A/N – After a lot of critical reviews of this chapter I have gone back through and filled in some much needed comma's and line breaks, If you have already muddled your way through it before there is no extra information. Hopefully this makes it a bit easier to read, I will be doing the same with a couple of the other chapters as well. Thanks for reading.

A cruel wind whipped along picking up the sand and blowing it across the vast arena and down the hatch to one side, the fine particles attacking the metal plate armor of the men standing in the stone pit creating a faint rat a tat tat barely audible above the cheers and moans of the crowd.

The team of six scarred and battle worn bodies stand stoically looking as though they don't have a care in the world, that the battle they're about to encounter is not the first and won't be the last, not by a long shot.

The scars upon their faces the dints in their chest plates and the nicks and bloodstains on their blades bespoke of many a battle won. You would be forgiven therefore for believing that the battle they were about to enter was one that was already won.

For only one who knew them well could tell the fear that plagued these men's minds the icy prickling up their spine the grasping hand on their heart shoving it upwards as though trying to eject it through their mouths, you would be forgiven, for the only people who know these men well were themselves.

Six years ago this troupe had formed purchased one by one from all over Rome by one of the richest lords of the land, the best of the best he had wanted, a year and a half they had trained before they had been submitted to battle in order to be in perfect unison with each other and in the four and a half years following never had they been defeated, the very thought of them stuck fear in the hearts of their opponents.

But that was then and this… this was now. Over the last 6 months rumors of a new troupe had been spreading a band of mighty warriors small on brain but big on brawn. Despite having great strength they apparently did not apparently have good fighting skills nor were they unified however it was heard tell that fatal hits were laid time and time again upon these men and they would continue to rise up until their opponents were exhausted and they would then strike the killing blow.

Now finally these two great teams these two groups of mighty gladiators would be pitted against each other in a fight to the death. From up in the arena a mighty horn sounded, the men took one final look at each other and walked up the gangway with a sense of foreboding.

Coming to the pavilion where the emperor sat they chanced a glance over at the other group of six men who looked back and smirked before turning to the emperor and saying "morituri te salutant." It might have been their imagination but they could almost believe that there was a faint glow about them barely visible in the glaring sun, but then it was gone. The men slightly confused yet more fearful than before turned back to the emperor and raised their weapons in respect before turning to face quite possibly the last fight of their lives…


The next day 6 men found themselves working in separate fields scattered across Rome there was a brief moment of confusion as they wondered why they were there, and images of blood and gore flashed before their eyes. But as quickly as it came it was gone and they went back to their scythes cutting the grass as they had done since they were born.


A man with a power that none bar one had ever seen before strode confidently to the door of a small house in the quaint little village of Godric's Hollow. With a brief gesture of his hand the door was in a million pieces scattered all over the floor and he continued into the house without breaking stride.

"Lily it's him, take Harry and run, I'll hold him off," a dark haired man was yelling over his shoulder, he was dead before he turned round, magical and spiritual energy swept from him with a gust of sickly green light.

Tom Riddle, better known as Lord Voldermort, for that is of course who this man was, paused briefly looking at the dead man at his feet. Such a shame to have had to kill him, pure blood was in such rare supply as it was, "ah well soon it will all be over," he murmured.

He turned his attention to the sound of the desperate footsteps upstairs. There was no rush, as with the anti apparition wards up, the impertuable charms on the windows and the only fireplace in the house situated downstairs, there would be no escape.

He had spent over a week researching and preparing for this battle, once he had the location from that sniveling little rat, you didn't become the most feared dark lord in history from being careless. So he strode calmly upstairs, the frightened magical energies of the filthy mudblood and the unusually strong toddler guiding him better than massive flashing arrows to his prey.

Stepping into what he guessed was the nursery he caught the last words of a spell "…uri te salutant," ever on guard, especially at the sound of an unfamiliar spell, from a hostile he whipped his wand down, whilst sidestepping the non-existent attack, and with a feverish "Avada Kedavra," sent the redhead slumping to the ground.

After the threat was eliminated he took stock of what he actually saw the mudblood actually had her wand aimed at the crying toddler's forehead where an angry red burn in the shape of a lightning bolt was obviously causing considerable distress to the child. Sensing no major threat from the spell and knowing nothing could stop the unforgivable curse he once more, calmly this time, raised his wand and spoke the words of the killing curse.

Then pain.