The Transylvanian Alps, or as the Romans like to call them, the Southern Carpathians, are one of the most mysterious places on the planet whose history is so shrouded in rumours, legends and myth that one would be hard pressed to find the true nature of the great mountains.
However, there was one tale that every magical historian worth their craft would unanimously agree to be true. In the year 1040 AD, a village on the shore of the Danube River was infested with rats and the villagers, unable to live in the squalid conditions, sought the services of a wandering wizard who offered to rid them of the rats in return for payment. Utilising music imbued with his magic, the wizard drew the rats away from town and drowned them in the Danube. When he returned to the village for his payment, the villagers accused him of setting the rats on them in order to extort their gold and was promptly thrown out only for the wizard to leave with a cackle that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard him. A month after the incident when the adults were all at church, the wizard once again used his music to lure all the children in the village to a nearby cave. Upon finding their charges missing from home, the villagers searched in crazed desperation and unable to find them, sent out messages to their neighbours and their neighbours to find the wandering wizard, believing that he had taken their children away in revenge.
Five years to the day the children went missing and at a point when all but the most stubborn of villagers had given up hope of finding either their children or the wizard, their missing children, who had not aged a day, appeared in the village. There were no lights or voices or unnatural events preceding their arrival. At first, the villagers had feared this to be another trick but as they tested the children who had no memory of the past five years and were blessed to ensure they were not the undead, the village folk welcomed them with open arms.
As time went on, however, the villagers who were happy to have their children returned to them grew worried and later turned paranoid regarding their behaviour.
Should the children not act different? Should they not be even more afraid of the dark? Should they like the dark? How could they act like their parents had not suffered for half a decade?
Such doubts began to plague the villagers and the children were watched with hawk like eyes. In the midst of this scrutiny and unaware of the events around them, the children grew up like any other. Yet, the doubts would not leave the villagers.
Their fear of their own blood grew and grew until it finally spilled over. Two years after the Return – as the villagers had begun to call it – all the adults of the village – without exception - gathered in the village square at night, sharpened their tools and walked into their homes before slaughtering their children like lambs. They went about the work with the same methodical precision one utilised to farm crops or gather the milk.
At dawn, the villagers realised over a dozen children had escaped into the woods surrounding them. In their silent frenzy, the villagers believed the children would soon spread their abnormality to their neighbours and chased them.
By the time the Lord of the region heard of the news and sent his troops to end the threat of the crazed villagers, over a dozen villages and three towns were cut down in cold blood. The troops of the Lord ended the lives of the villagers and when the troops themselves failed to return, the Lord entered the region where his troops were last spotted and simply disappeared along with his retinue.
Mundane and magical alike began considering the region north of the Danube and the Carpathians to be a cursed land as monsters began roaming the land and the legends grew and grew until the emerging magical governments banded together and sent a force to end the threat of the monsters only to find monsters returning the mutilated bodies of the forces stuck on large pikes and missives stating that the Carpathians were now off limits unless given expression by a single individual.
The Lord of the Outer Night.
Bucharest, Romania. September 27, 1995.
Tom Marvolo Riddle gazed at the suburban homes he was driving past, keeping a careful count in his head in order to locate the house he was looking for. He needed this meeting before he lost the opportunity and was forced to attempt the muddy, slimy, trap and monster-filled trek up that blasted mountain again.
He had spent the past two months on a quest to meet the present Lord of the Outer Night. And it was an honest to Merlin quest taken straight out of a novel. Just like those moronic heroes of a children's fairy tale, he had braved the dangerous trek up that blasted mountain in the Southern Carpathians all by his lonesome, facing everything from hinkypunks and red caps to werewolves and vampires, avoid innumerable traps before he could even reach the Castle courtyard located at the peak, his dragon hide armour set in tatters, his right side bloodied and ankle mangled from a werewolf attack with his hair caked in the ichor of some creature he could not even identify.
Upon his less than stellar arrival at the courtyard, a carriage taken straight out of Bram Stoker's novel picked him up and ferried him to the castle where human-looking manservants and maids led him to the massive guest parlour where he was seated with all the refreshments one could desire and surprised that not one of them blinked at him still holding his wand or the extreme regeneration he displayed. Though he was careful not to show any emotions. It would not do to tip his hand.
He spent the next thirty minutes trying to avoid staring at the most ostentatious baroque style furniture, paintings and decorations before the Seneschal arrived to inform Tom of his… reward.
Listening to the reward, Tom thanked Merlin for his skill in Occlumency for he would have otherwise… died trying to destroy the castle. At the very least, he would have lost his physical body.
All of those events three days ago led to Tom now parking his rental car in front of a completely unassuming home. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he adjusted his business suit, slicked his black hair to the side and shifted his tie a little to the right.
Nodding to himself, Tom left the car without bothering to lock it and walked up the path to the house with a frown. The closer he was to the door, the greater his frown until he scowled as he stood right in front of the door. He could feel no wards. There were no protective enchantments, charms or even a basic alert ward surrounding the house. While his ability to sense magic was not at the level of say… the Rosier family, he could certainly feel any magic present within a fifty yard radius and this house radiated nothing.
Clearing his face of all emotion, Tom pulled out the card. The Seneschal at the castle had given it to him after he had patiently explained that the Lord of the castle lived in a small house in the city and would welcome Tom if he arrived there in three days at seven in the evening. That had set off another silent tantrum in his mind.
Holding back the sigh at his thoughts, Tom verified the address, placed the card back in his pocket and pressed on the doorbell. A moment later, he felt surprise as the door opened because he did not even hear the tread of footsteps on the hardwood flooring.
Tom's surprise increased further at the sight before him. Standing before him was a young male who appeared to be in early twenties, was of average height, dark brown hair, sunshine yellow eyes, wore a blue T-shirt and torn jeans with a pink apron worn on top of his clothes with the words 'WORLD'S GREATEST ARTIST' emblazoned in white and stained in what appeared to be cooking oil.
Tom felt his instincts flare and he prepared to draw his wand when the male spoke with a perfect British accent.
"Hello there. You must be Tom Riddle. Come on in."
Tom displayed the extent of his confusion with a simple blink. Not bothering to correct the eccentric individual on his name, he nodded in thanks and stepped forward into the home and sensed the door close behind him as the young male waved him forward and into a small but comfortable living room with a set of refreshments on the table.
"Please. Take a seat." The young male in the ridiculous apron gestured towards one of the couches and occupied the armchair on the other side of the table.
Tom gingerly took the offered seat and blinked when a cup of strong black tea – his favourite blend - was placed before him.
"Have some tea."
Tom made no move to drink it.
The young male did not look insulted. "Well, Mister Riddle, I am Vlad Rada Dragulia."
A myriad number of thoughts passed through Tom's mind but he quickly suppressed them before they caused him to breach some unknown etiquette. Instead, he merely nodded his head. "Count Dragulia."
Dragulia considered him for a moment before nodding in what seemed to be approval. "I must say it was quite the surprise when my Seneschal called me. I rarely have any visitors."
Maybe because you put them through a gauntlet that only the most foolish or desperate would go through. Tom kept the snide thought to himself.
"But you did take a circuitous path to meet me, Mister Riddle. A simple perusal through the Romanian Phone Directory would have revealed my address. I would have posted a board on the mountain path but my overprotective minions refuse to let me in the name of my safety."
Bloody buggering maniac. Tom chose to smile. "I shall consider it on my next visit."
The Count nodded minutely. "Colour me surprised. I did not expect a… Dark Lord from the Isles to visit me. Rumours say you should be busy slaughtering your way through the new bloods or torturing your followers into submission."
Tom kept his smile. He could play this game. "It would be beneath your station to quote rumours, Count Dragulia. I only hope to change my homeland for the better."
Count Dragulia smiled and Tom did not understand why his instincts refused to relax. "Yes, I have heard of your… rebellion fifteen years ago. Personally, I am more interested your resurrection, Mister Riddle. It is not often one comes back from the dead without the assistance of the Night."
Tom Riddle merely nodded at the compliment.
"So tell me," The Count relaxed into the couch, an easy smile on his face. "What can the House of Wallachia do for you?"
The Dark Lord considered his words. It would not do to make an enemy of the Count. Hell he would rather face Dumbledore in an open battle to the death anyway.
Tom chose his words and tone with care. It would be easier to fight Dumbledore than to even survive the retaliation of Wallachia. "I wish to procure the resources of the House of Wallachia to support my cause."
The Count cleared his throat softly. "You mean you wish for my militia."
"The Hand of Samael, to be precise." Tom replied without hesitation. He could not lose the Lord's approval, even if he had no idea how he achieved it. "The indomitable strength of your militia will help my cause gain a quick victory against the British Ministry."
"Interesting." The Count replied slowly. For those who were dangerously familiar with the workings of the moonlit world, the House of Wallachia had a significant presence. The Count had, to his service, three different forces at his beck and all. The first were the Grigori, a vampire population with the physical power to defeat a mountain troll in direct combat. The second were Strigoi, undead souls raised from graves using necromancy and whose hunger for the living was unending – one could liken them to the dementors. The third were the notorious Hand of Samael, which comprised of the most powerful individuals in the service of the Count.
Count Dragulia yawned. "I assume that my wayward follower whispered the secrets of Wallachia in your ears."
Tom paused and took a shallow breath to fortify himself. "Indeed." Which was true, since the very same man who had once betrayed the Count's orders, and escaped to the Isles thirty years ago had been the one to inform him about the Hand of Samael. He could still remember the bloodied, mutilated and yet miraculously alive werewolf whom the world now feared as Fenrir Greyback.
"A pity it was," The Count made an odd noise, "to hear that he gave in to his primal self after betraying me, when he had been punished over his inability to perform the very act in the first place."
Tom wisely kept quiet.
"Interesting." The Count repeated. "So tell me, Lord Voldemort, what do you offer in return for the strength of my armies to shower upon your enemies?"
Tom pulled on his stoic mask. "What do you want in return, Count Dragulia?"
"Hmmm." The Count tapped his chin for a few seconds. "You will arrange a position for me at Hogwarts and you will provide me with all the necessary documents to ensure my identity remains a secret."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
The Count chortled. "You see, Mister Riddle, I am an adopted child. Long before I attained my current title, I used to live in the Isles with my family."
Tom took the appearance of the Count under consideration. Even without the undead factor, the man seemed to be in his twenties, though it was difficult to pin an exact age to the man's appearance. "That was a surprising revelation. When... was that?"
"Oh, it feels like a hundred years ago." The Count replied airily.
"So what brings you back?"
The Count smiled. "Well my family still lives there. My brother is wandering around there as well, I believe…" He paused for a moment. "My real brother that is. I occasionally keep tabs on him and his… activities, and I fear he might have gotten himself in a bit of a… bind."
Tom raised an eyebrow. While he was not a master of necromancy, he knew enough to understand the symbolism of terms like binds when used in casual conversation. Especially if the person using it is an undead from a family versed in Necromancy.
"You speak of it like it is a common occurrence."
"Well…" The Count drawled. "He's… complicated. Defiant, ill-mannered, and a little… temperamental." He lit a cigarette. "See, although we b0th share the same father… my brother resents him deeply, never felt like he… belonged." He chuckled. "All told, he has a long history of getting himself into trouble."
"And you have a history of breaking him out of it." Tom mused, inwardly contemplating the origins of the present Count of Wallachia.
"Well… sometimes its honey, sometimes its vinegar." The Count replied easily, sinking back into the couch.
"I am sure… that a man like you could have driven a harder bargain, Count Dragulia." Tom replied with a slight playful tone inject into his voice. "Surely someone of your means could easily afford an official cover."
"You'd be surprised." The Count replied, more affably than Tom was comfortable with. "However, that is exactly what I demand in return for lending my army for a period of…?"
"Three years."
"Three years." The Count repeated in easy compliance. "However, I must warn you that I am not terribly fond of torture and death and as such, I would prefer it if you could keep your… butcher-fest out of my… activities and residence."
Tom understood the message. Hogwarts would remain free of any kind of skirmish for the near future.
"If I might ask… why Hogwarts? Surely you would have better ways to spend your time than… be in the presence of annoying children?"
The Count beamed. "You never know who among them attract your attention. From what I know of my brother, he found a friendship that allowed him to gain and lose the world." He paused, his expression turning a little trite. "Besides, it's been ages since I stepped out of these lands. I do say a vacation is in order."
Tom finally understood why his instincts continued to scream at him and the reason people in the know avoided dealing with the Count. The Count felt too… mundane, too affable and too frickin' approachable in plain contrast to the power he wielded. He could sense nothing from the man and that had his estimation of the Count rise sharply.
For a moment, he wondered if he had gained or lost in his endeavour to gain the support he needed to bring victory to his cause.
"Very well, my Count." Tom stood up from the couch, gathering himself. "I shall make arrangements immediately. Please look forward for an owl."
The Count laughed. "It'll be funny … seeing an owl of all things flying through these dark skies. And do remember, Mister Riddle, I am going to Britain because you invited me in."
Tom found the statement to be rather disconcerting but held up from asking any further explanation.
Meanwhile at Black Manor. September 29, 1995.
Sirius Black was worried at the moment. It was the exact same feeling he had when the idea hit him and ever since, doubts and worry about the involved party's reactions plagued him. Still, this needed to be done. So, he had sucked in all his anxiety, dropped Ares off at the entrance to Hogwarts – His son had argued for the gates but Sirius had overruled him – and organised the meeting he currently held in the Lord's study of Black Manor. It consisted of him behind the desk, the portrait of his grandfather, his grandaunt and his son's tutor- No, it was master now that he knew the truth, a truth for which he had yet to find the time to chew Ares out for.
"When you mentioned holding a meeting Lord Black, facing the entire Black family was not a possibility I considered." Perenelle's tone was even and betrayed none of her emotions on the matter.
"Lady Flamel, I would agree that it must look like subterfuge," Sirius's tone was serious. "but the only person who could be blamed for the entire mess was you and your secretive attempts at performing rituals with My Son and Heir." He was near snarling by the end.
"Let it go, Sirius." The portrait of Arcturus spoke in his usual orotund voice. "You cannot go back in time and fix what you lost. Learn to focus on the present. Those rituals helped my grandson survive the attempt on his life and save your life as well." Eyes of hardened steel fell on Perenelle. "I believe Lady Flamel is an important ally since it was her apprentice who nearly died. I am sure she is quite invested in Ares being a part of the living."
Perenelle gave a cold smile. "You have a way with words, Lord Black. Why, I do believe you could make even coercion look like an act of sacrifice."
The portrait chuckled, unoffended by her words. "Hardly, Lady Flamel. I have not had the opportunity to try such a tactic. Perhaps we could-"
"Return to the issue at hand?" Cassiopeia interrupted, her posture radiating just how pleased she was with the issue at hand.
"Yes." Sirius agreed. "Now Lady Flamel, if you would explain exactly why my son is involved in rituals?" He knew it did not sound like a question.
Perenelle gave him a sharp glance, before turning towards Cassiopeia. Taking a moment to order her thoughts, she began speaking. "Ever since Ares learned of his Slytherin heritage and the parasitic nature of the Family Magic, he began pushing the boundaries of accepted magical research and was learning fields of magic that most witches and wizards would not touch with a ten foot wand." A smile played on her lips. "Most of his time as my apprentice has been spent in pursuit of the same. All of his research into rituals and the esoteric arts has been to assimilate the Slytherin Magic before it assimilates him."
"Two years ago, Ares spoke to me in confidence and informed me of an anomaly he noticed in his magic. I would have dismissed the subject if not for his demonstration. It was then I believed that the infamous Halloween night left Ares with more than a mere scar."
Sirius looked confused. "Halloween? Is it about his- I mean, I know what happened with-" His face darkened, "The theories about that night are-"
"Are real. At the very least, the most important point shared by all of them is singularly true." Perenelle interrupted.
Sirius scoffed. "Lady Flamel, I accept that you are the leading expert in your fields of study but the idea of my son surviving the Killing Curse at fifteen months of age is a ludicrous notion at best."
"A theory that the entire continent accepts?" Cassiopeia stressed.
"Repeating a lie one hundred times does not make it the truth, Aunt Cassie." Sirius refuted.
"No, it does not. However, there are people who can test such a ludicrous theory and not all of them are part of the common rabble." Cassiopeia pointed out.
"How are they going to test such a theory? Find an infant and ca-" Sirius felt his throat parch at the expression on Cassiopeia's face. "Aunt Cassie, what exactly did you do?"
"I did nothing." Cassiopeia refuted in a small voice. "Nothing that led to any harm."
"But what did-?"
"I believe," Perenelle interrupted sternly, "that I have yet to state the anomaly Ares confided about."
There was silence in the room.
Perenelle frowned. "As Miss Black here might suggest, there is indeed, a justified explanation to the theory of the Boy-Who-Lived. I believe, if you would ask your son, Lord Black, he could substantial proof that he was, in fact, struck by a killing curse cast by Voldemort."
"I do know about the protective enchantments Lily set up, Lady Flamel." Sirius was harsh. He did not want to even entertain the possibility of-
"If you would allow her to complete her explanation, Sirius!" Arcturus did not raise his voice but the sheer presence of the portrait made it seem unnaturally loud.
Sirius glared at the portrait.
Perenelle shifted in her seat to get more comfortable. "I am sure that the late Lily Potter must have done everything she could to protect her son. Any proper mother would."
The odd turn of phrase interested the three Blacks but they chose to hold their tongues.
"I have personally investigated every single piece of evidence that could be obtained from that infamous Halloween. I've performed as many calculations as necessary to verify the claims. To my utter disappointment and surprise, my conclusions on the matter are ambiguous. I do not believe that Lily Potter's protections had any hand in the anomaly in concern."
Cassiopeia exchanged a glance with Perenelle and she knew what the discussion was leading to.
"What do you mean her protections had no hand in it?" Sirius retorted. "How could it not have a hand in what's affecting Ares?"
Perenelle scoffed. "My inferences are simple, Lord Black. Lily Potter created a rudimentary but effective sacrificial ritual that would protect her son by using her life source as the fuel. A life for a life. A crude but workable method. But it would not be enough to perform the deed everyone says Ares did that night."
"I believe there was an unexpected element added to the mother's sacrifice. Let's call it the Catalyst. It was the Catalyst that helped draw on the magic in infant Ares, to empower the sacrificial protections and was responsible for saving his life."
"Could it have been James?" Cassiopeia interrupted.
"No!" Sirius answered firmly. "James… James was still alive when I entered the cottage. The ritual couldn't have used him as a sacrifice."
"I never said it was another sacrifice, Miss Black." Perenelle returned smoothly. "The Catalyst was responsible for awakening the latent Family Magics present within your son, the combined might of which helped him survive the Killing Curse."
"But Lily's protection-"
"Would not have stopped an Unforgivable, Lord Black." Perenelle interrupted, her tone reminiscent of the manner in which one spoke to toddlers. "If Lily Potter's ritual worked exactly as it was intended, I believe Voldemort would have been incinerated the moment he came in physical contact with the infant." A cold smirk rose on her lips. "The same cannot be said for the killing curse."
Sirius and Arcturus's portrait remained silent while Cassiopeia took on a calculating gleam.
"Rituals are complicated instruments. The first rule of rituals is 'Assume nothing', because we are never sure of the impact of all the elements present within the circle. It is quite improbable to believe that Lily Potter's sacrifice has given Ares unassailable protection against Voldemort. Even if my inference is false and Ares is, in fact, invincible against Voldemort, all it would take is a single fatal hit from anyone else to kill him?" Perenelle tilted her head with a coy smile. "Or have you missed recent events?"
Sirius's eyes twitched dangerously at the comment.
Perenelle's voice turned harsh. "Life does not act like the plays in theatres, Lord Black. The notion that a single infant wizard gained immunity to one of the darkest curses ever created because his mother sacrificed her life for him belongs to the realm of fairy tales."
"Lily Potter was not a ritual mistress nor could she have possessed enough knowledge of the esoteric arts to even contemplate such an action. I assure you, if she was capable of performing what you believed she was capable of, the world would be shorter by one grave."
That shut everybody up.
"Please continue." Arcturus nodded.
Perenelle stared at the portrait for a while before she continued. "My conclusion is that the Killing Curse did touch Ares - even if it was for a miniscule length of time, but touch it did before the Family Magics responded to his distress, going so far as to repel the entire force of the spell back at Voldemort." She paused again. "The protection was not perfect and the rebounded curse left its mark."
"The intent of murder." Cassiopeia spoke in a small voice.
"So…." Perenelle stared at the Dark Arts mistress. "You know."
"What is she talking about, Aunt Cassie?" Sirius replied throatily.
Looking at the two people and portrait around her, Cassiopeia sighed. "When he desires to, Ares can project the intent of murder through the form of his aura." The words left her mouth with the weight of steel. "It is not unlike the aura projected by powerful witches and wizards to radiate their presence. Unfortunately, in the case of my nephew, his aura contains the intent of murder. I theorised that it must have been the residual energies of the curse from that Halloween night and Lady Flamel just confirmed my fears. Ares can utilise his aura to-"
"He can kill with a touch." Arcturus realized in awe and burgeoning horror.
Sirius stared at his aunt as the implications hit him. His son, his heir, his Ares had been hiding this information from him for years. As his mind churned in anger, sorrow and guilt, all the missing pieces regarding his son fell into place. The boy's focused determination in growing powerful, his fear of turning into a murderous Dark Lord, his concerns over the Slytherin magic consuming him… It was no wonder Ares hid the information from him. It was probably the boy's misguided attempt at keeping him from worrying any further.
The next chance he got, Sirius was going to clobber his son into the ground before he explained to Ares that it was the father's duty to worry about the son and not the other way around. Cassiopeia would even help him on that particular point.
"Yes," Perenelle agreed solemnly. "Should he wish to, Ares can indeed kill with a mere touch."
Sirius felt something shatter inside him. "How long have you known this, Aunt Cassie?"
"Six months after I began teaching Ares." Cassiopeia replied softly, her countenance paling at Sirius's expression. "Sirius?" Her entire posture radiated worry.
Letting out a brief sigh, the Lord of Black returned a practiced smile. "I am okay." Turning to Perenelle, he beckoned her to continue.
"It took me weeks to verify the claim. Your son was rather insistent that I be thorough in my analysis. Not that I could be anything less given the situation." Perenelle looked Sirius in the eye, her gaze hard. "It was during my analysis of his aura that I discovered the soul shard inside him."
"The WHAT?" Arcturus bellowed.
Cassiopeia looked ready to faint.
Sirius returned Perenelle's gaze in grim desperation.
"His soul…" Perenelle stated, her eyes never leaving Sirius. "Ares has a foreign soul shard – one likely belonging to Voldemort – present within him." She gave the uninformed Blacks a moment to process the words and express their outrage in suitable terms. "I also discovered the containment matrix holding the shard and its influence at bay. I assume Lord Black took the proper precautions."
"My grandson has a HORCRUX in him?" Arcturus was outraged. "How long have you known this important piece of information, Sirius!?"
"Since the night it all happened." Sirius replied in monotone. "After I retrieved Ares from the cottage, I went straight to Gringotts and requested aid from the goblins. The goblin healers discovered the shard during the course of their treatment and informed me after placing the shard into the containment matrix Lady Flamel's talking about. With their help, I've been looking for a way to remove that abomination since." Feeling the fatigue of all his years of searching for answers, he slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes to remove the gritty feeling. "…I take Ares for an annual visit to the goblins to ensure the containment hasn't eroded."
"And when were you going to inform us?" Cassiopeia snarled.
"Fat lot of good that would have done." Sirius retorted with equal anger. "You think that you could have done something about it when the most accomplished healers threw their hands up?" A growl slipped past his lips "I might have shared my information if you were more forthcoming about who sent you here all those years ago."
Cassiopeia glowered.
"It was only when she," Sirius jerked his head towards Perenelle, "slipped up and told me that my son was hiding information from me and performing rituals without my knowledge that I convinced her to attend this meeting."
"Only you could call strong-arming as convincing, Lord Black." Perenelle raised an elegant eyebrow. "Nevertheless, it is essential that all of you understand that Ares is an impossibility… Rather, it would be precise in saying that the presence of a horcrux in Ares is an improbability that should not have occurred at all."
"What do you mean?" Arcturus asked with a tone that said he really did not wish to know.
"In simple terms, the concept of a human horcrux is an antithesis to the reason a horcrux is created." Sirius's answer shocked everyone into silence though Perenelle stared at him with a calculative gleam.
"Contrary to popular belief, the idea that a soul can be split into pieces is utterly false. One cannot split their soul no matter what Magick Moste Evile and other vile works or healers would lead you to believe. A horcrux is not a soul shard split by committing murder. If that is all that was needed, we would have hundreds of immortal psychopaths raining around like Solstice gifts."
"You are very knowledgeable on the subject, Lord Black." Perenelle commented in curiosity.
Sirius's answer was simple. "I need to be."
"If a horcrux is not a soul shard and a soul cannot be split, then what is sitting in my grandson?" Arcturus really wanted to bash his elder grandson over the head for hiding the information from him. Thanks to his status as a portrait, he settled for glowering.
Sirius opened his mouth to throw out an answer but quickly sealed his lips. Carefully considering his answer, he spoke in a firm and clear tone of voice. "Everyone single human – magical or mundane – possess a soul. Every single soul is attached to the body they inhabit by… the word I found to describe them was threads. You see, each soul is fused to a body by a series of threads much like a hand controlled puppet." His expression turned grim. "Death occurs when the threads connecting the soul and body are severed. The Killing Curse induces death by severing the threads in a quick and efficient manner. The horcrux ritual was designed to be a form of insurance against such events but it was not bereft of costs."
Sirius had the hyper focused attention of every individual – living and inanimate – present in the room.
"The horcrux ritual is not unlike… Lily's." Sirius spoke of the comparison with distaste. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat." It works on the concept of the sacrifice but unlike the protection ritual, a horcrux requires the sacrifice of a victim through cold-blooded murder." He rubbed his eyes again when he felt a wet film coating them. "When a person dies and their… soul threads are severed, residual energies are released that soon imprint themselves on their environment if enough ambient magic is present within the region or a large number of deaths occur in succession or if the death is extremely violating to the soul."
"When the Killing Curse severs the threads of the chosen victim, the caster, using a pre-prepared necromantic ritual, harnesses these residual energies to create artificial threads tying his soul to a chosen container with the extra requirement that the container must be a suitably powerful magical object. Anything less and the ritual will fail."
"That's hardly the whole picture, is it?" Cassiopeia asked.
"Hardly." Sirius snorted. "Any form of alteration involving soul magic obeys the laws of equivalence, Aunt Cassie."
Cassiopeia's eyes widened in horror as realisation hit her.
Sirius assumed a savage grin. "To form artificial threads between a soul and a container, an equal number of threads must be severed between the body and soul. So, anyone performing it would experience-"
"Death." Cassiopeia whispered in horror.
"Right." Sirius agreed in a whisper. "To reach heaven, one must walk through Hell. To be immortal, one must first experience death."
None of the room's inhabitants spoke a word.
"It takes an irrational fear of Death, a concise and unshakeable belief that there is indeed nothing, nothing worse than dying, a belief that one would not hesitate to do anything, anything in order to escape from Death… to perform the ritual successfully." Sirius stated. "The newly severed threads then latch into the chosen container sanctified for the ritual. That," Sirius stated with a tone of finality, "is how a horcrux is made."
Arcturus mulled over the information with a scowl. "I believe I understand the magnitude of the ritual but why is a human horcrux an-"
"Antithesis?" Sirius filled in before the portrait could complete his question. "Because, unlike the threads that bind a soul to the mortal shell, the threads that latch to a magical object via the power of the ritual are… altered beyond recognition. These threads… they manifest a pseudo soul inside the magical artefact, something that Magic Moste Evile calls a soul shard, a voracious, ever-hungry, malicious abomination that will not stop until the ambient magic of the container is completely under its control. Relentless, absolute control."
"I believe the Dark Lord Ekrizdis performed the very antithesis you speak." Perenelle threw in her explanation. "He attempted to create human horcruxes as a means of creating an army composed entirely of himself. Needless to say, the attempt failed." She paused for a second. "The soul shards consumed the host souls of the victims, mutilating their very essence, until the host soul succumbed to the soul shard. The shards continued to mutate their victims until what remained became just as malicious as the horcrux itself. A parasite that fed on ambient magic and, more importantly, souls."
She paused as she looked at the horrified faces, hiding a smirk at the dawning light in Cassiopeia's eyes. "Yes, Miss Black. Dementors."
Meanwhile at Hogwarts.
Hermione Granger walked into the Hogwarts library right after dinner, a routine of her schedule ever since she first set foot in Hogwarts. As she watched the flying books in fascination, she smiled in remembrance of the first magical visit to her home.
Professor McGonagall had visited her home and informed her that she was a withc and the first thing Hermione felt was elation quickly followed by an almost vindictive glee. All those little events that she could never explain began making sense when the Professor revealed the existence of magic – a wonderful, marvellous, frightening force of nature that felt like second nature to her. She had always known, in the deepest trenches of her heart, that she was special but to finally realise all the impossible things she performed was because she was special, was better than her peers and more brilliant was amazing. It certainly explained why all those idiots bullying her experienced… accidents.
A book zipping past her head caused Hermione's shift to reflex, an action that darkened her mood when she sighted a couple of slytherins talking behind a silencing ward.
Hogwarts had not proven to be the utopia she had built in her mind. The students were just as stupid and biased and foolish as her former school. The bullies in Hogwarts were even worse because they all had magic and could use potions and spells and a hundred other things that Hermione called dangerous and they called pranks.
Hermione sighed as she entered the row she needed and began to peruse for the book she needed. Her thoughts were getting depressing these days. Oh, she did not always feel this way. It was just that school had become unbearable since the semester had begun. To be more accurate, the students had become more irritating than she could have ever expected.
The rumours had begun swirling madly the moment Harry Pot- Ares Black's name had echoed through the Great Hall during the Annual Sorting Ceremony. Her dorm mates – Parvati and Lavender most of all – had begun gossiping about the boy being trained by all manner of beats and powerful figures and was back because he was going to face Voldemort in some kind of Duel-to-the-death. She would have rolled her eyes if not for Ronald 'Moron' Weasley shouting at everyone within earshot at the Gryffindor table that Ares Black was a slimy snake who betrayed Britain and his parents and was going to become the next Dark Lord.
It had become worse over the next two days when the Black had transformed into a lion and scared the Moron to within an inch of his life. She had found the boy's animagus ability had angered and fascinated her and she had resolved to talk to him soon but not before she had giggled at the state of the Moron. The idiotic git deserved it for bullying her.
Then there was the entire fiasco with Daphne where she had tried to learn more Black only to find very little before she had to leave. Having a boy of her age surpass her with little effort grated on her nerves but she had come to terms with it. Besides, her condescending nature allowed her to get away with questions that would have otherwise raised flags with the wrong people. It was so useful to have a mask some days.
A day had passed after her attempt to extract information from Daphne before Black was arrested for Line Theft and was put on trial before the Wizengamot. None of the students had a detailed account of the events and she was not friends if anybody who did. However, she did notice Malfoy running around with a dark cloud hovering over his head and being an even greater bully than usual, a behaviour Moron had adopted in some kind of sick competition.
As she did every time her thoughts ended with her biggest tormentors, Hermione silently thanked the troll incident on Halloween. Sure, she had ended up in a coma for three weeks but that event had helped shape her into the teenager she was.
"Are you going to take that book out?"
The unexpected voice shook Hermione out of her thoughts, causing her head to whiplash to the left to find the source of the dozens of rumours swirling around Hogwarts leaning on the shelf by his shoulder. The Lord Slytherin – according to the Daily Prophet – who had survived an assassination attempt on his life was looking at her with a grin that felt nice.
"Harry-"
"Ares." The boy corrected her in reflex.
"Ares." Hermione repeated.
The boy tilted his head a little, like he was waiting for something
Hermione paused for a moment, before the thought hit her. "Right, err… My name's Hermione Granger."
"Ares James Black." The boy flashed a wry grin. "Now, do you want to take that book?" he nodded towards the tome still half-plucked from the shelf.
Turning back to the shelf, Hermione found her hand holding a book that was pulled halfway out of the shelf. "Oh." She had been too lost in thought and now she was flustered. It was… uncommon for people to talk to her and Slytherins simply avoided her like she was a plague. Now, to have the source of her fascination, rumour-induced migraine and a Slytherin talk to her had thrown her off balance.
A cough from Black shook Hermione out of her thoughts and she pulled the book towards herself. Remembering the question posed her, she replied, "I'm sorry if you wanted to borrow the book but I need it for an assignment."
"If you don't mind," Ares still had a smile, "could you tell me what the assignment is?"
Hermione would have shot him down but the boy had proven to be really good at magic and she wanted to more about him. She had the opportunity to probe his knowledge and knew she was not going to waste it. "I need to inscribe a six foot parchment on the Draught of Living Death and six alterations that could be made to the potion without affecting the potion's shelf life."
Ares mused loudly. "Draught of Living Death, eh?"
Hermione nodded briskly.
"Eh…." Ares rubbed the hairs on the back of his head and gave her a lop-sided grin. "I kind of needed that book for some notes. I've been away for a while as you know and…." He paused for a moment. "Let's trade. I'm pretty sure I know more about the Draught than the book you're holding. I'll help you finish your assignment within the next hour and I can take the book in return."
Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise and cut down her usual answer to such statements from his peers. "Uh… sure."
"Great." Ares grinned.
Back at Black Manor.
"De… mentors?" Sirius felt faint.
Cassiopeia looked like she would explode in fury while Arcturus was grim.
"Dementors." Perenelle repeated. "In fact, the length of time Ares has managed to stay human is staggering for a human horcrux. The clones of Ekrizdis barely lasted months. I believe it is the combination of Lily Potter's protection combined with his Family Magics and the containment matrix which is keeping the soul shard from turning Ares into those soul devouring abominations."
"I shudder to even imagine what would have happened if the healers had not found-" Cassiopeia began, but Perenelle waved her objection away.
"Even in that situation, I believe the soul shard would merely be more communicative to the boy, inducing Voldemort's influence and turning him into a high functioning psychopath with a proclivity for torturing one's underlings."
"Thank you for that disgusting mental image, Lady Flamel." Arcturus spat distastefully.
"I was just clarifying that the boy's chances of turning into a dementor, at the moment if the variables involved remain unchanging, are next to none." Perenelle shrugged with a grace that briefly mesmerised Sirius before he shook it off. "I would believe it prudent to inform you that a dementor's influence on Ares would be even worse than a witch of wizard with no willpower due to his… status. I dare say that those abominations might consider Ares to be unnatural."
"Right." Sirius had had enough. "While I do believe that my son's luck at avoiding the fate of a dementor or a murderous psychopath and gaining the ability to give a Kiss of death is important, we need to get back to the point we need to discuss."
Perenelle and Cassiopeia had identical frowns of confusion.
Sirius sighed. "What steps do we need to take to prevent Ares from becoming… whatever he might become?"
"I thought you were doing a fair job behind everyone's backs." Cassiopeia snarked.
"I certainly do not intend to keep my son as a patient for the rest of his life, Aunt Cassie. I can't keep worrying about my son turning into… that horcrux when I look away." Sirius fumed. "You could do better than to accuse me of being a bastard."
"That is enough." Arcturus's voice boomed. "We need to find solutions. Not quibble for details like children."
Perenelle intervened before grandson and great-aunt devolved into an argument that gave her a migraine. "I was able to formulate a path that would, in theory, purge the negative aspects of the soul shard while allowing Ares to gain from the ordeal."
"The rituals?" Sirius asked pointedly.
Perenelle pursed her lips in irritation. "After a fashion, yes. The rituals use the unique ingredients present within Ares to give him the edge he needs to purge himself of the soul shard."
"How?" Cassiopeia asked, intrigued.
Perenelle gave the Blacks a pointed look. "This discussion still lies under the secrecy vows we took at the star of this meeting?"
Arcturus nodded.
Perenelle leaned back in her chair. "Ares shall conduct three rituals, all of which are amalgamations of seven rituals each combined by the sheer probabilities enhanced by Parseltongue. The language of the serpents would allow the three individual rituals into act as a unified system empowered by the ancient language."
"Interesting." Arcturus commented. "Parseltongue is native to the Slytherin line. I am correct in assuming that you are invoking the Slytherin Family Magic without the Black or Potter Family Magics?"
"In essence, correct." Perenelle spoke in a no-nonsense tone. "Languages utilised to perform magic are more powerful than those which are not. It is also a known fact that the older the language is, the greater the potential within. The language of the serpents is one of the most ancient tongues and is extremely effective in Runic Thaumaturgy. I am utilising the inherent potential within the language to empower three rituals – one each for the body, mind and soul – though diving rituals for the latter two is a work in progress."
"The mind and the soul?" Cassiopeia asked in confirmation.
Perenelle nodded. "Diving rituals for the mind and soul must be performed with absolute precision with no variable left to chance. There are reasons why there are hundreds of rituals to enhance one's physical and magical abilities yet barely a dozen for the mind and soul."
"… I understand." Arcturus conceded, "Please feel free to ask for any help if you need it. We consider your aide as a debt to the House of Black."
"Your support is appreciated but unnecessary." Perenelle replied smoothly. "Everything I am currently performing for Ares is covered by the Master-Apprenticeship contract. Although I might take you up on your offer in case I require certain… rare ingredients."
"Of course." Arcturus returned in a cold tone, wondering about the conditions of the contract Ares held with Perenelle Flamel.
Cassiopeia was intrigued by the sheer complexity of the solution being utilised by Ares and Perenelle. "At the moment, I am far more interested in the ritual Ares performed under your watch. How did you get him to commit to the ritual?"
"I did not make him do anything." Perenelle spoke with the biting chill of a blizzard. "Ares Black made the decision on his own terms."
"Semantics." Cassiopeia waved her wand in dismissal to the older witch's annoyance.
Perenelle suppressed the urge to do… one of the nastier things she had grown up performing in another life. "The ritual Ares performed has a number of effects on his person and not all of them are immediately visible or can be detected unless the right situation occurs. You have already witnessed his rapid rejuvenation. Expect reinforcement of his physical abilities though I cannot estimate the impact on his animagus form."
"You have yet to mention the most important part of the rituals." Cassiopeia spoke out, much to the other witch's irritation.
"And what have I withheld, Miss Black?"
"The law of equivalence." Cassiopeia stated in a tone of steel. "Everything demands a sacrifice. Considering that a part of the intended sacrifice is wasted in the process of invoking the ritual, it is common theory that the results are always less than the sacrifice performed to attain them."
"And?" Perenelle really wished people could just get to the point.
"Higher rejuvenation ability, greater reinforcement, development of his animagus self and several abilities that are yet to be displayed…" Cassiopeia paused, "I wish to know what my grand-nephew is sacrificing to obtain the abilities."
A cold shudder ran down Sirius's spine.
"Lady Flamel?" Arcturus prodded.
Perenelle took a deep breath. "His sacrifice is a single spell."
The three Blacks blinked, the same thought running through their minds. WHAT!?
"My contract with Ares requires me to teach him everything he requires to surpass the Serpent Lords of old and in return, he shall pay me with a single spell." Perenelle's smile sent a shudder down the spines of all the people in the room. "The same spell would also fulfil the requirements of all the three rituals and have enough left over for another seven."
"What do you mean?" Sirius asked, not hiding the level of discomfort he felt at the idea of such a spell being cast by his son, especially when he had no idea of the costs involved. There were spells out there that would sacrifice a person's entire being in return for casting them."
Perenelle looked the portrait of Arcturus Black in the eye and whispered, "If you need to ask, you shall never know. If you know, you need only ask."
The portrait paled with mind-numbing horror as it whispered in a broken voice. "No…"
The Hogwarts Library. October 1, 1995.
Hermione acknowledged that any student who spent years in Hogwarts soon became inured to the strangest of things. The list of things which no longer bothered her included moving staircases, talking portraits, mischievous poltergeists and an architectural layout taken straight out of an Escher painting.
After the first time she had lost her way to class, Hermione had made it her mission to map the school in its entirety. A month into the task, the realisation that she had sorely underestimated her task hit her with the force of a fast moving truck. Fortunately, she was not one to balk at hard work and her continued effort paid off in spades, providing her with memorable experiences like a room in the southern corridor of the fourth floor which changed colours every month or the sweet love story shared by the Bloody Baron and another ghost she later learnt was the Grey Lady or migraine inducing experiences like the lone staircase on the eastern corridor of the second floor connecting to the Barnabas the Barmy Tapestry on the Seventh floor.
She had plenty of strange experiences but this evening took the cake for the strangest. It was not the presence of an entire shelf floating above her head or the books that seemed to form strange patterns like four dimensional diagrams.
No, it was the boy talking to her of his own volition and not displaying a single iota of irritation or anger at her questions or tone of condescension for the past thirty minutes.
"This equation explains exactly why the Draught works the way it does." Ares pointed to the open book on the table before Hermione. "See here. That's what the potions uses to cast the illusion on the mind, tricking it into a long term coma. I believe the muggles call it brain-death."
Hermione blinked at the words and refocused her attention on the papers she held. "So the draught pulls a mickey on the human mind?"
Ares grinned. "Something like that. Once it's done pulling the mickey, it induces the biological equivalent of a stasis charm. The combination is potent enough that unless you've got some really good diagnostic charms, you won't find any difference between the victim and the dead."
Nodding in response, Hermione took a few minutes to finish the last three inches of her assignment.
Ares perused the text he borrowed with sharp eyes.
"Done." Hermione signed her work, cast a drying charm and rolled up the parchment before tying it with a length of rope. "Thank you for helping me, Ares."
Ares shrugged. "You're welcome."
Hermione stared at the boy in open curiosity. She did not need to disguise it when Ares knew every student in Hogwarts was interested in the new Lord Slytherin. "You did know an awful lot about the draught."
Ares smiled. "Well, I love to experiment with anything that has magic stamped on it. I love the feeling of success when an experiment comes out right. I absolutely loved that one time where Matty helped me with free Fien-" His smile became strained. "Err… I love to experiment." He knew the finish was lame.
Hermione chuckled. "So why are you in the library?"
"Huh?" Ares really needed to kick himself for the universal boyish response.
Hermione gestured around herself. "From what little goes on the school rumour mill, you always spend time with your friends, mainly Greengrass and Davis for the few days you were at school. So, I'm just wondering where they're absent."
"Oh, so you were checking me out, Miss Granger?" Ares spoke with a haughty tone with his nose pointed up in the manner of a snob.
"You're not that good looking." Hermione retorted.
"Oh?" Ares's eyes took on a calculative gleam that anyone who knew Perenelle Flamel would recognise. "Pray tell, how good looking would I have to be to get you to stare?"
"Hmm…" Hermione put her hand on her chin in mock thought. It was nice to talk to someone who did not find her annoying and was willing to have an intelligent conversation. "Well… you've already got my dorm mates fantasizing about you." She nearly chuckled at the mortified expression on his face. "Buuuut if you wanted my interest, you could try turning yourself into a book."
"I'm insulted." Ares held a hand dramatically to his chest. "I can't believe that you think these half-baked plants are worth more than me. Why I ought to-" The rest of his response went unsaid when he felt the communication mirror in his pocket vibrate. "Excuse me."
Ares stepped away from the table, cast a privacy ward around himself and pulled out the mirror to activate it.
Hermione noticed the communication mirror and did not try to listen knowing the privacy ward would prevent her eavesdropping. After a few minutes where she organised the books on the table, she noticed Ares pocketing the mirror and dropping the privacy ward.
Taking his seat at the table, Ares replied in an apologetic tone, "Sorry about that."
"It was not a problem." Hermione knew better than to pry. It was one of the more conditioned responses she had developed over the years.
"Where were we?"
"You were flirting with me without answering my original question." Hermione deadpanned.
Ares rubbed the back of his neck. "Daphne's mad at me because I sort of ignored her for a while."
"Ignored her?" Hermione was curious now. It was rumoured that Ares and Greengrass were in a relationship and Parvati and Lavender were theorising about them so much that even Hermione was now interested in the matter, if only a little.
Ares winced at her question. "You heard about the little altercation at the Ministry I had?"
Hermione blinked. Little altercation? Seriously? Was Ares dropped on his head? "I read you were involved in a duel with a Wizengamot Lord." Best not to start with the assassination.
Ares snorted. "Bulstrode's no Lord. He's just a Death eater lackey who didn't have an ounce of planning ability in him. No, I was referring to the-"
"Assassination." Hermione finished for him. "Yes, I read all about it. The Daily Prophet does like to rave and rant about you."
It was an understatement. Ever since the assassination attempt, there had been a flurry of articles in the Daily Prophet about Ares Black, a behaviour that continued for the better part of two weeks. She faintly remembered an article even in today's paper that spoke about some miraculous recovery. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together understood that Rita Skeeter was having a hard time trying to plant negative impressions about Ares Black while ensuring she did not toe the line about a Lord.
"They do, don't they?" Ares chuckled. He had made it a point to get the Daily Prophet even when he was living in Bulgaria. Instant apparation certainly made distances less meaningful for the magical world. He had a good time chuckling over what Rita Skeeter thought of as "An unexpected turn of events by which the young Lord was able to miraculously recover from the highly potent venom, though healers are not very… open about Harry Potter's medical situation and his ability to heal. Speculation is rampant and sources tell me that dangerous methods were involved…"
The paper certainly revealed Rita's barely concealed efforts at trying to pin a darker shade on him while attempting to not gain the wrath of the general population which was, at the moment, filled with sympathy for the new Lord of Slytherin who had shown himself noble in character and magnanimous in victory.
Ares smiled. "Any way, I got injured, ended up in the hospital and then spent the past two weeks avoiding my girlfriend. So, she's really mad at me and I still need to find a proper apology."
Hermione grinned, happy that she did not have to deal with the woes of a relationship. "I hope you find it soon before the hexing starts."
Ares winced. "I will." Taking a moment to consider his question, he asked, "Hermione, do you mind if I ask you a question? If you don't want to answer, I won't bring it up."
Hermione frowned but decided there was no harm in listening to the question. "Okay. You can ask me."
Ares was pensive. "I heard of your… feud with Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley."
Hermione pursed her lips. "I have to deal with Malfoy and Moron on a daily basis, yes."
"Moron?"
Hermione nodded. "It fits the red haired idiot to a tee."
Ares smiled. 'Why doesn't Malfoy have a nickname?"
"I believe the word Malfoy means 'Brute, selfish, arrogant ferret of a bastard'."
Ares gave a small grin. "I also heard you had an altercation of your own with Draco Malfoy this morning."
Hermione's countenance darkened. While she did not know the entire fiasco surrounding the Black Lordship, she had learned enough to know that Malfoy and his family had taken a heavy hit in social standing. It would certainly explain Malfoy's ridiculous tantrums over the past few weeks and why he had targeted the 'little mudblood' this morning, burning all her painstakingly prepared notes, homework and bag. It was why she was in the library in the first place.
She shook her head. "It was just a nuisance. Nothing to worry about." Collecting her parchments, she was about wish Ares a good night when the thought struck her. "The stasis function of the Draught, does it apply to active and bleeding wounds?"
Ares raised an eyebrow.
"I'm just wondering if the Draught could be used to slow down internal haemorrhage issues as well, since Madam Pomfrey mentioned that the usual stasis charms don't work on such wounds."
Ares sat unblinking for a moment. "I am reliably certain that it would work on internal haemorrhage, though I admit I haven't quite… treated such a condition with the Draught of the Living Death. There are better spells out there, you know?"
Hermione nodded. "Thank you for that, Ares." Hesitating, she spoke a quiet tone. "I guess I'll be seeing around, then?" She hated sounding so timid at times but this was a student willing to have an actual conversation with her.
"Sure." Ares replied wolfishly.
An hour later…
Peeves floated his way through the empty corridor on the seventh floor, his eyes maniacal as he whispered madly about the newly discovered bolthole of the Weasley terrors. It had taken him some time but he had finally discovered the secret lair where Fred and George Weasley had stored their collection of dung bombs.
Now Peevsie will prank the terrors with their own goods.
His large, tennis-ball-like eyes zoomed all over the corridor, before they suddenly paused, finding something peculiar on the carpet. Picking the little white substance –boomslang skins, he realized - he wondered for a moment who dropped such an ingredient on the floor.
There were no doors, only a blank stretch of wall on either side.
Must be the terrors. Planning to make those nosebleeds to get to Peevsie again. He cackled. Peevsie will use this on Filch and blame them.
Cackling madly at his accomplishment at foiling the twins' plans, he floated away.
Authors Note: Alright people! It's been a while since me and my fellow author have talked to you. This is to let you know our stories aint abandoned and will get their updates. No, Transcendence is not abandoned.
As for Peverells, we do not have OP characters no matter what our descriptions look like. You must understand those descriptions are given by people whose experience usually consisted of being thrown on their asses like amateurs. So, never take a character's power at face value.
Anyone criticising the strength of Ares Black, remember that he is a fifteen year old and is not going to have as many opportunities to trample the Wizengamot like he did for the last two sessions. He took them by surprise. Remember that.
Note: People in the Peverells verse have an actual brain when compared to their canon counterparts. Do not expect an Ares who will walk over everyone like Batman.
Extra: Peverells is going to have a lot of plots running in tandem or in series as necessary. If anyone has anything they really want to see, send in suggestions. Doesn't matter if it's outrageous.
On that note, see you on the next chapter.