Cepheus Malfoy was quite a happy six-year-old. There was little reason for him not to be, he was the pureblood child of two aristocrats, who loved him dearly; he had an older brother (by only two minutes thank you very much!) who was fiercely protective, once punching Theodore Nott for daring to jape about the fact that his hair was dirty-blonde instead of the traditional Malfoy-blonde of his father and brother; and his room -really more of a suite - in Malfoy Manor, the family home, was pretty awesome if he did say so himself.

From day one, he was told that he would be important. His father had told him that he had been marked for greatness, though he never expanded on what that meant. Draco would be the next Lord Malfoy, but that didn't matter, because Cepheus was special. He would be great. So, last year, when Draco started to be tutored in all things regarding being a lord of an ancient and noble house, Cepheus didn't mind. Though, if he was being honest, as time had gone on, and Draco kept getting tutored, he had started to worry that what father had been saying was simply to placate him for being the second-born; the spare. He tried to put them out of mind, but it was quite hard to do so, especially when his brother kept being taken off on his own, into his father's study.

He was once again contemplating his father's words at breakfast one morning, the day before his seventh birthday, when the post arrived. Leading the pack was an owl he had seen often, a rather nondescript barred owl. He only recognised it because his father received correspondence from it so regularly. In its talons was a copy of the day's Daily Prophet, and a letter. His father set the newspaper to one side, and, after reaching for a letter opener, cracked open the letter. The owl flew off, without waiting for payment for the newspaper.

"What does Mr Bovin want, dear?" His mother asked, tentatively. His mother always seemed cautious around the owner of the Daily Prophet, which Cepheus never understood; he always came across as friendly to Cepheus – though he rarely saw him on his own.

"He plans to visit tomorrow. He wants to see Cepheus."

"Happy birthday, Cepheus." Mr Bovin said as he entered the Manor. He almost always entered through the front doors, Cepheus noted, he was the only person who ever did that, everyone else flooed.

"Thank you, Mr Bovin." Cepheus responded with a small smile, he hoped the man had brought him a present.

"Oh, and I almost forgot, happy birthday to you too, Draco." The man turned to his brother with a grin on his face.

"Thank you, sir." Draco said rather stiffly. He was obviously practising again, Cepheus would have rolled his eyes, if his mother had not had her eyes on him since the moment that the President of the Daily Prophet had arrived.

Mr Bovin snapped his fingers, and a house elf that was unfamiliar to him appeared. In its hands was a present, wrapped in snitch-adorned paper. Wrapped as it was, it was clearly a broom. A broom! Mr Bovin had bought him a broom! Cepheus smiled, he couldn't believe it! Father and mother had said they were not to have an actual broom until they were eight at least! He couldn't wait to try it out, he just hoped that his parents would allow him to – but there was no point in waiting to fly if he had a broom, was there?

His smile vanished however, when the broom was handed to Draco. "Here you go, Draco." Draco immediately forgot he was meant to be refining his etiquette skills and whooped for joy as he took present. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He repeated, as he ripped the wrapping paper to shreds. It was only at father's stern cough, that he slowed up slightly, and removed the wrapping in a slightly more dignified manner. As the broom was revealed, Draco frowned. "A Nimbus?" He said, slightly petulantly. "But the Cleansweep Six is much better than the 1500."

"Draco!" Narcissa snapped, finally taking her eyes off her youngest child.

His brother blushed slightly. "Sorry, Mr Bovin. I still really like it!" Though there was little enthusiasm in his words.

Cepheus' mounting jealously abated, the gift wasn't worth having that much if it were so out of date. The Nimbus 1500 was over five years old, and the Cleansweep came out just last year. When Cepheus got his broom next year, it would be newer than Draco's, so he supposed it wasn't too bad. And Draco would probably let Cepheus use his broom in the meantime anyway.

Mr Bovin eyed Draco with a hint of disapproval before saying, "Perhaps examine the gift in full before you leap to conclusions, Master Malfoy."

Draco frowned again before looking at the broomstick once more. He turned the broom in his hand and his eyes widened as he spotted the plate on the handle. "A 1700! But they don't come out until next year!"

His father's friend chuckled. "Well, the Chief Engineer at Nimbus owed me a favour and managed to get me one. Lucius told me how you'd been badgering him for a broom, and I thought you'd enjoy it."

Cepheus scowled. He wanted a broom just as much as Draco did. Why did Draco get one and he didn't? Why did father not tell Mr Bovin that Cepheus wanted a broom? This wasn't fair!

"Now, Narcissa, why don't you take Draco to try out his new broom whilst I talk to Cepheus? Lucius, you shall accompany Cepheus and I."

His mother nodded and shepherded his twin away, towards the Quidditch pitch at the rear of the manor. Cepheus was shocked; no one ever ordered his parents around like that! And if they did, they certainly didn't listen to them. Just who was this man?

"Follow me, Cepheus, and you shall retrieve your present."

Excited by the prospect of finally retrieving his present, the youngest Malfoy followed the elder wizard, his father just a pace behind. They eventually arrived in the receiving room, and the President of the Daily Prophet stepped up to the fireplace. Reaching for the floo powder, he turned and said, "We're just going for a little trip, no need to worry. Now, I assume you know how to floo?"

"Of course." Cepheus responded, insulted. He wasn't a baby!

The man simply chuckled. "Very well. We are going to the Ministry." And with that he turned and used the floo.

Cepheus turned to his father with a pout. "What kind of present is at the Ministry?"

The Malfoy Lord gave him a stern look. "Cepheus. I will tell you this only once. Whatever this man tells you to do, you shall do it without hesitation. If he asks you to jump, you ask how high. It will become clear soon why I am telling you this, but for now, simply listen to me. Now, get going, we are keeping ou- Mr Bovin waiting."

Cepheus was confused. He was a Malfoy; Malfoys do not follow orders. Yet his father was telling him to do just that, for some random friend of his. Mr Bovin had been friends with his father for as long as Cepheus could remember, but he was no one particularly special. Sure, he ran the Prophet, but his father was friends with people who could shut the Prophet down. It all made no sense to the eight-year-old.

Still pondering his father's words, he stepped into the fireplace and was whisked away.

With all of the group at the Ministry, they soon made to the lifts that controlled the flow of traffic to the various Ministry departments. They were waved through the security desk without scrutiny, Cepheus supposed there was no point – they were with his father after all.

Cepheus' confusion grew even further as the group made its way to the International Travel Office, where Mr Bovin and the attendant had a brief conversation. After Mr Bovin signed a few forms, he was given a piece of rope, and then they made their way into a separate room.

"Grab a hold of the rope, Cepheus." Mr Bovin told him.

Once he and his father had a firm hold, Mr Bovin whispered something underneath his breath, so fain that Cepheus couldn't hear it, and then he felt a pulling behind his navel, the room blurred, and he felt like he was being dragged at great speed. This continued for a good few minutes before abruptly ending.

"Welcome to the United States of America, may I have your names, country of origin, and your international portkey licence, please?"

It took Cepheus a few moments to register what he had just heard, as he was trying desperately not to vomit. The United States? What in the name of Merlin were they doing here?

As soon as they had passed through the border checks, Cepheus voiced his question. "We could not get your present in Britain. Now, the store is a short walk from here, it won't be long." Mr Bovin replied.

Indeed it wasn't. A few minutes later, after passing people dressed in strange clothing, huge buildings that he was sure would collapse on him (muggles didn't have magic after all), and large metal contraptions that emitted a horrible smell that made him choke, the trio reached a park. They walked through the park for a short distance before they came across a large, gated archway. The wooden gate was closed but that didn't stop Mr Bovin, who walked up to the gate and tapped his wand at various points on the gate, on his sixth tap, the gate opened slightly. "Come now, Cepheus, the return portkey is in a few hours, we have no time to waste."

On the other side was a world much more familiar to Cepheus. The hustle and bustle of a wizarding shopping district, signs advertising brooms and quills and parchment, rather than Coca-Cola – Merlin knows what that is. He followed Mr Bovin through the crowd, which was the only similarity to the Muggle World. Mr Bovin took his time, and it seemed to Cepheus that he didn't really know where he was going, but eventually his father's friend seemed to recognise something that centred his bearings, and he confidently made his way down a side-street. Around halfway down said street, the man stopped outside a shop with a sign reading: Cordon and Family, Making Wands of Superior Quality Since 1789

"A wand shop?" He asked. Surely he wasn't going to get a wand? He was only eight!

"Happy birthday, Cepheus."

His face split into an enormous grin. A wand! He couldn't believe it. Draco was going to be so jealous. He just didn't understand why he was getting one, and why did they have to come all the way to America? He asked Mr Bovin this.

"I will explain why I am gifting you a wand when we return to Malfoy Manor. To answer your other question, it would be impossible to obtain a wand at your age. A few years ago, we could have gone to countless unlicenced wand shops in Knockturn Alley, but the Ministry has been clamping down on them. And anyone potentially underage would be turned away and reported at a licenced wand shop such as Ollivanders. The laws in the US are a little more lax, and they still don't communicate much with other countries, so word shouldn't get back to the Ministry."

Cepheus followed Mr Bovin into the store. The inside was rather tidy, Cepheus thought. Ollivanders always looked grimy from the outside, but this shop was clean, though cluttered. Wand boxes covered each wall, on shelves, reaching from the floor up to the ceiling, much like the library at home.

"How can I help?" A feminine voice jerked Cepheus out of his examination, and his eyes immediately found the source of the question. A middle aged witch, with dark skin and striking blue robes had appeared behind the counter. Her piercing eyes, the same shade as her robes, flicked from each person in the shop.

"Yes, a wand please, for Isaac here." Mr Bovin said, his arm signalling to Cepheus. He didn't quite understand why he had to use a fake name when the Americans didn't talk to the British but he guessed the adult must know what he was doing.

The witch eyed Cepheus, probably knowing he was much too young to be owning a wand, but called him forwards anyway. "Which hand do you use to write, sugar?" She asked, much too intimately for a first meeting. He coughed, uncomfortable, but raised his right hand.

She pulled out a measuring tape and measured the length of his arm, from his shoulder down to the tip of his middle finger, before measuring the circumference of his hand, and the gaps between each finger. Once this was done, the lady disappeared for a moment, returning with five wand boxes stacked on top of each other.

She pushed one out towards him, and nodded her head in encouragement. Gently, he lifted the lid off the box and went to reach for the wand. Her hand shot out. "There is no need for that, I'd rather not have my shop blow up, thank you. Simply hover your hand above the box."

He did so.

"Feel anything?" She asked.

He thought he felt a slight tingle, deep inside his gut, but it was extremely weak. "Not really." He said.

"Very well." She said and took the box back.

This went on for at least half an hour, and Cepheus could tell that his father's patience was running thin. They had gone through hundreds of boxes, sourced from both the back room the witch kept disappearing to, and those on display. Some wands produced a stronger feeling than others, but none were the overwhelming jubilation that the witch said he should feel when a wand 'chose him as it's master', whatever that meant. Eventually though, he felt it. The wand was one of the oldest in the store, according to Miss Cordon, it had been created by her great-grandfather, and had never chosen any witch or wizard, but as Cepheus held out his hand, it was as if his gut had been punched, yet in a weirdly positive manner. It almost felt like he had become connected to the wand in some way, and he never wanted the feeling to disappear.

The witch's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't really expect that to work." She confessed, in her funny accent. "It is made of vine, with a core of rougarou hair, 13 inches. I had almost given up hope that it would ever bond with anybody. It seems the wand was destined for you, Issac."

Cepheus held the wand with reverence.

"A holster for him as well, if you would. Dragon hide, if you have it."

She passed a small holster over. "You'll need to get him a new one as he grows, the growing charms won't work on dragon hide."

Mr Bovin nodded. "How much?"

"21 Dragots and 19 Sprinks."

He produced some coins from his pocket, counted them out, and placed them on the counter. "Keep the change."

She took the money and nodded. Before disappearing again into the back room.

"Come now, Isaac. We have a port key awaiting."

"Please sit, Cepheus."

Cepheus' eyes were like saucers. His father's friend had led him and his father into his father's study, and then sat down in his father's chair. Just like that. No one dared sit in his father's chair. His surprise gave way to anger – the disrespect! Who did this man think he was? He was in their house! His father's house. They were Malfoys! And he thought he could make himself at home in his father's study?

But the worst thing about it was that his father, the proud Lucius Malfoy, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy – the greatest of all the noble families: the purest of blood (besides maybe the Blacks, but it was ok because at least the Malfoys didn't marry their closest relations), the most powerful, the most sacred family in Wizarding Britain – did not even bat and eyelid. He simply conjured another chair and sat down.

Cepheus Malfoy was angry and confused.

He took the offered seat and waited.

"There is something you should know, Cepheus." Mr Bovin said.

"But before I tell you, you must swear an unbreakable vow."

That was the last straw.

"Excuse me?" He asked. "I shall do no such thing."

"Cepheus." His father said, in a tone that made it very clear that he should do what the man told him, a tone that would normally have Cepheus hurrying to obey, but Cepheus was angry.

"Who do you think you are?" He hissed. "You upstart mudblo-"

"CEPHEUS ARMAND MALFOY!" His father roared.

"I am a Malfoy. You will not order me to do anything." He said, standing his ground.

What he did not expect was the man opposite to start chuckling. It did nothing but enrage him further.

"You dare lau- ahh" His father had shot a stinging jex at his arm, and it was more than a warning shot.

"You've certainly raised him as yours, Lucius."

"Of course he has. I am his son."

"You are now, but you were not by birth."

"What?"

"Cepheus, you were born Harry James Potter."

"Y-y-you're lying."

"I assure you that I am not."

"But Harry Potter is dead."

"Only five people know otherwise."

"My hair, my eyes, my everything." He said, voice wavering, this couldn't be true. He's a Malfoy.

"You are a Malfoy now, Cepheus." His father spoke for the first time.

"What does that mean." He hissed again, resorting to anger to hide his pain, his whole world had been ripped to shreds.

"There was a ritual, a year or so after we became your parents. It ensured that you would become magically acknowledged as a Malfoy. Your Potter blood mixed with Malfoy blood. It is why your hair is only dirty blonde – you are effectively half-Potter, half-Malfoy."

"I'm a half-breed!" He screeched.

"No!" His father said firmly. "You are my son."

Those words broke the dam, and his eyes filled with tears. He rushed to his father and climbed onto his lap. He thought he was too old to sit in his father's lap as he had done when he was younger, as his father worked, but he was wrong.

"Calm now, Cepheus. Malfoy's do not cry when in company."

"But I'm not a Malfoy." He said, voice weak.

"Yes, you are. Magic sees it as such."

He took a few moments to compose himself, drying his eyes before looking up again towards the man still sat in his father's chair. "How do you know this anyway?" He asked.

"Because I, too, am not who I seem." He said before waving his hand.

As he did, his face seemingly melted away, morphing into a horrible image. His dirty-blonde hair, much like his own, disappeared, his nose shrank until it was replaced with nothing but slits, and his blue eyes became blood-red.

"I, Cepheus, am Lord Voldemort."

He screamed, and then everything faded to black.