Targeted

The scorching Arabian sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of burnt orange and deep crimson as Khalid Al-Mansour's convoy navigated the narrow, winding streets of Riyadh. The sleek, black SUVs, their windows tinted to an impenetrable shade, cut through the bustling city like a blade, the locals scattering like startled gazelles at the sight of the infamous oil magnate's entourage. 

Khalid sat motionless in the back of the lead vehicle, his dark eyes fixed on the rapidly changing landscape beyond the bulletproof glass. The city's ancient mud-brick buildings adorned with intricate geometric patterns and towering, modern skyscrapers blurred together, but Khalid's gaze never wavered, his focus absolute. The call to prayer echoed hauntingly from the minarets of the nearby mosques, a reminder of the deep-rooted traditions that shaped this land.

As the convoy approached the sprawling compound on the outskirts of the city, Khalid's fingers absently caressed the worn leather of the black book that rested in his lap. The Ebon Hand. The name alone made his pulse quicken, though no hint of unease showed on his inscrutable face. 

The SUVs pulled up to the compound's imposing gates, the wrought-iron bars adorned with Arabic calligraphy that seemed to writhe and twist in the fading light. Armed guards, their faces obscured by black keffiyehs, waved the convoy through, their eyes scanning the vehicles with a hawk-like intensity. 

Khalid stepped out of the SUV, his white thobe billowing in the hot, dry wind that swept across the compound, carrying with it the scents of frankincense and myrrh. He strode towards the main building, each step deliberate and purposeful, his bodyguards falling into step behind him like obedient shadows. 

As he entered the building, the air heavy with the aroma of cardamom-spiced coffee and the soft murmur of hushed conversations in Arabic, Khalid's mind flashed back to the moment that had set him on this path. The memory seared like a brand, forever etched into his psyche.

He had been a young man then, barely out of his teens, his father's empire nothing more than a distant dream. But even then, the hunger had gnawed at him - the unrelenting desire to rise above, to seize power and make it his own. And so, when the opportunity had presented itself - a rival family, an untapped oil field, a chance to rewrite his destiny - Khalid had seized it with both hands. The Ebon Hand had been his instrument, their dark arts the key to unlocking his ambitions. The price had been steep, paid in blood and shadow, but Khalid had not hesitated. In a world where power was everything, he would not be denied.

Now, as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the compound, the weight of that legacy pressed down on him like a physical force. But Khalid's shoulders remained unbowed, his stride unwavering. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, to falter now.

He entered the room where the meeting was to take place, the air thick with the cloying scents of shisha smoke, oud incense, and the faint metallic tang of tension. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flickering light of the ornate oil lamps that illuminated the faces of the men gathered around the low table, reclining on richly embroidered cushions.

Khalid Al-Mansour took his place at the head of the table, his posture regal, his gaze unwavering as he surveyed the room. To his right sat his most trusted advisors, their faces etched with lines of experience and wisdom. Across the table, draped in shadows, sat The Viper, his eyes glinting beneath his black veil.

Khalid leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Let us dispense with the pleasantries," he said, his voice low and measured. "We both know why we are here."

The Viper inclined his head. "Indeed," he rasped, his Arabic heavily accented. "The Ebon Hand is at your service, as always, for the right price."

Khalid's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening. "The price is not the issue," he said, each word as sharp as a scimitar. "What matters is the outcome. Harry Potter must be eliminated, his influence erased, his name forgotten."

The Viper leaned back, his fingers idly tracing the intricate patterns embroidered on the cushions. "The boy is well-protected," he mused. "His disappearance will not go unnoticed."

Khalid's lips curled into a humorless smile. "That is why I have come to you," he said, his voice as cold as the desert night. "The Ebon Hand is known for its discretion."

The Viper was silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft bubbling of the hookah in the corner. "It will not be cheap," he said at last, his voice smooth as silk. "The risks are high."

Khalid's hand tightened around the black book in his lap, his knuckles whitening. "Money is no object," he repeated, each word heavy as a stone. "I will pay whatever it takes. But I want assurances."

The Viper leaned forward, his eyes glinting beneath the veil. "You have my word," he said, his voice a sibilant whisper. "The boy will die, and your empire will be secure."

Khalid nodded and stood, a grim finality settling over him. The deal was sealed, the boy's fate written in blood and shadow. As he strode from the room, the desert wind whipping at his face, Khalid's mind raced ahead to the next move in the endless game of power and influence that defined his world. 

The path ahead was fraught with danger, but he would not be deterred. In the world of oil and sand, there was no room for sentiment, no place for mercy. Only the strong survived, and Khalid was determined to be the strongest of them all, no matter the cost. Even if that cost was the blood of a child, a prodigy whose brilliance threatened to eclipse his own.

Khalid's face remained an inscrutable mask as he stepped into the waiting SUV, but a cold resolve burned in his eyes, bright and unwavering as the desert sun. The game was on, and he would not rest until he emerged victorious, his empire secure and his legacy unassailable. The muezzin's call to prayer echoed in the distance, a haunting reminder of the ancient traditions that shaped this land - traditions that Khalid would bend to his will, just as he bent all else. In the land of sand and shadow, he would reign supreme.

oo0ooOoo0oo

In the quiet solitude of his Cambridge bedroom, Lucas sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his emerald eyes fixed on the small, clear pool of water before him. The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination being the soft, warm glow of a single white candle, its flickering light casting dancing shadows on the walls, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere. The air was still and heavy, laden with the weight of his concentration as he focused his will and intent on the task at hand: mastering the art of divination.

Lucas's brow furrowed slightly, a small crease forming between his eyes as he recalled his previous attempts at scrying. The static images that had flickered in the water's surface had been tantalizingly close, yet frustratingly ephemeral, like wisps of smoke dissipating in the wind. He had seen glimpses of his study room, the familiar contours of his mahogany desk and the towering bookshelves lined with countless books, their spines a kaleidoscope of colors in the candlelight. He had even seen the sinuous form of Nyx, his loyal serpentine companion, slithering back and forth across the plush carpet, a silent sentinel in his absence. Yet, the images had been fleeting, the connection tenuous, like a gossamer thread stretched to its limit, and the effort required to maintain them had left him mentally drained, his temples throbbing with the strain.

Like always, the key lies in the visualization, he mused, his thoughts as deep and unfathomable as the vast sea he had crafted within his mind, a mental landscape as intricate and complex as the inner workings of a clock. To see beyond the veil of the present, one must first anchor their consciousness in the realm they wish to observe, to forge a connection that transcends the boundaries of time and space.

With a slow, measured breath, Lucas closed his eyes, his lashes casting long shadows on his pale cheeks in the candlelight. He delved into the depths of his Vast Sea Visualization, the mental landscape he had painstakingly constructed through countless hours of Occlumency practice, each detail etched into his mind with the precision of a master craftsman. In his mind's eye, he saw the endless expanse of the ocean, its surface calm and mirror-like, reflecting the boundless sky above, a perfect azure broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud. Beneath the waves, he envisioned a room carved into the bedrock, an exact replica of his study, down to the smallest detail. The rich, dark wood of the furniture, the plush softness of the carpet beneath his feet, the musty scent of old books mingling with the crisp, clean fragrance of paper - all of it was as real to him as the room in which he now sat.

As he focused on this mental image, Lucas felt a subtle shift in the energy around him, a faint vibration that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of reality itself, like the plucked string of a violin. He opened his eyes, his gaze drawn to the pool of water before him, and watched as the surface began to ripple and distort, the candlelight dancing across its surface in a mesmerizing display, casting golden flecks of light that sparkled like stars in the night sky.

Slowly, an image began to take shape in the water's depths, a ghostly reflection of his study room, like a scene from a half-remembered dream. The details were sharper now, more defined than in his previous attempts, and he could see Nyx coiled in a patch of sunlight, her scales glinting in the warm glow, each one a tiny mirror reflecting the light. Lucas's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of satisfaction at this small victory, a step forward on the path to mastery.

Yet, even as he watched, the image began to waver, the edges blurring and distorting as if viewed through a veil of mist, a mirage shimmering in the desert heat. Lucas's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he poured more of his will into the scrying, his fingers curling into fists, the nails digging into his palms. He was determined to maintain the connection, to hold onto this fleeting glimpse of the world beyond, but the strain was too much, and with a final, shuddering flicker, the image vanished, leaving only the still surface of the water and his own reflection staring back at him, a mirror of his frustration.

Perhaps the limitation lies within me, he considered, his thoughts turning inward, probing the depths of his own mind like a surgeon's scalpel. The Harry Potter books speak of an 'Inner Eye,' a natural affinity for the divinatory arts, a gift that cannot be learned or acquired through study alone. Could it be that because I lack this inherent talent, that my efforts are doomed to failure from the start?

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Lucas dismissed it, his resolve as unyielding as the bedrock beneath the vast sea, a foundation that could weather any storm. No, he decided, his eyes narrowing with a cold, calculating intensity, the green of his irises darkening to the hue of a forest at midnight. Divination is too valuable a tool to abandon, and I will not be limited by the constraints of my own abilities, by the arbitrary boundaries set by others.

He rose to his feet, his movements fluid and graceful, the candle flame flickering in the breeze created by his passage. He started pacing the room, his footsteps quieted by the plush carpet, his mind abuzz with possibilities, each shining brightly in the sea of his thoughts. A scrying matrix, he pondered, his gaze falling on the notebook containing his Elemental Sphere that rested on his desk, his first permanent Magical Artifact, a tribute to his skill and commitment. By integrating the elements into the scrying process, I may be able to forge a stronger connection to the world through symbolism, to tap into the very essence of the world itself, to see through the eyes of the elements themselves.

Lucas's fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the sphere, feeling the thrum of power that lay within, a heartbeat pulsing in time with his own. Fire, air, water, and earth, he recited silently, the words a mantra in his mind, a key to unlocking the secrets of the universe. The building blocks of creation, the foundation upon which all things rest, the primal forces that shape the world and all that lies within it. If I can harness their power for divination, bend them to my will, make them an extension of my own senses...

He allowed the thought to fade away, his mind swiftly moving forward, imagining the intricate network of magic and symbolism that would lay the foundation for his scrying matrix, a composition of elements brought together in flawless harmony. It would be a work of art, a masterpiece of magic artifice.

The past, the present, and the future, he reflected, his eyes glinting with a cold, determined light, like the gleam of a sword in the moonlight. All will be laid bare before me, and I will use that knowledge to shape the world to my will, to mold it like clay in the hands of a master potter. And if the answers I seek cannot be found within myself, if the secrets of divination lie beyond my grasp...

His thoughts turned to the seer at Hogwarts, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth, a hint of anticipation in the curve of his lips. Then I will find them elsewhere, by any means necessary, and I will not rest until I have unlocked the mysteries of the divinatory arts, until I have made them my own.

With a final, decisive nod, Lucas returned to his seat, his gaze once again falling on the pool of water before him, the surface still and mirror-like once more. He had much work to do, many experiments to conduct, many paths to explore, but he would not be deterred, not by the limitations of his own abilities, nor by the obstacles that lay ahead. 

oo0ooOoo0oo

Deep within the Arabian Desert, an age-old fortress rose, its worn stone walls bearing witness to the mysteries and darkness that had lingered inside for ages. The air hung heavy with the scent of frankincense and myrrh, a cloying sweetness that clung to the skin and lingered in the lungs. The only sound was the soft whisper of the wind as it stirred the sand, a sibilant hiss that echoed through the empty halls and corridors.

Deep within the fortress, in a room illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps, a group of figures sat around a low table, their faces obscured by the shadows that danced along the walls. At the head of the table sat a man draped in black, his features hidden beneath a veil of silk, a pair of eyes glinting in the darkness like polished onyx. The Ebon Lord, they called him, a name spoken in hushed whispers and fearful tones, a legend that had long haunted the sands of Arabia.

To his right sat The Viper, his second-in-command, a man as lean and deadly as the serpent that gave him his name. His eyes were cold and calculating, his lips curled in a perpetual sneer, as if he found the world and all its inhabitants beneath his contempt.

The others gathered around the table were an eclectic mix, each one a master of their craft, a specialist in the art of death and destruction. There was The Scorpion, a woman with a face like a carved mask, her eyes as black as the venom that coursed through her veins. The Jackal, a man with a smile like a knife's edge, his laughter a harsh, grating sound that set teeth on edge. And The Vulture, a hunched figure with a beak-like nose and eyes that glittered with a feverish intensity, as if he could see the death that clung to each and every one of them.

They were the higher-ups of The Ebon Hand, a cabal of assassins and spies, of wizards and witches who dealt in secrets and shadows, in whispers and lies. They were the ones who pulled the strings, the ones who made the deals and the decisions that shaped the world from behind the scenes.

And now, they had gathered to discuss their latest contract, a task that had been brought to them by a man with more money than sense, a fool who thought he could buy their loyalty with gold and empty promises.

"Harry Potter," The Ebon Lord said, his voice a rasping whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "The Boy-Who-Lived, the child prodigy who has taken the Muggle world by storm."

The Viper leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "A dangerous target," he mused, his voice as smooth as silk. "The boy is well-protected, both by his fame and by the Muggle authorities."

The Scorpion scoffed, her lips twisting in a sneer. "What do we care for Muggle authorities?" she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "We are The Ebon Hand, the shadow that falls across the world. We do not fear them."

The Jackal laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Indeed," he said, his eyes glinting with a feverish intensity. "The boy is nothing to us, a mere child playing at greatness. We will crush him like an insect beneath our heel."

But one figure remained silent, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The Raven, they called her, a woman with a face as pale as moonlight and eyes as dark as the night sky. She was the youngest of the higher-ups, a rising star in the organization, but now she seemed hesitant, uncertain.

"Perhaps," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "we should reconsider this contract. Harry Potter is not just the Boy-Who-Lived, he is a prodigy, a genius who has advanced multiple fields of science by years. His work could benefit the entire world, Muggle and magical alike. Is it wise to snuff out such a bright light?"

The room fell silent, the only sound the soft hiss of the oil lamps and the distant howl of the wind. The Ebon Lord turned his gaze upon The Raven, his eyes boring into hers, a silent challenge in their depths. For a long moment, he said nothing, the tension in the room growing thicker with each passing second.

Then, without warning, The Raven's head exploded in a spray of blood and bone, her body slumping forward onto the table, a puppet with its strings cut. The others recoiled, their eyes wide with shock and horror, as The Ebon Lord slowly lowered his hand, a wisp of smoke curling from his fingertip.

"I do not tolerate dissent," he said softly, his voice as cold as the desert night. "We are The Ebon Hand, and we do not question our contracts. We do not care for the greater good, for the advancement of science or the betterment of the world. We care only for profit, for power, for the reputation that strikes fear into the hearts of all who hear our name."

He leaned forward, his eyes glinting beneath the veil, a predator's gaze fixed upon his prey. "Harry Potter will die," he said, each word as heavy as a stone. "And we will be the ones to strike the blow, to snuff out his light and plunge the world into darkness. That is our purpose, our calling, and we will not falter in our duty."

The others nodded, their faces grim, their eyes hard as flint. They knew the price of failure, the cost of disobedience. They were The Ebon Hand, and they would not be denied.

As the meeting adjourned and the higher-ups filed out of the room, The Viper lingered behind, his eyes fixed upon the lifeless body of The Raven, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He had never liked the woman, had always seen her as a threat to his position, a rival for The Ebon Lord's favor.

And now, she was gone, a footnote in the annals of The Ebon Hand, a cautionary tale for those who dared to question the will of the organization. The Viper's smile widened, a cold, cruel thing that held no warmth or mercy. He had always known that power was the only thing that mattered in this world, and now, he held more power than ever before.

He turned and strode from the room, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, a shadow among shadows, a whisper in the dark. The Ebon Hand would strike, and Harry Potter would fall, and the world would tremble at their feet. And The Viper would be there, watching it all unfold, a serpent coiled in the shadows, waiting for his moment to strike.

oo0ooOoo0oo

The Max Planck Institute for Solid State Research in Stuttgart, Germany, stood as a monument to scientific progress, its modern architecture a harmonious blend of glass, steel, and concrete. Sunlight streamed through the expansive windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors and pristine white walls. The air hummed with the quiet energy of brilliant minds at work, the faint whirring of advanced equipment and the soft murmur of conversations creating a symphony of innovation.

In a spacious conference room overlooking the institute's meticulously landscaped courtyard, Lucas sat across from Heinz Gerischer, a renowned expert in physical chemistry and electrochemistry. The room was a study in understated elegance, with sleek lines, neutral colors, and minimalist furnishings that allowed the focus to remain on the exchange of ideas.

Heinz leaned forward, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he studied the young prodigy before him. "I must confess," he began, his voice rich with experience, "when I first learned of your groundbreaking discoveries, I had my reservations. A child, no matter how gifted, making such significant strides in battery technology? It seemed almost too extraordinary to believe."

Lucas met Heinz's gaze, his emerald eyes clear and unwavering. "I understand your initial skepticism, Dr. Gerischer," he replied, his voice even and measured. "But as you've had the opportunity to review my work, I trust that the evidence speaks for itself. The hypotheses I've put forth and the experiments I've designed hold the potential to revolutionize the field."

Heinz nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed, they do. Your paper on the application of nanostructured materials in lithium-ion batteries is particularly compelling. The concept of utilizing graphene as an anode material, in conjunction with an innovative electrolyte composition... it's a daring proposition, but one that could yield remarkable improvements in energy density and cycle life."

Lucas steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his mind whirring with the possibilities. "Precisely," he agreed, his voice carrying a hint of contained enthusiasm. "By harnessing the exceptional properties of graphene—its expansive surface area, superior electrical conductivity, and mechanical resilience—we can develop batteries that not only possess higher energy storage capacity but also charge more rapidly and exhibit greater longevity."

As the discussion delved deeper into the intricacies of Lucas's research, the room seemed to fade away, the two scientists engrossed in a intricate dance of ideas and potential. The bodyguards stationed near the door, their presence a discreet reminder of Lucas's prodigious status, remained alert yet unobtrusive, blending seamlessly into the background.

Time seemed to slow as Lucas and Heinz pored over the preliminary experimental data, their keen eyes analyzing every detail. The outcomes were positive, with graphs and charts confirming the accuracy of Lucas's theories. The room thrummed with the energy of discovery, of pushing the frontiers of scientific understanding.

"These findings are extraordinary," Heinz remarked, his voice hushed with admiration. "The increase in energy density alone is remarkable, and the cycle life... it's unparalleled."

Lucas inclined his head, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, a glimmer of quiet satisfaction in his eyes. "It's a promising beginning," he acknowledged, his tone measured and composed. "However, there is still much to be accomplished. We must refine the manufacturing process, optimize the electrode structures, and conduct additional testing to ensure long-term stability and reliability."

Heinz leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant, as if envisioning a future shaped by the young prodigy's groundbreaking work. "With the resources and expertise of the Max Planck Institute at our disposal, I am confident that we can bring this technology to fruition. The potential impact on the world... it's truly remarkable."

Lucas's eyes shone with a quiet intensity, a controlled fire burning within their emerald depths. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "The world stands on the precipice of a new era, one in which clean, sustainable energy is not merely an aspiration, but a tangible reality. And we, Dr. Gerischer, hold the power to make that vision a reality."

As the meeting drew to a close and the scientists began to disperse, Lucas remained seated, his gaze fixed upon the city beyond the windows, his mind lost in contemplation. The path ahead was clear, the challenges numerous, but he knew, with a certainty that burned like a steady flame within his core, that he would not rest until his vision was realized. The world was evolving, and Lucas stood at the vanguard of that change, a child prodigy with the power to shape the future. And as he rose from his chair, his steps purposeful and assured, he knew that nothing, not even the weight of his own destiny, could deter him from his path.

oo0ooOoo0oo

The sleek black Mercedes glided through the tranquil German forest, its powerful engine purring softly as it navigated the winding road. Inside the luxurious vehicle, Lucas sat in contemplative silence, his green eyes watched the changing scenery, full of bright greens and deep browns. The meeting with the top scientists at the university was successful, their smart minds coming together in a deep mix of ideas and possibilities, each lighting the way in the progress of science.

As the car navigated through the thick greenery, Lucas became introspective, his mind going over the main parts of the conversation, examining each detail with careful accuracy. The advancements in battery technology, their possible uses in countless areas, and the ripple effect that might transform society itself—all these unfolded before him like a chessboard filled with endless opportunities, every move a deliberate step towards shaping a future he envisioned.

Next to him, his bodyguards remained alert, their eyes carefully watching the surroundings. They were a quiet force, highlighting his important role and the expectations that came with it. Despite this, Lucas stayed relaxed, his posture comfortable and his breathing smooth, showing a calm confidence.

As the convoy rounded a bend in the road, the tranquil scene was shattered by a sudden, violent explosion. The lead car erupted in a fiery blast, metal and glass spraying in all directions, the acrid scent of burning rubber and gasoline filling the air. Lucas's car swerved, the driver's reflexes tested to their limits as he fought to maintain control, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

In the chaos of the moment, time seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity. Lucas's gaze snapped to the window, his eyes widening fractionally as he caught sight of the RPG streaking towards them, a harbinger of destruction. His thoughts spun rapidly, filled with calculations and odds, each one a brief hope, a clutch at survival.

The air around him vibrated, the slight silhouette of his protective magic appearing, a delicate barrier ready for the approaching force. The necklace he wore throbbed with a mystical power, the magic-enriched blood inside shining with a soft, red glow. Meanwhile, the Air Purification Shield spell he cast worked silently, an unseen protector filtering out the world's poisons from the air he inhaled.

And then, in a heartbeat, the RPG struck, the world exploding in a maelstrom of fire and shrapnel.