As I have two open spaces left for Assassins, the person or persons who adds the 650th and 670th reviews will be allowed to submit a character bio for their own Assassin to be featured in-story.

I apologize for the lack of update. RL has been problematic.

~What do you mean 'there's a lot of blood?'~ asked Altaïr, hurtling through the door at a full out run, leaping across tables and scattering plates in his wake, Dumbledore's repeated questions floating. One of the Durmstrang lot cursed him as he passed, saying that his mother had done something questionable with a horse… until he caught a golden plate across the face.

By the time anyone realized what had happened, Altaïr was up three flights of stairs, bouncing off the spaces between pictures when the staircases didn't line up, much to their annoyance. ~You've transported her to the infirmary?~

~Yes.~ replied Padraig, his voice strained from sustained healing magic. ~Get here quickly, she's still losing blood.~

"Where's Jordan?" yelled Alyssandra as she nearly kicked the doors off, screaming down the hall. As Altaïr skidded around the corner – taking to the wall when he ran out of floor to run on – the dhampir almost sighed in relief. "Get in here quick!"

"What's the damage?" asked Altaïr, dropping his bracers and throwing off the white and red over robe, a sterilization charm sweeping over his hands as his sleeves fell to the floor. He stopped short, shocked at what he saw before him.

He wasn't prepared for the brutality. He'd seen worse on the number of battlefields he'd been on, but it wasn't the same. This was a simple mission, not an active war zone with Templars around every corner.

The white sheets of the ward's bed were red, permanently stained and dripping blood all over the floor. The other novice of the group had set up an IV, trying to force blood back into her system fast enough so that she doesn't bleed out before they could heal her.

She had been stripped of her uniform, her novice-grade armor vanished instead of removed, having done little to stop her attacker's spells. Her torso was a mass of torn skin, exposed muscle, and deep gouges and pits, all covered in blood. Her skin, whatever there was that wasn't covered in blood, was an ashen grey, a color at odds with her normal skin tone.

"Seven holes in her chest, probably piercers, three of them to her lungs. Cutter to her right shoulder, bottom of it nicked the top of her right lung. Padraig's holding back the blood so she doesn't drown and trying to seal and heal as fast as he can. A couple of bone breaker to her pelvis, some shards might've hit her femoral artery. Padraig's holding the blood back until Jordan gets here. She's on her way and she can move those. And we've got several curses that are limiting our ability to heal," said Alyssandra, ticking off the injuries as she raised the fingers on one hand while adding her own stream of magic to counter the curses. "I'm handling those."

Altaïr could see several curses, all rather dangerous to someone's health. Three curses to limit blood coagulation, two made to limit foreign medical magic and a handful more made to keep her body in the condition it was in now.

Broken. Bloody.

"Jordan's got the bone shards, Padraig's got the damage to the lungs, and you've got the curses…" Altaïr trailed off, his face becoming very pale. "Please don't tell me you need me for that…"

Alyssandra nodded slowly, making Altaïr's eyes widen in horror. "She's got damage to her spine… even with your help it might already be too late. She… she…"

"Alyssandra!" Altaïr shouted, making her jump. His voice went very low, almost hopeful. Hopeful that he wasn't needed for what he suspected they needed him for. "Just. Tell. Me."

"She might not walk again."

Altaïr growled as he started running diagnostics through his HUD. Higher ranked – mostly Greater and above – Assassins had their bodies hardened through training and various magical rituals. A prodigy novice might have been started on the basest of rituals, but those would barely more than novice armor alone.

Madam Pomfrey opened the door a crack, her questioning tone filling the still air. "Assassins? Do you need any he –"

The door slammed shut with enough force to crack the frame, forced shut by a pair of telekinetic waves from both Master Assassins. Altaïr didn't even flinch when he heard Pomfrey squawk in surprise as she knocked her head on the heavy oak door, his attention fully on the task at hand.

"Alright," said Altaïr, drawing one of his throwing knives. After four quick slashes across his palm, one around to the back of his wrist and up his forearm, he said, "Flip her over, carefully. Immobilization spells, now."

Alyssandra ceased the flow of magic in one hand and simultaneously cast both a stasis and a levitation spell, locking Anaïs' body and rotating her in midair, keeping her within reach of the other Assassins.

"Okay," breathed Altair, slowing his heartbeat down so that an errant twitch at the wrong moment wouldn't finish the job rather than fix it. Healing expertise of one aspect of the human body was a requirement of becoming a Master class Assassin and he was one of several specialized in the nervous system, but nothing made his job any easier to concentrate when working on spinal injuries. "Let's get started."

"They sealed off the wing, Headmaster," said Pomfrey from her seated position on the floor next to the door as Dumbledore came walking up. "I tried every spell I know, but nothing's able to open the door."

"What do you mean?" asked Dumbledore, flicking his hand at the door. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, he could control every door, window and room he knew of in Hogwarts. "It's open."

"No, it's not." Pomfrey elbowed the door, which did not move an inch.

Puzzled, the Headmaster walked up to the door…

And ran right into it, smashing into it rather than burst through the double doors in a dramatic fashion as he intended. He reeled back, clutching at his nose and reaching for the cracked remnants of his horn-rimmed, half-moon spectacles. "I… don't understand."

"Nor do I, but I can control the doors of the hospital wing as well, but I tried the same things and it didn't work for me."

"Nor will it, until we are finished with it," said Gabriel, sticking his head through the door whilst giving the older wizard a glare, having heard Dumbledore crash into the door. Not only was Dumbledore startled by the fact that the Assassins could walk through walls, but the sight of an un-hooded Assassin was a new experience for him. "Our sister has been savaged to a point we've only seen on the battlefields and she is in the middle of several different operations."

Struck dumb, Dumbledore could only gape at the Assassin.

"So… piss off!" With that, Gabriel pulled his head back through the door, leaving two incredibly surprised magicals staring at the door.

"Well…um… I'm going to go… somewhere,,, else," said Dumbledore, moving jerkily away. "Excuse me."

Pomfrey looked between the door and the retreating Headmaster, confused.

"How do they do that?"

"Gabriel! Get my extra kit out of my shoulder harness! I need more calcium phosphate."

"You have three seals up here!"

"Top right, idiot. Hurry up, you've done this before!"

After a few fruitless tugs, Gabriel gave up, drew his knife and sliced the entire spaulder, throwing knives sheaths and killing knife sheath harness from Altaïr's shoulders. At Altaïr's side glance, he shrugged and pulled the extra supply kit from the seal. "Why are you using your kit when you could just pull it out of the air?"

"Transmuting takes a lot of energy to do than molding does," growled Altaïr, rummaging through the pack with one hand without sparing it a glance. "And I don't squander magic when I have what I need at hand."

Gabriel stepped back out of arms reach as Altaïr's eyes started glowing and the small piece of phosphate began to change its form, watching the whole transformation from solid brick to dust cloud with a raised eyebrow.

"It's always impressive to see you work this crap, you know?" asked Gabriel, leaning against the closest bed so that he was still close enough to immediately offer aid should the need arise.

"By 'crap,' you mean by rebuilding an obliterated vertebrae and the nerves to go along with it?" asked Altaïr, remaining focused on the task at hand.

"You know, when you say it like that, it makes me look like I'm an idiot."

"If the shoe fits…" muttered Altaïr as he directed the dust cloud into the wound, part of his magic focused on forming artificial veins for the blood to flow through rather than ooze out of the wounds. The other part of his magic was centered on recreating the fourth lumbar vertebra from memory. "Now, be quiet please."

Gabriel raised his hands in supplication, keeping an eye on the mass of partially healed scar tissue that made a gruesome pattern on their comrade's skin. British healing magic was quick, but fairly useless in the grand scheme of things, power consuming and – with a few small exceptions – complex as hell. It could heal a scratch in seconds, yes, but wouldn't do much for the damage found on a battlefield or in a covert operation that went south. It healed the damage, but the healing wasn't complete. It needed multiple healings or lots of time to heal completely.

The Assassin way was easier. With the Assassins, they learned to channel magic into the healing the right way. It would take a bit longer to heal a scratch, about five seconds to the British single second, but nothing beat it for heavy duty healing.

Gabriel had watched Altaïr reattach a fellow Assassin's arm in half an hour. The healing was enough that the previously wounded Assassin went on to kill the Templar commander their company had been fighting.

What the British would take for miracles, Assassins could do on a daily basis.

Pomfrey was rather annoyed when the doors of the infirmary finally cracked open, eight hours after they had been abruptly slammed in her face.

"What gives you the right to barge in here and kick me out of my infirmary?" she yelled at the emerging Assassins, looking directly at the red streaked Assassin she knew to be the leader.

The look directed at her from beneath the hood was nearly corporeal, making her shy back. Altaïr stopped in front of her while the rest carried on down the hall.

"Our novice has been badly injured. We've healed her as best we could, but she's still in a coma due to the sheer amount of damage." Pomfrey stepped back as he waved a finger under her nose. "You will not interfere with any of the Assassins who enter to check on her or render medical attention to her. You will not touch her or any of the others who are in the infirmary. Am I understood?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped as the index finger currently under her nose began to glow a threatening red, accompanied by the feeling of intense heat.

"Am. I. Understood?" repeated Altaïr, an aura of cold fury flowing off of him that usually made anyone he was ordering around do exactly what he told them to.

The wizened witch nodded quickly, shaking in her shoes. She had been meaning to rain down fury upon the Assassin leader, but was totally unprepared to feel that much contained rage directed at her.

"Good."

"Was it necessary to give her that much of a fright?" asked Alyssandra, leaning against the corner that Altaïr was stalking around. She knew that look on his face... one that was both fun and terrifying at the same time.

The one he wore when he knew something and was about to drive six inch nails through that particular something.

"What are your orders, brother?" she asked, running a thumb over the razor points of her eyeteeth. It was a nasty little habit that accompanied that particular walk and look about Altaïr; usually meant blood was to be flowing within hours.

"Get everyone on the Redlist, sister, and put them in the holding cells we have set up. I'll be there in a moment."

Alyssandra tossed him a two-fingered salute and pushed off the wall, already in motion before he was turning the next corner. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to ask my contact if he's seen anything," he replied from around the corner. "I'll be there in a moment."

Alyssandra sighed as she walked away from where Altaïr was going, pulling the list up on her visor. Four names were on the list, so it wouldn't take them long to assemble them. To get them to crack was another matter.

~Padraig, Gabriel, Raphael, Piotr, get the rest and take those on the list to the holding cells. Tell Juno that Anaïs is going to make it and she's to relieve Jacinta in two minutes so she can help out with the collars.~

~HUA, sister,~ said Raphael's voice, immediately followed by the acceptances of the other three named Assassins.

~And tell Bishop to get off his tower and back to the barracks.~

~I'm on the channel, too. What do you want?~ he asked, his voice airy. Alyssandra noted the POV icon on her HUD was showing crosshairs on the western grounds, so she assumed he was on top of the Gryffindor

~Alyssandra's orders carry the same weight as Altaïr's.~ said Padraig, hearing his fellow Grand Assassin's dismissive tone. ~When she says jump, you jump.~

~Whatever you say, necrophiliac.~

Alyssandra sighed as Padraig opened a private channel with her. ~Why did Altaïr bring him along? He hates everything and everyone and believes in a religion we disproved long ago. He's called Bishop for a reason.~

~He's good at what he does and he's hurting because he lost his family to the Templar's vampire squad. He knows I'm not dead and he's just projecting his anger onto others. He'll come around once he's had his revenge.~

~I still don't like him," said Padraig, walking through the wall at her right. "He's a bastard."

"Your parents weren't married, so…" started Alyssandra, smiling already as she noted the smirk on his lips, "…by definition, you're a bastard as well."

"Have I mentioned that I loved you today?"

"Yes, but I can always hear it again." She smiled as her tall Irishman leant down for a kiss.

He stalked down the hall of the second floor, the office and the classroom it was behind was within a few seconds at his current pace. Each step was measured, precise in length and timing to his rhythm.

Had to be, or else the entirety of his magic would've been released upon everything within range of his sight. He'd destroyed an entire wing of an Assassin compound in Northern Canada. He'd rebuilt it before he left, of course, but whenever he went there, they'd clear out of that particular wing. Just in case, they said.

Some things were never lived down.

The door flew open of its own accord before his hand could grasp the handle. Altaïr grimaced at his lapse in control, both for letting loose his magic and alerting the object of his rage. The smack of the door handle against the wall reverberated through the empty classroom, something he was quick to snatch at with his magic, fruitless as the action was. Magic can only do so much, even Assassin brand.

He paused at the threshold, his enhanced hearing searching for any sign of movement that would indicate someone hearing his entrance, loud as it was. Hearing nothing emanating from the adjoining room, Altaïr assumed that either his suspect was unaware of his presence or he'd stopped the sound waves from leaving his room, either by magical or normal means.

The stairs had been stone, before Moody had come to Hogwarts, but were now made of wood, wood that Altaïr was sure that the over-zealous, paranoid retiree had made them extra squeaky, probably to freak out any of the students who got called into his office. Knowing Moody's tendencies, it was partly just for kicks.

A wave of the Assassin's hand had the steps back to stone. Transmutation took more energy out of a mage, but it also removed any spells or curses that would have been laid into the object in its natural state. It was safer to transmute rather than muddle through any number of traps that could have been laid.

As with all Assassin robes, silence is spelled into the very fabric of their uniforms, so Altaïr climbed the steps with nary a sound, both from experience and upgraded spellwork. Every diagnostic program he had was running across his HUD, including his trusty Mark I Eyeball and his Eagle Vision.

With a careful hand, he slowly turned the door handle and pushed the door open wide enough to put a finger through, which transferred a live image of the room to his visor.

Moody was sitting by the fireplace, a cup of some steaming liquid in his hands, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the music coming from the antiquated wizard wireless system. The fireplace was burning low; very little more than embers were left, leaving the room dimly lit. His clawed prosthetic was leaning against the jamb, casting a distorted shadow on the wall. The electric blue eye of his was sitting on a table, in a bowl so that its constant spinning didn't roll itself off the table and onto the floor.

His eye doesn't send him an image unless it's in his head… he's vulnerable for now, thought the Assassin, zooming in on the rest of the room. Can't see his wand… probably still on his person. Moody's no idiot, so he's got it somewhere.

He eased the door open enough to slip inside, shutting the door with a click that had Moody whirling around with wand in hand. An ice blue glow emanated from the tip, intense enough to brighten the entire room and nearly blind the Assassin if not for his hood.

"Assassin," growled Moody, keeping his wand aimed at the shadows under the cowl while he blindly reached out for his erratic eyeball. With a squelch of flesh on glass, he popped the eye back into his head and focused on the threat.

"Auror," was Altaïr's reply, his hand held up with an identical ice blue star burning in the palm. "We have business to discuss."

"Yes, we do indeed."

With that out of the way, they both dropped their hands and extinguished the spell's light. Moody grabbed his gnarled walking stick and hopped his way to the door, reaching with the other hand to grasp Altaïr's hand in the Roman handshake.

"Fix that faulty spring in your left arm yet?" he asked, his blue eye spinning down to focus on the other bracer and its hidden blade, looking through the metal frame to the components within. "Last time we fought, it jammed halfway out, didn't it?"

"If it hadn't, I'd have taken your eye once again," replied Altaïr, triggering the other hidden blade to show Moody all was operational. Moody's real eye followed the blade's flash in the dim light as it rasped metal on metal.

"What brings the famed Altaïr to my office this Hallows' Eve?" the retired auror sneered with a grin that twisted his scarred features into something you would see in a horror movie.

"My student was attacked, almost killed. Her wounds rivaled that which I saw on the battlefields against the Templars."

"Yes, yes, yes… Anaïs, wasn't it? Very nice girl, had tea with me a few days ago," mused Moody, hopping his way back to his chair by the fire. "Sharp as a tack, too, though not as knowledgeable as you or the others of your group."

"She's barely more than a novice, so it would be expected that she lacks the experiences that we do."

"True."

"Did you notice anything amiss, seeing how you see all?"

Moody barked out a laugh at that. "There are limits to this eye of mine, as you know well. I haven't been in range of the cup today."

September 17

Altaïr walked into the DADA classroom as the bell rang, stepping deftly between students who were not aware of his presence until he was already past him. Whispers sprang up as he stopped at the desk, leaning over it to look Moody in the eye.

"Well, well, well. What brings the Master Assassin to my humble classroom?" asked Moody with a hint of mockery in his tone.

"I wish to speak privately, if we could." The Assassin tilted his head towards the stone staircase that led to the professor's office. "Now."

"I don't like your tone, boy," growled Moody, standing up to glare at Altaïr while on the same level.

"I don't like yours, relic," replied Altaïr, almost nonchalant.

Moody's eye swiveled to look at Altaïr and allowed his lips to quiver upwards for an instant before he started shouting. Altaïr shared the same look as he activated the dampening functions of his hood.

Moody could get close to deafening.

"What are you lot still doing here?" Altaïr's face was the epitome of calm as he threw up a minor shield in front of his face to protect himself from flying spittle. He didn't have to turn, he only listened to the students fall over themselves in their hurry to leave, their fear of both the Assassin and the auror sending them flying down the corridor as fast as their legs could carry them.

Both glared at each other for another moment before collapsing in laughter, leaning on the desk to keep themselves from falling to the floor.

"Did you see their faces?" asked Moody, limping over to the stairs with a grunt. "Scared a few years out of them, I did!"

"Yeah, yeah. You and your need to instill fear for the fun of it."

"You cannot deny that sending those kids running for the hills was not hilarious."

"I concede that particular point. Be careful, or you'll send one of them into hysterics and you'll get a lecture from Gandalf."

"Ah, there's that Tolkien loving idiot I know well," laughed Moody as he clambered up the steps and threw his shoulder into the door.

"How was your summer?" asked Altaïr as he followed Mad-Eye into his office and conjured a pair of glass cups. When Moody turned around from rummaging through a cupboard, Altaïr had already sat himself by the desk and placed the glasses with reach. "Heard your place was attacked near the end."

"My array of wards picked up something going through my garbage," he said, hobbling over with a bottle of Fire-whiskey in his empty hand. With a sigh, he dropped into his seat, placed the bottle on the table and pushed at harness on his leg, removing it entirely. With a wave of his wand, he applied a healing charm to the stump. "Might've been an animal, maybe a person... didn't see it clearly."

Moody's face was stone, which told the Assassin that he wasn't lying. He knew most of his facial tics, having been business partners for a long time. Fighting him about seventy times also added to his knowledge.

Which is why something was making him feel odd. Moody hadn't put on his leg after healing the aches and pains, which violated his major rule. 'Constant Vigilance' had him putting himself at the point of greatest advantage in any situation, just in case things became violent. Without his prosthetic leg back on, his mobility was extremely limited.

Moody would know that, thought Altaïr as he surreptitiously activated one of his rune arrays. Something is very wrong here.

"December 25, 1992, Ministry Christmas Party," growled Altaïr as his HUD displayed cycled to match his new array loadout. "What was the name of the girl I left with?"

"Ah, you still don't trust easily, do you?" Moody smiled at the question. "Very well, I'll indulge you… her name was Penelope Edwards. Blonde, 5'4" to your 6' that night, wore a green dress with only one shoulder."

There were two answers to the passphrase. Moody had just given the wrong one, the one that Altaïr and the real Moody had created to be their alert code, should an imposter ever try a stunt like this.

Even under duress, Moody could reveal one passcode and screw his impersonator's façade with a single sentence. Unfortunately for most, no one knew the correct answer, besides Altaïr and the true Moody.

Just then, Altaïr's recog system kicked in, telling him what he already knew.

There are many things that are unknown to almost all of the Assassins of the Order about the abilities of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, not including his personal doctor, Al Mualim and a few trusted members of the Master's advisers.

One particular talent of his stemmed from his unusual reaction to the rune array process, which basically boiled down to absorbing the runes and making what would normally be a temporary change a semi-permanent one, albeit at a extremely smaller amount. As he absorbed the runes effects, only a remnant of the runes power remained within his systems permanently. Each time he did an absorption, the trace of the new rune added itself to the remnants of the last one.

Due to that particular talent, Muyassar had begun placing new runes onto Altaïr, to test the limits of what he could do. Detection, scanning, compression, storage, and various others had been added to the normal array that was applied every two weeks, the average time it took for an entire rune array to be totally absorbed.

His favorite skill he acquired from the process was reading magical signatures. Changing your face, your height, your hair were all simple things to do, especially with Assassin brand magic, but you couldn't change what your magic feels like.

Like fingerprints, each person's magical signature was unique… and Altaïr could tell the difference. Moody was not Moody.

October 31

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Altaïr?" asked Moody, picking up his tea and inhaling the steam through his ruined nose. "I'll keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"Nothing more, Mad-Eye." Altaïr cracked open the door as if to leave, but paused on the threshold. He spun around, leveling a wand and a Berretta 92FS at the auror, who dropped tea all over his lap in his haste to draw his own weapon.

To Altaïr's surprise, the auror also pulled a gun from within his jacket. Colt M1911? What's an auror doing with a mundane weapon?

"So… you've found me out," said Moody, his voice smooth and low, different from the growl he'd been using before. "It was hell, keeping a head of you and the rest of your damned Assassins."

Altaïr chuckled as he flipped a thumb over one of the several small runes carved into the handle of his pistol. It glowed in dark green trails of minuscule runes lighting up all over the barrel, grip and trigger of the handgun, making it gleam all the more deadly in the darkness of the room.

"Oh, that's new." Moody smiled as he pulled back the hammer with a quiet click. Both the barrel and his wand tip flared a deep orange in response. "We've been trying to reverse that bit of magic since we captured Shanghai."

"I told myself that I'd let you remain as you were, untouched, as long as you would leave me and mine alone…" said Altaïr, earning a tilted questioning look from the imposter. "But it seems you've abused your freedom, nearly killed my student, and drawn far more attention to us than we ever intended."

"And when did the Master Assassin figure out that I was not who I said I was?"

"September twenty-first, when I came to your office."

He looked confused, running through the events of a day a month ago with a fine comb. "We knew Moody was working with you… he gave me the passcode you use!"

Altaïr chuckled darkly, the green on his weapons intensifying. "You Templars think you're so smart. Never occurred to you that there may be more than one answer to the same question?"

The Templar looked thoughtful for a moment before throwing his head back, a bark of laughter escaping him. "Well done, you son of a bitch. I asked him the code phrase for meeting with you. Never asked if it were the right one."

He had begun to move as he spoke, rolling behind the desk as he shed his disguise and resumed his more natural form. Reaching overhead, he fired his gun blindly in the direction of where he last saw the Assassin.

Shit, shit, shit, he thought as he dropped a magazine to the floor, inserted a fresh one and chambered a round. He was extremely outmatched, owing to the disorientation he felt after shifting his body back to normal and the lack of his Templar mask, which would be showing him a lot more information about his opponent.

Like an idiot, he'd kept it locked in the trunk, in the compartment before the original Moody. Damn it, Seth, be more prepared next time, he thought to himself as he started firing at the sound of a footstep near the corner of the office.

After a second magazine was emptied and a third loaded, he allowed himself an instant to ascertain the location of his pursuer, stretching out with magical tendrils to test the area.

He didn't expect to find the Assassin standing directly behind him, pistol trained on his head.

He leapt to his feet, pistol coming around to bear when it happened.

Faster than he could react, Altaïr dropped the barrel of his pistol and squeezed the trigger twice, sending two magically enhanced rounds through his thigh and knee.

As the imposter started to fall, his injured leg collapsing under him, a second double tap emerged from the Assassin's barrel, destroying the piece of bone connecting the ball of the humerus to the rest of it in his left arm and the slender piece of wood clutched in his right hand.

By the time the Templar hit the floor, he'd been shot six times, hit by three bludgeoner curses to major joints, disarmed by both bullet and spell, and tied up in a way that put the most strain on his injuries. The Assassin stood over him, red hot barrel pressed to his temple with a continued hiss as the metal burnt a ring into his head.

"I am no simple Assassin, Templar," said Altaïr, leaning down to put his face an inch from his enemy's. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

He shifted his wand back into his arm sheath and reached to his belt.

When the Templar saw what the Assassin held in his hand, his eyes widened in greed, astonishment...

And fear.

He smiled as the Templar began to struggle violently, trying to worm himself away from the golden orb in his hand.

"I am the Assassin and this is the Apple."

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