Privet Drive, November 2, 1981
Three men in white coats walked up the lane of Privet Drive, heading for the home of the Dursley family.
"I've watched the family," said one, growling out the words through clenched teeth. "They are the scum of the universe, not worthy of any mercy."
"Be that as it may, Talal, we are not here for them. We have a promise to his father, our beloved comrade. We will fulfill it," said another, unconsciously clenching his fists. He had fought beside his brothers for many years. The recent loss of one hurt him immensely.
The third man nodded in agreement, leading the group up the driveway.
He knocked on the door and smiled at the woman who opened the door, smiling at him before realizing what he was.
"We are here for the boy…"
Hogwarts, June 4, 1992…
Against the starry night sky loomed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
An imposing building, a scary-looking castle with many towers stabbing into the sky like daggers planted hilt first into the ground. Magical lights streamed from its many windows, illuminating patches of the grass all around it, throwing shadows as a student or teacher would walk past, and highlighting the waves of the Black Lake where the giant squid made ripples.
The sloping grounds were all well kept, bushes clipped and trimmed into mystical animals, their shapes throwing shadows on the lawn. Gardens, well weeded and groomed, surrounded the castle. The Forbidden Forest loomed behind the groundskeeper's cabin, adding an air of mystery and danger to the castle.
The finery of the castle, however, was lost on the two figures, clothed in white, approaching the castle. Both had the cowls of their robes pulled over their heads, keeping the light from blinding them and hiding their faces. Brown leather made up their belts, a trio of straps connected by a triangle, boots, and bracers. The taller figure had a red sash tied around his waist, underneath his belt. Also his white over robe was longer than his companions, nearly reaching his ankles, rather than the knee length his comrade wore.
They both had swords at their waists, though the taller one had a more ornate sword, resembling a Syrian sword of old, and a number of daggers in sheaths on the right side of his belt, on his right shoulder spaulder, and at the top of his left boot.
Their bracers, brown leather with steel beneath, had intricate and stylized symbols across the forearms. On the inner forearm of their left bracer, one, looking closely, would find a deceptively simple looking metal bar strapped to the bracer.
An uneasy flick of the shorter figure's hand unleashed a segmented blade from its housing. A second flick of his hand caused the hidden blade to return to it sheathed position within the bracer. He repeated the action a few times, sending the blade sliding in and out with a sinister hiss.
The taller man placed a hand upon his comrade's shoulder, giving him a squeeze as he understood his friend's uneasy attitude.
The smaller of the duo took a deep breath, released it, and smiled at his teacher.
The mentor jerked his head towards the castle, raising an eyebrow, sending a look that inquired if he was ready to continue. At his students nod, they resumed their walk towards the castle.
Twenty feet from the castle, the great doors swung open, allowing a mountain of a man to walk out.
As soon as the doors had opened an inch, the white-clad comrades instinctively reached for the top symbol on their bracers.
As soon as their fingers brushed the symbol, they muttered their keywords and the stored disillusionment charm activated, covering them in invisibility.
They held their breath and stilled themselves as the giant walked past, humming a tune as he lumbered down the path to his house.
As soon as the groundskeeper had passed out of hearing range, the pair slipped through the closing doors and entered the castle.
The mentor led the way through the castle, reading off a map taped to his right bracer. They paused only when a staircase moved away from their path or when the caretaker and his cat passed by.
Three stairways later, they entered the corridor of the third floor. Following the map, the white-clad pair walked to the door at the end of the hallway, keeping to the shadows rather than depend on their disillusionment charms alone.
The door was locked, though a non-verbal 'favorable to thieves' charm got the pair through with little difficulty.
Both paused for an instant at the sight of a gargantuan, three-headed dog passed out in the middle of the room.
The teacher looked around, noting a harp in the corner charmed to play. A quick wave of his hand replenished the charm, seeing how it was nearly depleted.
Both teacher and student walked over to the unconscious dog, looking down at its paw. Underneath the boulder-sized limb, a trapdoor was blocked by its weight.
Grasping the offending limb, the duo moved it to the side and opened the trapdoor.
Now open, darkness yawned beneath the floor. The taller man crossed his arms over his chest and stepped into the hole, hurtling into the shadows. His companion followed suit.
Landing amongst plants, the pair rolled to their feet and quickly exited through the door, immediately noting what type the plant was.
Opening the door, they found themselves in a large room, a couple of broomsticks in the corner and a locked door at the other end. Above them flew golden keys in clouds of glittering wings.
The teacher waved the student forward, allowing him to take the lead for this challenge. The boy jumped atop the broom and kicked off, soaring into the keys.
A minute later, the boy landed with a silver key in his fist. The teacher allowed a brief smile to cross his face as he waved his student to the door. He's a natural on any broom.
Opening the locked door, the pair found themselves on one side of a giant chessboard. The teacher walked across the board, only to be stopped as the pawns drew their dual blades and crossed them with their comrades on either side, stopping his advance.
Walking back to his side of the board, the teacher directed his student to take the place of the king side bishop whilst he took the place of the queen.
The white side moved first, sending the furthermost pawn on the queen's side ahead a single space. The white clad man responded by sending the pawn in front of his king ahead two spaces.
White moved its pawn up two spaces to meet the teacher's pawn, blocking it from advancing further.
The boy, recognizing the strategy his teacher was playing, went diagonally to the left three spaces, taking a position in front of the other bishop and pawn.
White moved its king side knight up and to the left, trying to get it into the playing field.
The teacher then moved to the edge of the board, a space ahead of the white pawn line.
The other white knight moved up and to the right.
The boy took the pawn in front of the king side bishop, putting the king into checkmate.
The king's sword fell from its finger in surrender and left the board, the other white chess pieces following suit, clearing the way for the duo.
Teacher and student walked towards the door behind what was the white side of the chessboard, bumping fists in triumph as they stepped off the board.
Opening the next door, they were repelled for a moment as a near-overwhelming stench billowed out. The source was a troll lying passed out in the middle of the room.
Student and teacher shared looks before passing around the troll, entering the chamber beyond.
It was a mostly empty room, only a long table with seven bottles, the biggest on one end and the smallest at the other.
Both white clad intruders walked across the room, ignoring the table and potions.
As they passed the midpoint of the room, flames erupted from the bottoms of the doors: purple flames barring the door they entered, black barring the door they needed to pass through.
Surprised looks were exchanged. The boy walked to the black flames and waved his hand at the flames, casting a flame freezing charm.
Being smart, the student chose to test if the charm was working with a throwing knife rather than test it with his hand. Tossing it into the flames, he watched the leather binding on the hilt.
It burnt away in seconds, followed closely by the transformation from solid, lethal knife to molten metal. Looking back at his teacher, the boy shook his head, indicating that the charms didn't have any effect.
The man looked over at the table and picked up a piece of paper by the potion bottles. Waving his student forward, he read the poem.
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle-wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side
Second, different are those who stand at either end
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;
Third as you see clearly, all are different size
Neither dwarf nor giant hold death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.
After a few moments of contemplation, the boy pointed out two bottles: the smallest one in line and the third largest from the left.
A nod from his teacher told him he had concluded correctly. The boy picked up the smallest bottle and drank the contents. A sudden freezing feeling had him shivering as he walked through the black flames.
The teacher watched him go before taking a sip of the potion that would allow him to return to the chess room. As he passed through the flames, his thought dwelled on his student.
He had trained as best as he could. It was all up to him…
The student emerged from the flames with a hand on his sword hilt, prepared for the worst. He had always known it was his job to finish the mission, ever since his master had given him the feather. His teacher had said this was to be his first mission.
Time to stain the white with red…
Pressing his back into the wall, he looked around the corner, searching for his target.
A man in black robes and a purple turban stood in the center of the room, facing a very large and ornate mirror. Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi was inscribed across the top.
I show you not your face but your heart's desire? Then… perhaps… it doesn't reflect… perfect…
The boy took his hand off his sword and touched the second symbol in line at his bracer, invoking a stored, single-use silencing spell to hide his movements. Otherwise, the telltale sounds of his clothes brushing against the stone and weapons clinking would give away his position in the chilling, tomb-like silence of the room.
The boy crept down the stairs, crouched with both hands out in front of him, right hand ready to grab his target. His left hand flicked, unleashing the hidden blade housed on his wrist.
Three steps from his prey, he tensed his muscles in preparation to spring onto his enemy's back and bury the assassin's blade in his throat, a stunt he had perfected over years of practice.
"Behind you," hissed a voice from beneath the man's turban.
The man spun around and flicked his wand at the boy, sending him careening back into the stairs.
The boy landed awkwardly, though he rolled into a fighting crouch in an instant and retracted his hidden blade immediately. His mentor had taught him to always keep an ace up his sleeve.
"Who are you?" asked the turban-wearing man, adopting a dueling stance in preparation for battle.
The boy remained silent, drawing his sword and his wand simultaneously. Five hours of combat practice a day, seven days a week, tends to make a person good in a fight.
"An Assassin…" hissed the mans turban, its voice echoing slightly off the walls.
The boy flinched as the voice struck home. He also wondered how a turban knew of the Assassin Order of Masyaf.
"Let me speak with him…" hissed the voice, making the man flinch, bringing a hand to his head.
"Master, you are not strong enough!" said the man, rubbing his hands together nervously.
The man wearing a purple turban with an apparent inferiority complex is showing devotion to afore-mentioned hat, the boy thought to himself. Weird…
"I am strong enough for this…" said the turban.
The man raised his hands to his head and began to unwrap the turban.
The white-cloaked boy took a step back as another face was revealed, looking as if it had grown out of the back of the mans head. Okay, new all time high on the disgust-o-meter, thought the boy, flexing his fingers around his weapons.
The man quickly pulled a one-eighty, turning so the parasite of a head could talk to the boy face-to-… uhm… back of the head?
"It has been a long time since I've seen the white cowl of the Masyaf Assassins. To what do I owe this… interuption?" drawled the voice.
"If you know of our order, you already know why I am here," deadpanned the boy as he spun both his wand and sword in a short circle, loosening up.
"Perhaps if I offered some form of payment, you would consider joining me?" asked the parasitic head.
"Whom would I be joining?" asked the boy, feigning interest as he watched the man. He is right handed and seems to be weak on his right leg, he thought as he analysed the man.
"I am the Dark Lord Voldemort…"
"I am unimpressed."
"Insolent boy! Quirrel! Destroy him!" shouted Voldemort, prompting Quirrel to turn and begin his attack.
Three flicks of Quirrel's wand and a shouted "Stupefy," sent a trio of stunners at the young assassin, the scarlet beams leaving tracers in the air.
The cowled assassin smiled as he used a bludgeoning curse to shoot two of the stunners out of the air and used his sword to neatly bisect the third, acting as if he had just brushed away an annoying insect rather than a number of stunners.
His reply was a pair of cutting curses, a stunner and a reductor curse, causing Quirrel to employ a protego charm and a quick step to avoid damage.
Dodging the last curse, Quirrel stumbled, growing slightly out of breath as he faced the young assassin. His eyes reflected the flames in the doorway behind his opponent, rage building beneath the surface.
"Come now. Is that the best you have to offer?" taunted the assassin, using his wand arm to goad his two-faced enemy.
Quirrel was too eager to comply, launching a bludgeoning curse of his own, aimed to send the assassin flying back up the stairs.
The assassin reacted, bisecting the curse with his sword, though the force of the spell sent a wave of air at him, blowing the hood off his head.
Quirrel dropped his jaw in shock, the killing curse dying on his lips as he saw a lightning bolt shaped scar on the boys head.
The newly introduced Harry Potter smiled, baring his teeth in a somewhat feral grin. "Surprise!" he shouted as he touched a tattoo on the back of his neck, a stylised capital A.
Harry's eyes glowed an incandesent green, giving him an evil feral-like smile, scaring the ex-DADA teacher even further.
Beneath his robes, invisible tattoos stretching across his body suddenly appeared, black against his skin. Harry felt a wave of energy as his array of runes activated, increasing all of his physical abilities and making the world seem as if it had slowed down.
Harry disappeared, literally vanishing into thin air before appearing directly in front of Quirrel's face.
"Game over," he said, flicking his hand to unleash his blade before burying it into the Dark Lord's servant's neck.
Quirrel's eyes widened at the pain, then slowly closed, glazed over in the throes of death.
Harry heard the wings of death whisper on the air and watched through his Eagle Vision as the Angel of Death appeared and gathered Quirrel's soul into her arms. Quirrel smiled, glad to leave this world and all its misery behind.
"Requiescat in pace," said Harry, crossing himself.
A blur of movement caught Harry's eyes. A formless cloud drifted out of Quirrel's body before forming a face and flying out of the room, howling like a demon.
Harry smirked as reached into his belt and from it pulled a white feather. A quick swipe across Quirrel's neck soaked the unblemished feather in the former life-giving, crimson liquid.
Harry looked up and caught himself in the mirror's reflection. His mirror image smirked at him before tapping a pocket and disappearing.
Harry stood and walked away, leaving Quirrel's corpse lying on the floor, blood pooling around its head. Replacing the hood on his head, Harry sheathed his sword, replaced his wand in its arm sheath and left the room.
The Philosopher's Stone lay heavy in his pocket.