Chapter 10

December 2000 (5.5 years later, age 14)

Spinning to dodge a bolt of red light he sent a stream of water towards the two opponents behind him and followed it up with a flash of lightning without even stopping his rotation before firing three bone breakers and a blood boiling curse at his final opponent in the time it took most to blink. He stood from his crouched position, his body still taut to react, before clapping brought him out of his combat stance.

"Very well done, Ares! Emerging victorious from a 4v1 is very impressive, particularly for one of you age." Rowan praised.

Ares just grumbled. If there was one thing Ares was it was a perfectionist, a trait that had served him well in his rapid progression from a child to the wizard he now was, but it was equally frustrating.

"One of those curses that hit me could have been lethal and then I'd be dead. I need to be able to fight and not get hit once."

"Ares, those dummies were set to level seven. Even adult wizards would struggle against two."

The duelling dummies at Nightshade Manor were not like those possessed by the aurors or other old families, they were custom made by a long dead ancestor and completely unique. Most duelling dummies were 'programmed' with certain spells, so a family would often have a dozen different duelling dummies for different difficulty levels. The Nightshade dummies, however, had different pre-set levels of difficulty, with ten being the highest, and drew spells directly from a connected library, and Ares had connected them to both the library in the family vault and the one at the manor, which he had steadily added to with books on every magical art written in the last 700 years. This gave the dummies access to every spell and every duelling tactic in any book that the Nightshade family owned, making them formidable opponents and incredibly difficult to beat. He was still only on level seven.

It had taken some time for him to start progressing in his magic, however; it took over a month for him to even begin using his wand. After so long of using only wandless magic he automatically did so, even casting around the wand that was in his hand, and he effectively had to learn to use magic all over again as he consciously had to push magic through his wand. It would have taken less time, but he was unwilling to give up his proficiency in wandless magic and still practised it, making rewiring his brain to use the wand even harder. Once he did learn to use his wand they were met with another problem; power. The wand channelled the magic over a far smaller area and hence the spell was stronger, and the first time Ares had summoned something with his wand it flew across the room faster than the eye could see. Thus began several weeks of getting him to limit the power he put into spells until he automatically channelled enough magic for each spell to suit a wand. They had to undo the unconscious learning of several years of practise, helped neither by his wandless practise and growing frustration.

Once those problems had been overcome though, he began to practise more and more until he was dedicating nearly every hour of every day to reading or training. It turned into both an addiction and a place for him to hide from his emotions, and several times his ancestors had had to intervene to stop him from overworking himself. He had considered going to Hogwarts, but he had no interest in making friends or making connections, so why would he go there to learn magic when he could do so faster here? There was also the refusal to see anyone from his old life, both a conscious decision because of his anger and a subconscious one because of the pain that he had buried deep down but still remained. Hogwarts only educated wizards from Britain so he had made sure he was out of the country when his letter would have come – he didn't want anyone knowing about his family. That would only bring enemies and unnecessary conflict, something he wanted to avoid.

In all areas of study, though, Ares was extremely skilled. He was skilled at potions but lacked the passion and interest to create any potions himself, but William had hardly expected him to. Ares loved practical magic and potions were not active enough for him. One would expect him to be similar towards runes and arithmancy, but they would be wrong – Runes were used in rituals and arithmancy was used in spell creation, something he was both good at and found enjoyable. They had a practical application which he liked, so he found them interesting and spent more time learning them. With a wand, none of them had seen any who were anywhere near as good as Ares; he was better than any of them had been at age 18. He was a prodigy at transfiguration and just as proficient with charms, using them frequently in duels to animate objects both for offense and for defence.

There were several areas where he excelled though, and they were in wards, curses and combat. Edgar said he had an almost unnatural ability to sense wards, a skill that took most wizards several years as well as extrasensory rituals to do. Wards felt like solid domes of magic at first, but in actuality they were made of thousands of threads that could be pulled and manipulated. Ares was a natural at it, even able to do it wandlessly if the ward was not a complex one, and could open a small hole in hastily cast anti-apparition wards as were frequently used during raids within a few seconds. The wards he cast were strong and difficult to counter, and he could cast them far faster than most could.

His best subject, however, was combat. Rowan had become close to the boy during the countless hours that he had spent helping him as best he could, observing and giving pointers for him to work on. While his defensive spells were excellent, he rarely used them; he preferred to use his movement to avoid incoming spells and only used shields as a last resort. It was offense where he was truly astounding though. Any magic that could take down an opponent, whether it was temporarily or for good, he used and used with the ease of a master. He had truly embraced the family view that magic was neither light nor dark, and had learnt all magic available to him.

That had caused a few problems over the years, however. He would have to occasionally be reminded that that were in fact magics that should never be touched, magics that were black and could never be used for anything but evil. Most of these were not spells but rituals, rituals that involved human sacrifice or cold blooded murder.

The three Unforgiveable curses were such magics, for example. It could be argued that the Imperius could be used to stop someone from committing suicide, but that was such an isolated possibility that it hardly made a difference. Besides, as soon as the spell was removed they would likely try again anyway, the spell only delayed what was their choice.

The Cruciatus had been a medical spell at its creation, an incredibly focused spell used to force nerves to fire in an attempt to cure paralysis. But it had been twisted until it was barely recognisable, now affecting the whole body and powered by the raw desire to cause someone indescribable pain. There was no circumstance in which a spell that caused pain strong enough to cause madness could be used for good.

The final spell of the three, the Killing Curse, was also the most dubious. It caused painless death and if it was cast on someone suffering from an irreversible, painful curse would stop their suffering. But the spell couldn't be used for that purpose, however, because of the nature of it. The spell was fuelled by hatred, an unintended side effect of the soul magic that it used, and so it could not be used against someone if the caster did not feel all-consuming hatred, and no one could feel that when they were casting it as an act of mercy. The caster must also feel an absolute desire to kill, and that was why Ares didn't think he would even be able to use it. While he didn't think he would have any problems with killing someone, he would not actually be eager to do so.

The family philosophy towards magic had also caused a problem when he came across a book on Necromancy, one of the arts that were usually black for the exception of releasing ghosts from their shackles to the mortal world. That was when he had finally told them about Olivia and the others. The look in his eyes as he spoke told the portraits all they needed to know about her – he had loved her more than anything, and losing her was what had ultimately turned him into what he was – the cold, hardened boy with few morals and even fewer visible emotions. The heartbreak on his face when they had told him that no magic could resurrect the dead, that what came back wasn't even an imitation of the person that was lost, had been enough to make them weep in their frames.

He had gone to see the others several times, always in a different form. He had been steadfast at telling them he was alive, refusing to listen to any arguments against it until he reluctantly allowed the portraits to make their case. They had said that to tell them he was alive would mean taking the risk that no one would find out and ruin everything that he now had. Dumbledore or the Potters could easily look through their minds and see him. Even if they didn't, 'what purpose would it serve?' they had argued. It had been several months by the time he wanted to go back, it had taken him that long for the thought of going back to where he had been with her to stop stinging like salt in a wound, and the portraits had argued that by then they would have accepted it. Going back and telling them he was alive would feel like a betrayal; he would not get to have the relationship he had with them back.

He had morphed into an unrecognisable form and gone, intent on telling them anyway. But he had used Legilimency on them first, and found just what the portraits had predicted. Dumbledore had found and told them, undoubtedly while using Legilimency himself, and they had gotten through the grief and the guilt at not stopping him leaving. Now when they thought of him it was with the same fondness they had when he was 'alive', and he knew that they really would be hurt by him turning up alive after so long. The relationship he had enjoyed with them would never come back, and how would he explain the certainty Dumbledore had shown when he told them. He could hardly tell them he had faked his own death and didn't want to tell them about magic, that was something he felt was special between him and Olivia.

He had hated himself for taking so long and being so consumed by his own anger and his own grief that he didn't even think about theirs, and now it was too late. Briefly he had considered using magic so that they would not feel betrayed, but had immediately been hit with another wave of self-hatred at the thought of altering their minds. The best he could do was a send a house elf to leave food, water and clothes occasionally. That way he could convince himself he hadn't just left them.

He had made sure Olivia had a grave in Little Whinging and visited it frequently, always under a disillusionment charm otherwise someone would ask questions. As far as anyone knew the only family she had were her mother and her sister and no one knew where they were. And considering he didn't even know her mother's first name and Olivia's last name was a common one, he knew trying to find them would be next to impossible. He wasn't even sure he wanted to; sure, Olivia had loved them but they had left her just as the people he had cared about had left him. That wasn't something he could forgive them for. He didn't want to share her either, even after she had gone. It was selfish and childish, but he didn't care. To him as soon as they had left her they gave up any claim they had to call her family. The only people he thought should be allowed were him and the rest of their group, and she was his everything. He didn't want to share.

He hadn't forgotten the Dursleys either. When he had found out that they were in prison he had been disappointed at first; that made it much harder to arrange an 'accident' that would kill them painfully. They were even in different prisons so both of them dying would be too suspicious, especially as they had been kept separated from the other prisoners once it was found out that they were child abusers. Vernon had nearly been beaten to death when it got out; it would have been an ironic way for him to die at least. That did not mean they had got by without punishment though, not by a long shot.

Tonight was the night, the night he would finally get his revenge. He was almost giddy at the thought and had spent countless hours thinking of ways to make them suffer, everything from removing body parts to transfiguring them into insects and setting them loose. He had wanted to kill them at first, no matter how suspicious it would be. He had controlled that impulse though, and instead decided on a better punishment. They had made him suffer constantly, so he would make them suffer as he had. Death would be a release from their imprisonment, and he wouldn't let them die until they had felt what pain truly was.

With a pop he apparated to one of his smaller properties, one that had been intended as a safe house for the event one was needed and for containment of enemies. That was what made him use it; there were several tiny cells in the basement, and that was where his 'family' were currently residing. Abducting them from their cells had been easy with magic; all he had to do was send a couple of house elves. He didn't have long though, otherwise they would be missed.

As he descended the stone steps into the damp cellar, a feral grin on his face, he shifted his features to look like how Harry Potter would at 13 years old, adopting the green eyes and messy hair that he hated with a passion. But he thought it would be worth it to see the dawning horror in their eyes, and it was.

Both Dursleys paled instantly as soon as they saw him, their eyes wide and hearts hammering in their chests, and even Vernon's legendary bravado failed him. The look in their eyes screamed that they thought they were about to die, but what he had planned for them was worse.

"Hello Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia. Welcome to my home, one of them anyway," he said, unable to keep the cruel smirk off his face even if he wanted to, "I'm not dead, clearly. I do hope the surprise is a pleasant one." He said, his tone dripping with malicious sarcasm.

The reintroduction of noise seemed to kick-start Vernon's primitive mind and he swelled in anger, or at least he tried to before the chains that tethered him to the floor pulled him back to the ground.

"You ruined our lives you little shit! Good, hard working people such as ourselves-" he roared, before being cut off with a silencing charm. The sight of the wand twirling in Ares's fingers seemed to jolt him back to reality as he realised just how bad his position was as he paled even further than he had before. He looked almost transparent.

Ares had to stop himself from trying the Killing Curse on the two animals in front of him. He had never tried it, but with the amount of hatred that was blackening his veins he thought he could probably cast it wandlessly if he did. He satisfied himself with the reminder that they would soon suffer and that killing them would be too easy for them, and told himself that they were not worth tainting his soul with such magic. Once he had his emotions under control he sat down on his haunches and stared at them, relishing in the way they flinched when he met their eyes and the jangle of chains as their hands shook.

"I know you think that I'm about to kill you, but I'm not." Vernon actually sighed at that and Ares once again marvelled at the man's stupidity.

"What I have planned for you is much worse than that. You see, you made me suffer every day for years. Pain, loneliness, depression. You made me feel all those things and more, and simply killing you wouldn't account for that. So what I am going to do is mess with your minds a little, implant a few memories, a few feelings and block a few others. I am going to make you feel what you made me feel, and you will feel it for every second of every day. You will be unable to sleep because of the pain that slashes through you, you will be unable to eat because of the cramps and bruises you feel in your stomach, you will be unable to breathe because of the hand you feel clamped around your throat. And there will be no end for you, no respite, because the pain will even invade your dreams so that they become nightmares. There are only two options: either you will feel what I felt for the rest of your miserable lives, or your minds will break under the strain." He said, the smile still on his face.

The Dursleys had become steadily paler as he spoke, their eyes wide with fear, and he smiled cruelly again.

"Enjoy."

With that his wand began dancing through the air as he blocked off every positive memory they had and implanted the emotion and the pain from the years he had suffered at their hands and finally removed the memory of that night from their minds. He had wanted to leave it there so they would know why it was they were suffering, but memory blocks could easily be reversed. It was an unnecessary risk.

When he was done the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon and he called some house elves to drop them back in their cells before anyone noticed they had even gone. Standing up and walking back up the steps he smiled slightly, having finally done what he had been dreaming of doing for months.

In the end it had taken under two months for their minds to fracture apart, and now they were kept in a secure medical wing under heavy sedation. When they were awake, all they did was scream and cry and beg. Revenge truly was the sweetest victory.

In addition to the work he did with his 'tutors', Ares also spent much of his time reading modern books he had bought himself and ancient tomes the Nightshades already had on everything from magical transportation to mind magics. That was where he learnt a lot of his magic, including his favourite ability. It wasn't a spell as there was no incantation and could only be done by people born with the same pathway trait as he had. His favourite ability was to turn to smoke. While it was fairly draining it had become less so the more he did it, and it was extremely useful in duelling when a spell was unavoidable and he had no time to pull up a shield. The book said that any impact spell or curse that affected his physical body would pass right through, though it would drain him, but soul magic like the Killing Curse would still affect him. He had been experimenting with it too, seeing what the limit of his control was over his 'body' when he used it. There was also the sheer intimidation of it; he would be more than just a man in the minds of his opponents. They would make mistakes.

Apparently his 'blank mind' was an advanced Occlumency technique that involved clearing your mind of every thought and emotion so that even if someone did get in there was nothing there. The mind was not a book with contents that an invader could search through as they pleased; they first had to latch onto something – an emotion, an image, a person – that was in the forefront of their targets mind and follow it into the long term memories, searching for what they needed through mental associations. If there was nothing to latch onto, then they could get nowhere. Of course Ares didn't like the idea of someone being in his mind at all, so he built shields, barriers and traps around his mind. It was untested so he couldn't be sure how good they were, but he had followed the books and reinforced and added to them often, so in theory he should be able to keep people out.

His wandless magic had continued to improve as well to the point that he could perform almost all of the simple spells he could with his wand wandlessly, though it was impossible to perform any particularly power intensive spells wandlessly without exhausting yourself. When casting wandlessly the focus was his palm, much wider than the tip of his wand. That meant that it took far more power to concentrate enough of it in a single place to cast the spell.

Despite his ability he had not wanted to ever be unable to defend himself, so once he learnt to apparate he had started to go to martial arts classes. At first he had found it difficult despite his previous sessions with Malcolm and had incredibly annoyed with himself for it. He was good at everything else, so it was frustrating to find something he wasn't instantly good at. But he had kept trying and went every day, his annoyance fuelling his determination, and had eventually started improving more rapidly. He had earned his black belt a few months before, it taking him nearly three years.

Once he had achieved it, he started going to a different place but in a different body. That was something he had practised extensively in his magical combat training as well; he learnt how to move and fight easily in as many sizes and as many centres of gravity as he could. He had tried to learn to morph and make it look like adding or removing a glamour but he couldn't do it. He didn't know if it was even possible, but if it was it could come in incredibly useful. He didn't want anyone else to know he was a metamorphmagus; it was too big of an advantage to waste.

But after so many years practising and training religiously, he was bored. He wanted something to do, but all the jobs he could think of were either impossible or even more boring. He wanted to fight, but duellists had far too many rules, as did aurors and hit wizards, and he was no dark wizard. Most professions would require identification and NEWT results anyway, so that was impossible. He wanted to be able to fight, but didn't want all the annoying restrictions.

That was when he had an idea and decided it was a fantastic one. During his trips to various seedy corners of the Wizarding World he had come across a lot of people and learnt a lot of things, one of which was that there were many men who would do anything if they were paid for it. He had actually thought about hiring such a man a few months before to steal a one of a kind book from a Chinese pureblood manor, but had then decided he was better and had just done it himself. It hadn't been massively difficult; there were always gaps in the wards of old manors, their owners arrogantly thinking because they were old and strong that they must be flawless. The manor didn't even have any security beyond their wards. The portraits had been furious with the risk he took, and he angrily refused to speak to them for a few days afterwards. He hadn't been caught, so what was the problem?

Most of the mercenaries, though, looked to be brutes that just fired reducto after reducto and could barely tell one end of their wand from the other. He knew he was far better than that, so with them for competition surely he would get plenty of work. But he didn't want to be one of them though, doing pathetic jobs that he thought himself above. He would have to talk to the goblins; they would know how he could go about bypassing that. He doubted any of his ancestors would approve, but they couldn't do a whole lot about it. He had trained hard to become the best so he would not be weak, and now he was not weak. What was the point in sitting in a manor all day learning magic if he wasn't going to do anything with it?

Morphing to become generic and forgettable as he walked out of the wards, he apparated to Diagon Alley with the slightest pop. It was early afternoon so there weren't many people around and he could walk unobstructed down the cobbled alley and up the steps of Gringotts. As soon as he entered the lobby he felt a light urge to visit his family vault but shook it off. He had gone down there several times over the years but mainly sent house elves, and he couldn't think of anything in there that he needed. Still, he wanted to know where the urge came from.

Discarding the thought as he approached an empty teller, he placed his hand on the top and willed his ring to appear for a few seconds before he hid it again. He couldn't take the ring off, so being able to make it visible or invisible at will was useful, particularly as they were keeping the family a secret. The goblin hopped off its tall chair and led him through the twisting corridors towards Slashjaw's office, a place he had become fairly familiar with over the years.

While the portraits took care of his general education of what it was to be a Lord, going over the importance of alliances, etiquette and politics, even making him go to dancing lessons for a while, he went to Slashjaw for finance. The goblins were the best investors and finance managers in the Wizarding World after all and why would he want to learn from any but the best? It had been awkward at first until Ares worked out how best to act around goblins; blunt and honest. The goblins did not appreciate deceit unless they were the ones doing it and, while they observed the formalities of wizards well, they did not like doing so. Once he had realised that things got much easier. He thought Slashjaw probably quite liked him for a wizard, their shared ruthlessness had come out when he had been told the debts he held in more depth.

When Slashjaw had said that he could make many ancient families destitute, he had not been exaggerating. The list of families that owed him was basically a list of every old family in Britain, as well as several from other countries. In the past the Nightshade family had given loans to families when they had lost much of their own gold or provided aid to those that needed it, but the cost was always much higher than the benefit with steep interest rates. He hadn't called any in because that would show everyone that House Nightshade was alive again and he didn't want that to come out until it had to, and as he had no desire to sit on the Wizengamot and was still only 13 it wouldn't if he was careful. But it had taken all his willpower not to say 'fuck it' and call in the debts that the Black and Potter families owed anyway.

He entered Slashjaw's office and sat gracefully in one of the comfortable chairs that were placed in front of the goblins large desk. Despite his upright posture befitting the Lord of such an old house, there was no tension in his body. He was completely relaxed, a strange thing for a wizard to be in a goblin's office.

"What can I do for you, Ares? You would normally send a house elf."

"I've become bored with spending every single day training, I want something to do. I thought-"

"you want to get into mercenary work and you think I will know how to go about involving yourself."

At Ares' shocked look Slashjaw smirked slightly. It was such a strange expression to see on the boy's face.

"I have long since suspected that you would one day become interested in such a profession, but I must warn you that it is extremely dangerous and often illegal. But then you have little interest in the rules and I assume you are an exceptionally skilled wizard to even think about going down this path." The goblin smiled nastily and continued, "Most of the mercenaries you will have seen are the unskilled, those who are too stupid to do anything else. The talented and most sought after mercenaries do not do random jobs given to them by strangers in bars. They take contracts from the rich and the wealthy and normally have to start at the bottom, spending years working their way to the top and gaining a reputation as they do so. However, as I know that would be unacceptable to you, I will help remove that step. Gringotts nearly always hears about higher level contracts, I will contact you with the meeting place the next time I hear of one. It goes without saying to use neither your true name nor your true face."

Ares nodded his thanks as he rose and left without a word. Slashjaw jad already returned to his paperwork; goblins did not believe in the foolish niceties that humans observed. They wasted time, and after all, time was money.

~Scene Change~

It was now just over a month since he visited Gringotts and he was impatiently waiting for them to contact him with a contract. He still hadn't told any of his ancestors about it because they wouldn't like it and he wanted to avoid any sort of argument as long as possible. He had practised his combat and wading even more than usual in preparation, and yet nothing had come. It was frustrating. He had got it into his head that he would finally be actually doing something and every day he waited was worse than the last.

It was early morning when a house elf popped in with a message and he practically ripped it open, far from his usual composure. All it gave was a set of coordinates and a single word: Werewolves.

He quickly used his metamorphmagus abilities to grow until he reached an inch or two over 6 feet, with light blonde hair, icy blue eyes and a hint of stubble around his cheeks. He looked about 18 or 19, not wanting to appear young enough to be suspicious but he wanted to be underestimated. He would make sure they realised their mistake quickly. Changing into dark black muggle jeans and a tight fitting long sleeved shirt he slipped his dragon hide jacket over his shoulders, laced his dragonhide boots and strapped his knives to his waist before he walked out of the manor and apparated to the coordinates he had been given.

He appeared outside a large nondescript brick building and walked straight inside, noticing several people there already. There were those who glared and snarled in an attempt to threaten him but he discarded those from his mind instantly. It was those that looked at him contemplatively that caught his attention more, and those who looked and then dismissed him. He looked forward to seeing their reaction.

A few more people trooped in until there were about twenty-five people in total before a man walked up to the front. He was wearing robes, but they did not look particularly expensive. Too expensive to be from a villager though, who were the usual targets for werewolves. Probably a mid-level ministry employee sent to give out the contract, but why would they use mercenaries if they already had aurors and hit wizards? Only possible reason for that was that it was too difficult for them. A small smirk bloomed on his face when he came to that conclusion - this really would be fun.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," the accent was Eastern European but slightly different to that of Anatoly, likely Romanian or somewhere close, "I will not waste your time with unimportant details. There have been a series of werewolf attacks over the past months that killed or infected over 450 people. We sent several teams of aurors to where we believe them to meet prior to the change, but they did not come back."

"How many!" a voice shouted.

"We estimate around thirty, maybe more." At this, over half of those present headed for the door. From the way the man spoke the werewolves met somewhere before changing and that was the only time they were together. Fighting thirty werewolves was quite a task. Ares had to contain an exasperated sigh at that; all it would take is a little planning and it would be much easier.

"How much?"

"For the total extermination of these beasts with the credit going to Ukrainian Ministry, a total of 250,000 galleons."

Those that remained nodded while some whistled. That was a high price for werewolves, not that he was bothered about the money. He had plenty already, but it did show that they were desperate.

"The full moon is tomorrow night, so I will meet you back here the day after at midday to pay the bounty. The target location is here, good luck." The man said while waving his wand at the wall, causing a set of coordinates to appear before leaving.

Of the ten who had stayed six were the type who had sneered and glared as he entered, attempting to intimidate the newcomer, and left immediately. They were arrogant and overconfident in their abilities, thinking that nothing could challenge them. They would die quickly. That left him and three others who looked at him with narrowed eyes, trying to work him out. They would fail to do so.

"What is your name?" a voice demanded from behind him,

"What is yours?" he retorted as he turned around, unwilling to be on the back foot in this conversation.

"Amazon." The woman replied harshly, her wand spinning in her palm in a poor attempt at intimidation. Maybe she would appreciate the name he had chosen.

"Charon." As expected, her eyes betrayed her understanding, combined with a bit of apprehension at the voice he had used when he spoke. It was devoid of any emotion, as empty as the void itself.

The other two said their chosen names but he forgot them before they had even taken another breath, already thinking of strategies and plans. The fact that they would be transformed would be a big disadvantage, their enhanced sense of smell and ability to see in little to no light meant his philosophy of strike from the shadows wouldn't be as effective. But it could still work, if they all stayed completely still with the right charms.

Without warning he turned and walked out of the building with nothing more than a gesture to follow before apparating to the coordinates they had been given. The other three arrived shortly after, astounded by the nerve of him. He was a newcomer and he was acting as if he were better than them! In truth, he was, and what they saw as arrogance was simply a combination of his confidence and his isolated personality.

The area that they were in was quite open with long grass and towering trees about a hundred metres behind them. Clearly the werewolves would transform in the cave that tunnelled into the side of the mountain in front of them, and that left a distance too far for a spell to be cast from the cover of the trees without them noticing. The open space would not be good in an open fight either, allowing the wolves to use their superior speed to dodge and get close before ripping them apart with their claws. He could certainly see how several squads of aurors and hit wizards could die here, but only if they were not smart about it.

Casting a revealing spell to make sure the werewolves hadn't decided to send a guard early, he allowed himself to relax slightly when it came back with nothing unexpected before he set to work without saying a word. Those present just watched as he flicked his wand out and gouged a series of deep holes into the ground at the edge of the cave and summoned sticks and branches from the forest, and with a few twirls of his wand they thickened and elongated until they were over ten feet long, coming to a deadly point at one end. Then he lowered them into the ground and twisted his wand in a complex pattern before covering them up with some of the dirt he had removed, vanishing the rest so nothing looked out of the ordinary.

When he finally looked up the other three were just staring at him, causing him to raise an eyebrow at them.

"If you fight thirty werewolves in an open clearing you will die. Thin the pack."

They flinched slightly at his bluntness, but got to work setting a few traps of their own. Ares told them to place them in such a way to try and herd at least some of the werewolves to a certain area, and they did. It was a smart suggestion, but the kid had an aura about him that practically screamed danger. The traps would not kill all thirty, but they would thin the numbers enough that they would have a good chance of taking out the others. They were all talented witches and wizards, at least the three who had stayed were, but fighting that many werewolves in open conflict was close to suicide.

An hour later they all apparated away back to their homes, Ares eager for the full moon to come.

~Scene Change~

The next evening found all ten hired wands lying at the edge of the woods under disillusionment and scent dispelling charms, watching as the werewolves arrived and entered the cave. Ares had had to put one of the imbeciles under a body bind so he wouldn't give them away. There seemed to be a mix of werewolves from magical and muggle origins; the magicals would apparate in while the muggles would arrive in groups by portkey. That destroyed any qualms Ares had about killing them; they were travelling from all over the country, maybe even the continent, just to kill people.

The man who set the contract had said about thirty, but that was an understatement. He had counted fourty and there were still people arriving. Clearly their traps wouldn't thin the pack as much as they wanted; things would likely get a bit more messy than anticipated. He wasn't nervous though, as opposed to the guy next to him who had been professing how easy it would be when they arrived. Now he was shaking, but another body bind took care of that problem.

After a few minutes with no werewolves arriving, the total count being about fifty, Ares quickly rose and ran to the area where they had tried to herd them, cancelled a few spells and ran back just in time to hear the pained screams of the transformation begin, screams to quickly turned to howls.

Several moments later the first werewolves begin to exit the cave and Ares waited a moment before flicking his wand towards the entrance, causing wooden spikes to shoot out the ground and impale the werewolves midstep. Gurgling howls echoed across the clearing as the others activated their traps and streams of fire erupted, burning at their skin and the grass became metal that sliced at their feet. More than a few fell at this, the dull glint of metal becoming the last thing they saw. As they had hoped the traps had forced a group exactly where they had wanted them, and the bounty hunters watched as the werewolves plummeted into the deep trench they had dug only to be skewered by the stakes they had lined the bottom with.

But now they had no more ambushes to use and Ares lifted the body binds from his two companions. There were around twenty five left, so they were going to need every wand they could. As the low growls and vicious howls of the werewolves filled the air, Ares held his wand in his right hand as he cleared his mind of every emotion that could cloud his judgement and every thought that could distract him.

As soon as they started moving he was casting every curse he had learnt, and a few he had made himself, that were designed to kill faster than he ever had before. He caved in their chests and boiled their blood, liquefied their organs and crushed their bone. He was not the only one casting and before they had even crossed the clearing almost half of the werewolves that had remained were lying lifeless or dying. He became his names – The God of War and the Ferryman of Souls.

As the rest of the werewolves approached, dodging and leaping over spells, he stopped casting and withdrew his knife with his left hand, keeping his wand in his right, and his muscles tightened in readiness as they came close. Dodging the swipe of one of the beasts paw he slashed with his left and opened its chest to the world, showing the deformed organs of the werewolf just as he sent a piercing hex at another, the full moon visible through its skull. He continued the movement of his left hand and channelled a cutting curse through the blade, the runes engraved on it glowing as he removed head from shoulders. A twirl of his wand created a whip of fire and he snapped it across his body, splitting the wolf's throat and immediately cauterising the wound. The final werewolves swarmed at him as they judged him the biggest threat, lunging with gaping jaws. When they snapped their muzzle closed and ripped they were met with coarse fur instead of smooth skin; an almost inaudible pop was the last thing they heard before they burned to ash.

Battling briefly with his Fiendfyre before he shackled it to his will and cancelled the spell, Ares looked upon the carnage. Blood tricked and pooled in the grass while the clearing was eerily quiet, the only sound the pitiful whimpers of werewolves who were slowly dying. Without a word he moved around the clearing, his wand jerking to each werewolf that was still clinging to life. Monsters they may have been but there was still no use in leaving them to suffer unnecessarily. That would not make him much better than them.

Shortly the clearing was silent once more and he allowed himself to soak in it for a few seconds as his adrenaline burned away to leave tiredness. Looking around he saw many of those who had left immediately after the meeting dead or bitten, and depending on the country they came from he wasn't sure which was worse. Those that were alive were scratched and bloody but looked to have barely noticed; instead they were staring at him in a mix of awe and fear.

With barely a glance at them he apparated back to Nightshade Manor and had a house elf take him directly to his room where he undressed and catalogued his body, searching for any injuries. He had some scratches on the back of his legs which disappeared almost instantly, but other than that he was uninjured. There were a few dull discolorations on his jacket, so it had saved him from anything worse. He needed to be faster.

Moving to the bathroom he withdrew his blade and began delicately cleaning it. He knew he didn't need to but it was a mindless task he could do while he thought. He felt very little in the way of remorse and he would have expected to feel more after killing for the first time, and killing so many, but he didn't. Was that a problem? He rationalised it by reminding himself that they planned to deliberately kill and infect innocent people that night, and had already done so to hundreds, but the slight doubt still remained. Was he the monster?

He would ask William and the others tomorrow after he told them, he was pretty sure at least one of them had killed someone at some point in their lives. And if they hadn't there were a lot of other portraits in the manor. But he would do that after he had returned for the bounty, no point going through all that and not getting the reward at the end.

~Scene Change~

Appearing outside the plain brick building with a slight pop just before noon later that day, Ares again reminded himself to work on his apparition. He wanted it to be silent. The fact that most people couldn't even apparate across continents as he just had without doing so in several jumps, never mind silently, was completely ignored. He was better than most people.

As soon as he entered whatever chatter there was stopped as those present turned to look at him. There were four others as well as the wizard who had given out the contract, so that meant five had died. Huh. He would have thought it would be more than that considering how many werewolves there were. Shrugging the thought away he walked up to the group, the ministry official clearly picking up on the slightly wary looks the other bounty hunters were sending him as he approached judging by the restless expression on his face.

"Yes, right, if that is everyone," he seemed to realise what he had said, paling slightly at the hostile glare he received from the only remaining brute – clearly he had been friends with those that died, "there are five of you, 250,000 split five ways is 50,000 galleons each. Write down your Gringotts vault number and the money will be wired shortly."

Obviously Ares wasn't giving the family vault number or any account even distantly linked to the House of Nightshade, he had got another vault under the name John Doe just for this purpose. From there he could send it through various other vaults and businesses before it ended up in his family vault, that way it was impossible to be tracked.

As soon as they had all written down their vault numbers the ministry official swiftly left and Ares made to follow, wanting to get the talk with his ancestors over with.

"How the hell did you do it? I've never seen or heard of you before yet you took out half the werewolves yourself. I would have heard of anyone who can do what you did." It was the woman who had tried to talk to him the day before, Amazon.

"I wanted to be the best, and I am." He replied, not even slowing his pace or looking back, though he had a slight smile on his face.

He would bet she would be telling anyone who would listen about him, as would the rest of the hired wands. He would have a reputation quickly, just as he had wanted. He would be sought out for better contracts, but others would come after him to try and prove themselves better. That wouldn't end well for them, and he would train even further to make sure of it.

When he arrived back at his home, he idly thought about his chosen line of work. Maybe it would be worth opening a few of his other properties dotted around the world so he could use them as safe houses or just extra places to stay. Long distance apparition wasn't particularly hard for him, but if he were injured or exhausted it would be better to have somewhere closer. He would have to go to each one and lower the lockdown himself, but that was something he would do in the near future. For now he had to speak to his tutors; hopefully they wouldn't be too angry, that would be annoying.

As it turned out they weren't as angry as he had expected them to be. They had known he would go looking for something to do eventually and this was the sort of thing that he would want to do; apparently several Nightshades had turned to similar professions centuries ago as well, though never the Lord. They were concerned that he would get himself killed, but were more disappointed and hurt that he had kept it from them. He felt guilty when they said that and vowed to himself that he would try not to keep such things from them again. He had even showed them the fight from the night before by projecting it above the pensieve, and they were impressed with his ingenuity with the traps and were astonished by his cast speed. They had all seen him fight the dummies here in the training room, but never had he cast spells so quickly and so fluidly.

When he asked about his feelings, or lack thereof, towards killing it was Rowan who answered.

"I was not much older than you when I killed my first man. As you know our family was well known for being powerful, wealthy and large. There was a village not far from here where many of the family lived with their families and anyone else who wanted to live there, and it was for that reason that it was attacked by an alliance of enemy families. By the time myself, my brothers and my father arrived the village was aflame, bodies lay strewn in the dirt and all I could hear were screams. I had never felt such rage," even in his portrait his eyes burned even as tears fell down his cheeks, "And so we fought back. I lost count of how many enemies I slaughtered, but I didn't care. They had attacked my blood and so I gave them no mercy.

"We fought until the last combatants fled, hoping we would allow them to live. They were mistaken, and within days three families had been made extinct. But after the battle I, like you, felt nothing but achievement that I had protected my people. And, also like you, I asked my family what it was I should feel, and I will tell you what my grandfather, a terribly wise old man, said to me: 'There will always be death, my son, and you must not wallow in the guilt of killing, lest you become tolerant of the wicked. But you must also not revel in it, must not rejoice in the shedding of blood, or you will become the wicked yourself.'"

Ares sat thoughtfully for several minutes after that, thinking about what he had been told. It made complete sense to him. There were people in the world who were cruel and enjoyed hurting people who did not deserve it, whose very presence blackened the air. There was no redemption and no forgiveness for them, and they did not deserve even the chance to have it. There were men who said there was good inside everyone, and that was true. But in some that light was so dwarfed by the darkness of their souls that it might as well not be there; a single match in the darkest of nights.

That was what he must not become; he had to keep the light and the dark inside him in a relative balance, too much of either would be disastrous. After all, it was the men who had no darkness that allowed evil men to walk free in false hopes of them redeeming themselves, but all they did was cause more death and more misery. Criminals thrived on the indulgence of society's understanding.

The portraits watched as their Lord came out of his mind, his spine straightened and his face set in resolution, before he nodded slightly to himself and left to return to his studies. If there was a magic he had not learnt then he was not as strong as he could be, and that was unacceptable.

A/N: First off, big thanks to Ragin'Chimera for their help on this one.

I'm fairly sure I put it in the actual chapter, but I'll reiterate my reasons for not sending him to Hogwarts because I know a lot of you will have wanted him to. His already isolated personality combined with his absolute desire to see no one from before make sure he has absolutely no desire to go there, and why would he when he can learn more magic quicker and easier where he is. There is no way he would ever voluntary go there.

Also, I just got bored of the whole Harry goes to Hogwarts and his brother is a dick and Lily Potter is a professor and he gets found out and they all try and get him to forgive them etc etc'

As for the merc sub plot, keep in mind he has spent years training himself in magic out of a desire for no one to ever be able to hurt him again, and that he is still a teenager who wants to get into fights. He wouldn't just keep himself shut away like a princess in a tower, and that is the type of thing he would go for.

Finally, I know the reasoning for not telling the gang he was still alive may be a bit weak to some of you but I couldn't think of anything better, and I also didn't want it to seem like he suddenly decided they didn't mean anything to him. When you're as sad and broken as he would be after Olivia died I don't imagine you really think of anyone else at all.