound of the cheers from beyond the door, Cedric's reappearance was well received.

"Mr. Crouch," said Altair as he walked over and extended a hand. "We haven't been introduced. I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Pleasure to meet you."

Crouch merely stared at the hand, turned on his heel and left, saying "I don't shake hand with hired thugs" before he left. Altaïr smiled thinly beneath his hood, sending a short note to another Master via his HUD. I think Mr. Crouch needs watching.

"I apologize for his rudeness, Master Altaïr," said Bagman, extending his own hand. "He's not usually like this."

"Not at all, Mr. Bagman," replied Altaïr, grasping the ex-quidditch player's hand. "Everyone has their off days. I merely caught him on his."

"Would you care to join me for a nightcap?"

"I apologize, but I must speak with my team regarding recent events. You know how it is." Altair smiled widely, seeing the man outlined in blue against his sight. He might be useful, given the right push.

"Of course, of course. I'll see you around the castle, then?"

"Oh, I guarantee it."

With a smile of his own to match the Assassin's, Bagman wandered back out into the Great Hall.

"Headmaster, I think we have a breach in our security," deadpanned Altaïr, looking over at the most powerful wizard in Magical Europe.

"Really? Boy, this is a catastrophe!" growled Moody from his corner, his magical eye spinning in all directions while his other remained focused on the hood's shadows. "How did someone get close enough to the goblet while your men were on watch?"

"How indeed… Altaïr, have you any suspicions on how this could have occurred?" asked Dumbledore, pulling a few foil wrapped candies from his pocket. He offered one to both of them, a hint of lemon emanating from them. "Lemon drop?"

Moody waved it away while Altaïr accepted the proffered candy with a quiet "thank you."

"I have several theories and all are being investigated as we speak, but they will take a little time to turn up anything," said Altaïr, popping the candy into his mouth. "We will keep you apprised of any details of the investigation."

"Thank you," said Dumbledore. "Alastor, would you work with the Assassin if he asks for your help?"

Moody let out an exasperated growl as he shoved himself off the mantle and held out his hand to Altaïr. "I hate working with amateurs. You screw with me, achoo, and I will destroy you."

"That's 'Altaïr,' Mad-Eye," returned the Assassin in the same tone of voice as he grasped Moody's hand, taking it to the point of breaking in an instant. At Moody's wince, Altaïr twisted his hand so Moody sank to his knees, his wooden leg sliding across the stone with an unnerving screech, glaring up at a pair of green specks that suddenly appeared in the blackness.

"I highly doubt any of you wizards can take an Assassin in a fair fight, let alone an unfair one, so let me make this clear," said Altaïr, leaning down to whisper in Moody`s ear, his voice incredibly calm. Moody swore he could feel the temperature dropping. Show some respect, or I'll see how many ways I can sustain a man on the brink of death."

With that said, Altaïr pulled the aged auror to his feet and watched him leave. He's playing his part of this well enough, thought Altaïr, watching him limp off.

~Master Altaïr! Master Altaïr!~

~What is it?~ asked the Assassin, knowing something was wrong by the tone of voice. ~What's wrong?~

~We found Anaïs.~

~Is there a problem?~

~There's a lot of blood, sir.~

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