Chapter 2: Beginnings

(Part 1)

September 1, 1989

"Stop fidgeting," said Lucius, his hand resting firmly on Cato's shoulder. His admonishments hadn't helped much the first five times, but Cato could tell his heart was not truly into them. Lucius and Narcissa kept trading small smiles as they waited upon the steps of the manor. They had been like this all morning, with good reason. It was the 1st of September and for the first time since his first Christmas in the wizarding world Cato felt a glimmer of childish glee mixed with the hard knot of nerves in his stomach.

"You have nothing to worry about, dear," said his mother as their carriage rattled into view. It was an ornate beast of a vehicle, built of black wood and inlaid with gold. The family Crest was embedded into each side and the wheels were disks of solid gold. François sat atop it, reins in hand and a riding cloak wrapped around him as he guided two proud and massive hippogriffs around the lane. They stopped in front of the manor, their claws crunching on the gravel.

"I'm not worried," he replied automatically.

"Of course." More of those damned smiles.

Cato leaped down the staircase, jumping into the carriage as soon as François opened the door for him. He leaned against a window and slid his hand into his pocket, feeling the warmth of his wand. Unicorn hair and walnut, 11 inches. Olivander - and it had been a thrill to see the man himself - had looked at him for a while after giving him the wand, before smiling in his mysterious manner and nodding. 'Yes, I think it is quite right' He had not felt it necessary to elaborate and Cato had not stayed to ask. It was his wand, and it was perfect.

His parents spared him their attention during the ride, their voices a vague background buzz to Cato's thoughts as they talked over tea and biscuits. As the carriage rattled and took off into the blue sky, Cato pressed his face against the cold glass, watching the property dwindle away beneath him. This was it, the moment he had been dreading and hoping for all at once. The sun balanced precariously in the sky and Cato watched the shadows cast by the clouds as they drifted along the countryside like vast herds, shepherded by the winds. Eleven years gone, excruciatingly slow in the present, yet but a blink in the rear-view mirror now.

His brother had resented his departure so strongly that he had somehow made himself ill through accidental magic the night before in the misguided hope that it would force Cato to stay. He stroked the Heir's Ring. It was still latched to his finger, feeding him the vaguest impression of his home and would continue to do so until he inherited his father's ring. He had shown it to Draco that morning as he sat beside his brother's bed, a hand on his shoulder. 'See, I'll still be able to keep track of you,' he'd said. Draco had sniffled miserably. His skin was burning hot with fever and Cato ran a hand along his brow. 'I still won't be able to see you,' Draco had said. 'Then you'll just have to write me.' Cato had smiled as the boy perked up. Draco was nine, he would probably write for a few weeks, and finally become accustomed to Cato's absence and discontinue his efforts. 'Fine, but I'm writing in French!' Draco had said with an air of childish triumph.

A small smile played around Cato's lips at the memory and soon an hour had gone by and the carriage began to descend over the crowded city. He sometimes wished he'd been born into a less conspicuous family, a family that could allow him to look forward to Hogwarts without concern. Harry Potter could save the world and he would live to savor the fruits of his success. His every action wouldn't run the risk of jeopardizing everything. But now, that very success threatened to bring low the family he had come to cherish. His father, a distant, serious and arrogant man who had taught him chess and given him books against his mothers express wishes with a wink and a nod. The man who had pushed him to excel and explained his business to him over dinner as if talking to an equal. The man who made an effort to never miss a dinner with family despite his towering ambitions. His mother, who gave him such unshakable, unconditional love and had taught him how to dance, how to write, how to speak properly and how to get what you wanted without the other side even realizing it. And his brother, Draco, whom he would do anything for.

If all went as it once had, Voldemort might assign Draco -or him!- his cursed task and his father would give Ginny the book. The carriage landed with a muted jolt, rattling the tea set as it hit the London streets, seeming to slip through the traffic like a breeze.

"I fail to see why Fudge cannot put in a Floo connection to the station," said Lucius with a long-suffering sigh as he stared out the window, his lip curled in mild disgust. "How the muggles can bear the stench of their cities is beyond me."

"Yes dear," said his mother with a small roll of her eyes, as if she had heard it a hundred times before.

Cato shook himself out of his thoughts and straightened, combing his hair back with his fingers and checking it in the glass. His cold reflection stared back at him, so much more like Narcissa than Lucius, after which Draco was taking. He had sharper features, higher cheekbones and mercury eyes. The blood of the Blacks ran cold in his veins, his mother had said once with pride. His family would never turn towards Dumbledore, their pride and blood forbid it. And he could never let them return to Voldemort. They were caught in the middle, and he was no Harry Potter, no hero who could pull them to safety against all odds.

His thoughts sunk into that dark swamp of suppressed worries everyone buried deep within their mind as his father ushered them through the station and soon they were on the platform and Cato was drinking in the sights and feeling faintly grateful towards his mother. Lucius had seen fit to ask that he dress in formal clothing 'as befits his position' until his mother had put down her foot. 'We aren't in 1960 anymore, Lucius, he will dress as befits the current trends. My son will not be ridiculed' His father had appeared rather ruffled at the idea that his concept of fashion was worthy of ridicule, but had bowed to his wife's authority on the matter.

The train whistle screeched once and a flurry of activity wracked the platform as goodbyes were made, and tears shed. Cato looked up at his parents expectantly. Lucius stepped forward first and gave him a painfully awkward hug before clearing his throat and patting his shoulder. "I've connected an extracurricular expense account to your ring, so-"

"I know, Father," said Cato with a smile, edging towards the carriage steps, their mutual discomfort towards affection acting like twin magnets repelling them from each other. Lucius nodded and looked away.

"Yes, well. You will, of course, be first of your year, and we will be seeing you for Christmas."

"Yes, Father."

Then his mother swooped in and hugged him firmly, squeezing him tight. Cato dropped the handle of his trunk and hugged her back, a prickle in the back of his throat. "Goodbye, Mother."

"I expect letters every month, if not every week," she said, pulling back, her eyes bright.

"You know I'll write you," he said, "Both."

"And do not let your violin practice lapse," she added, fretting over his hair.

"You know equally well that I have no intention of letting that happen," he said, shifting uncomfortably on the spot at her attention. He almost felt like an actual eleven-year-old, eager to flee his mother's attention and so with one more smile and a small wave, his turned his back on them. He stepped into the carriage, the doors slammed shut, the floor lurched and he was on his way.

He heard them before he saw them, their childish voices filtering through a half-closed compartment door. "Obviously, we'll be Slytherin," said a girl. "Well, I'm not sure about Montague."

"Watch your mouth," said Montague, his deep voice easily recognizable.

"What? It's not my fault that your grandfather married a mudblood." A few laughs escaped the compartment, full of that specific glee that children took in mockery. "Maybe he shouldn't even be allowed to ride with us," continued the girl with relish.

Cato stopped a compartment away. He looked at himself in the glass door and carefully slicked back his hair and straightened his collar before marching over and pushing the door open. A half dozen young faces turned to look at him with mixed expressions. He ran his gaze around the compartment quickly, sorting through them with practiced ease. All of them already wore their school robes, and two of the boys, Warrington and Pucey, had pinned little Slytherin emblems where the badge would go. Despite their clear wizarding upbringing, his mother had turned up her nose at the sight of them that morning, calling them a 'historically poor batch.'

He nodded to Pucey, who nodded back, a small smile on his face. Most boys at the age of eleven were either too boisterous, or annoying in that obnoxious know-it-all way that pushed Cato away from them. Pucey had found a middle ground that allowed for an awkward, stilted entente between the two.

The other side of the compartment held three girls, one blond, one brunette and one black-haired. The brunette looked fairly lost, and seemed to be waiting on the blond expectantly, while the black-haired one, Priscilla Prongs, was ignoring the entire thing.

The blond, Juliette Yaxley, jumped up as he stepped in, a faint blush on her cheeks. She was an unfortunately familiar face. "Cato!" she said. Her blush deepened in the ensuing silence, as her enthusiasm was laid bare. "We were just making Montague leave, weren't we?" She turned to the boy in question with a vitriolic glare, but Montague was no longer looking at her, he was looking at Cato with a silent plea in his eyes. The moment Cato had stepped in, the dynamic had shifted. His family was by far the richest and oldest of them all, and even at this young age it carried some weight.

"Leave Montague alone," he said.

Montague flushed in humiliation as he settled deeper into his seat, a dark glower on his face as he avoided looking at anything but the table.

A heavy silence descended on the carriage as Cato took a seat next to the window, forcing Montague to budge out of the way. The children were looking at each other uncertainly. It was the same reaction that a group of young children might have when an outsider or an adult stepped into their midst. Despite Lucius and Narcissa's demands, Cato had never truly been able to ingratiate himself with those around him. They respected him, but they did not treat him as an equal. He didn't laugh when they did, he didn't partake in most of their mockery and he certainly didn't have the same interests. Cato had never felt the slightest urge to lower himself back to their level, and they could only rise to his with age.

Before the entire ordeal became unbearable, he pulled out a small chess set from his pocket and tapped the board. It expanded into an imposing block of polished wood and marble inlaid with "Property of Cato Malfoy" on the side in gold. Each piece was so finely crafted that you could even see the knight's face, battle-scarred and determined. "Montague, swap with Pucey, we are going to play."

In a scuffle of robes, feet and curses the two boys changed seats and Pucey, a little red in the face, settled down next to Cato. "Black or White?" he asked.

"White, of course."

And slowly the tension relaxed, like a taut rope gently released from both ends. Montague and Warrington argued about the latest Quidditch results -The Hollyhead Harpies were clearly not making it to the European Championship this year, after their crushing defeat against Les Corbeaux de Caen- while Juliette divided her time between trying to grab Cato's attention and joining Lucilla and the brunette's -whose name was Tamara McCraven- discussion about which Slytherin seventh year girl Alton Nott was going to try and propose to next. Cato settled more comfortably in his seat, watching his knight get pounded into the dirt by Pucey's queen. It wasn't as if being surrounded by eleven-year-olds was torture, not really. Pucey was good enough company, debating Quidditch wasn't always bad and even gossip could be fun. A small smile pulled at his lips as he glanced out of the window. This was Hogwarts, he was allowed to dream a little.

"Well, well, well…" said the hat as a Great Hall full of expectant faces disappeared beneath its brim. "This is not something I've seen often."

"You mean-" said Cato. "-That others have come before you?" finished the Hat.

"Well-" But the Hat cut across him once again. "Not exactly like you, no, my not so young friend. But as I'm sure you know, time travel does exist!"

"So can you-" "Yes, yes. I can see what you know. Don't worry, you secret is safe with me. It is a far more interesting one than anything else these brats have in their heads."

"Maybe you could-"

"Help you? Now that would be telling, and spoiling all the fun. And believe me, I don't get much of that. Now, business." The hat paused for a moment, and Cato got the distinct impression that it was more for theatrical flair than anything else. "Ah, you would fit into the House of Ravenclaw like a brick in a wall… but… no." The hat paused again and Cato felt a vague current of interest. "No, you have many paths ahead of you. As another young boy once did. But I wonder, which one will you take? SLYTHERIN!"

Professor McGonnagal pulled off the hat and gave him a small, tight smile as Cato walked over to the table in a daze, barely acknowledging the loud welcome received. He slid into his seat next to Miles Bletchley and stared his empty plate, his pale reflection staring right back. Did he look paler than usual?

A festive mood infected the school as the 31st of October arrived. The ghosts had taken to scaring first years (and second years who hadn't learned their lesson the first time around) to the uproarious delight of the senior years and most teachers were giving them thematic classes, which were, if nothing else, enlightening. McGonagall had made them transfigure a block of wood into a pumpkin-shaped piece of metal and Flitwick had spent an hour regaling them with a litany of charms he had been taught by papal exorcists back in 'the good old days.' Even their excruciatingly tedious DADA teacher Ms. Sidelop had spent an hour talking about the powerful Protego Horribilis before telling them that it wasn't even in the Hogwarts curriculum and none of them were good enough to ever cast it anyway.

So it was with high spirits that Cato made his way to his first Halloween feast, excitement bubbling in his belly. Pucey was following him like a second shadow, a habit he had fallen into on day one and Montague was at his side. "Listen, Montague," said Cato. "You need to stop considering your worth only by looking at your blood." The boy had taken Cato's stand for him on the train as an offer of friendship and now seemed to consider Cato as his personal confidant. All it did was help Cato understand how Tom Riddle's shadow had felt about Ginny. They were all so insecure and petty.

"That won't change what other people think," muttered Montague. Juliette had been particularly vicious to him the night before.

"No, but it will change what you think, and that matters."

Montague rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, Malfoy."

Cato sighed. "Or just play Quidditch next year. You like it. You'll be good." And it would do wonders for his self-confidence and popularity.

As they exited the dungeons and entered the ground floor, they ran into a crowd of Gryffindors and fell silent. Cato ignored the looks his housemates traded with them, content enough to let them pass by. But then, Montague was shouting and trying to throw him out of the way and a redhead was throwing something at him-

A blast shook the hallway and something warm and disgustingly slimy splattered across his face. Cato reeled back, his eyes watering as a horrific smell invaded the corridor. He gagged, his nose burning as the green smoke began to clear. Tears poured from his eyes, but through them, he could make out Fred and George Weasley with huge grins on their face, high-fiving their housemates. "Happy Halloween, Slytherins!" said one, with a deep bow. "Do give your mother a hug for us, Malfoy!" said the other with a wink.

The Gryffindors roared with laughter behind them and Cato's face paled in fury, his hand diving into his pocket for his wand. These little shits- His wand was out and a jelly-leg jinx was on his lips when a sharp voice froze him on the spot. "Mister Malfoy!" McGonagal appeared from within the Entry Hall, a checkered tissue over her nose. "You do not draw your wand on students. Ten points from Slytherin."

"Professor, the dungbomb, they-!" shouted Montague, who had been just as liberally splattered with the foul gunk.

"Yes indeed," she said, turning to the Gryffindors with a fearsome look on her face. Her gaze zeroed onto Fred and George, who were looking quite convincingly contrite. "Well, who did it?" she snapped. "Fess up now."

One of the twins broke the silence, his mirth betrayed by the crinkles around his eyes. "It was Peeves, Professor. Sorry, we were just having a laugh about it."

"Tasteless, Mr. Weasly," she said. "Five points from Gryffindor." Then her eyes were on Cato again, who was staring intently at the twin's smug faces.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"It was-" started Pucey, but Cato nodded. "It was Peeves," he croaked, his throat burning from the foul odor. He pushed his hair out of his face and flicked his hand absently.

McGonagal looked faintly surprised, but gave him a clipped nod. "Very well, then I suggest you run along," she said to the Gryffindors. When they had left, her tone softened a bit as she turned back to Cato and his friends. "Hurry now, you'll make it in time for the feast after a quick wash."

Cato nodded stiffly and spun on his heel. He wouldn't make it to the feast, of course. Joining his housemates with an aura of residual dungbomb hanging around him like a cloud was perhaps one of the easiest paths to social suicide.

"Malfoy, are you insane?" shouted Montague as they hurried to their common room. "You should have told her. She's a professor!"

Pucey snorted. He had been behind them both and seemed to have avoided the worst of it. "It was eight against three, idiot. And they were from her own house. Good luck with those odds."

Cato said nothing. The stink still clogged his nostrils, their insults still rung in his ears, and all he could think about was that he hadn't even had a chance to see the Great Hall decorated for Halloween.

A week had gone by and his clothes were purged of the horrible stench, but a pall of humiliation still clung to him like a cloud. The Gryffindors still grinned at him when he walked by, and though his housemates stood beside him outside of the Common Room, he could see the vicious pleasure they took in seeing an 'uppity' Malfoy knocked down a peg or two in their little smiles and the giggles they hid behind their hands.

He wanted nothing more than to slap their stupid smiles off their faces. It was only the reminder that his anger would invigorate them that quelled it. Anyway, it had been the heights of foolishness to expect the Weasley twins to spare him from their games. Of course he was a target, it didn't matter that he ignored them. It didn't matter that he had done nothing to deserve it. He was a Malfoy, and they were easily influenced eleven-year-olds with a grudge inherited from their father and his.

As he broke out of his mulling, it took a moment for Cato to realize that he didn't recognize the hallway he had been walking through. The walls were older, the paintings shabbier, and a thin layer of dust lay on the floor, disrupted only by the rare footprint. "Damn," he muttered. He turned around, and looked up the staircase he had just descended, but it was already moving, sealing the way off with the grinding of stone on stone. "Damn."

His stomach grumbled and Cato resigned himself to another missed meal. If he owned the Map, none of this would have happened, he thought ruefully. Then he ground to a halt in the middle of the hallway. If he had the map… He could have the map. It was still in Filch's office, it had to be. He broke into a brisk walk, his eyes fixated on the ground. He could take the map, learn the ways of the castle over the next two years, get some revenge on the Weasleys and eventually make sure it still fell into Potter's hands so he could do whatever he needed to do with it.

Cato grinned and almost broke into a jog when an angry voice burst his bubble. "Reducto!" He ducked on instinct, covering his head with his arms. Nothing hit him and he leaped up, flushing and pulling out his wand, but the hallway was empty. Feeling a little foolish, Cato looked around for the source and found a nearby door ajar. Approaching it with soft steps, he heard another shouted incantation. "Reducto!" There was a flash of light and something shattered with the sound of splintering wood.

"Yes!" said a high-pitched voice, full of delight.

The door gave way on smooth hinges as he edged it open with the tip of his fingers. Behind it was a room so ransacked that it took a moment for Cato to make sense of all the jumbled shapes. One corner was full of burned and hacked pieces of furniture, another wall had makeshift dummies lined up against it, their bodies ominously draped in old Slytherin robes and their heads pockmarked with spell damage.

The reminders of a hundred curses and jinxes littered the walls and floors with scorch marks and gashes and in the middle of it all was a girl in Gryffindor robes, frozen mid-celebration and staring at him in shock. It was hard to tell her age, thought Cato distantly as they looked at each other, caught in the moment. In fact, he could rarely make out the age of anyone in the lower years.

"Reducto!"

This time, Cato's instincts served him right and he dove to the side as the spell whistled overhead and blew a chunk out of the door, filling the hallway with shards of wood. He landed on the flagstones with a grunt and heaved himself up, his hands prickling and his elbows burning. "What the hell?!" he yelled.

"Oh my god," she said, dropping her wand and running over to him. "I'm so sorry! I- You- I was surprised." Her steps faltered in tune with her voice as she managed to get a good look at him. Her eyes darted from his tie to his face and a flash of fear, followed by stiff determination, crossed her face. But she was a kid, and her fear bled through the facade as if through a sieve. "Alright- okay. You gonna have me expelled for assault, Malfoy?" she said. "Send a letter to Daddy?"

Cato frowned and rubbed his palms gingerly. Where did everyone get these ideas about him from? "No," he said slowly. He jerked his thumb towards the door. "Good spell work."

"No- but… Thanks?" She looked horribly confused at his attitude and Cato smiled.

"It was an accident. It's no problem."

A wave of relief crashed over her face, so huge that Cato almost felt a sudden impulse to pat her shoulder. "Oh, good…"

The silence hung heavy, and Cato swung an arm around, grimacing as his elbow protested loudly. "What's all this?"

Her chest swelled with pride. "It's my practice room. I've been using it for two years." A faint blushed touched her dark cheeks. "I'm going to join the dueling circuit in Europe when I graduate," she said, and she looked at him with defiant hazel eyes, as if challenging him to contradict her.

Cato nodded approvingly and leaned back against a ruined desk. It groaned but held his weight. "I'd believe it."

"Thanks." After a moment's hesitation, she stretched out a hand. "I'm Roxanne, Van Zee."

Lesson after lesson had been spent burning the names of every relevant family in England into Cato's brain as a child, and he drew up a blank as he ran hers through. "Cato Malfoy," he replied automatically, shaking her hand. "And you're a muggleborn."

She recoiled as if she'd been stung and glared at him. "So what?"

"Well, you won't make it in the dueling circuit."

A furious blush colored her cheeks and she reached into her pocket, as if grabbing for her wand. But it still lay on the ground behind her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think- Classic Slytherin-"

"Hey, I didn't mean that!" said Cato, lifting his hands in surprise. She looked just about ready to resort to physical violence and Cato had little faith in his eleven-year-old body. "Look. All that I mean is that it's hard to get into pro dueling. The list of applicants is long, and masters are few. It pays to be in the right circles-"

She bristled and opened her mouth. "-Whether you like it or not," he finished quickly.

"Griselda Totspire did it in '38," she replied hotly.

"And she was a prodigy like we haven't seen in the circuit since Moltke," shot back Cato. Not that it had saved her from Grindewalds wand. But if the tales were true, he had trusted no one but himself to finish her off in a vicious duel that left a swath of the Black Forest cursed for decades after.

"So I'll just have to be as good," snapped Van Zee. She gestured at the room. "You think I don't know that?"

Cato gave her a long look. He could see her determination by the set of her jaw and the rigidity of her posture, even if the room hadn't been proof enough.

"I could help," he said.

"You? You're a firstie."

A flare of annoyance burst up inside of him and Cato forced himself to shrug her words aside. "Not me," he snapped. "My father is on good terms with Lucas de Fauconvalle, I assume you know him? Dueler extraordinaire?"

A look of awe crossed her face and Cato couldn't help but grin. "Your father… Knows de Fauconvalle."

"As I said, it helps to know the right people."

Then her awe was gone and a portcullis of suspicion slammed down, barely hiding the longing behind it. "Why are you offering this?"

"I want you to train me during the year," he said, stepping forward and looking her in the eyes.

"Me?" she snorted. "What happened to blood purity?"

Cato flicked off her comment with a small swatting gesture. "You're determined, you're going to be good. It's obvious. And if you're good, then I want to learn from you." Then he added as an afterthought. "And I suspect that you'd want to keep our agreement as secret as I do. We both have a certain image to maintain."

"I haven't agreed yet!" she snapped.

"You're going to, though." She wasn't even hiding the longing anymore, it sat in her eyes openly.

"A-and you'll promise to keep your side of the bargain? You'll get me in with de Fauconvalle?"

A small sense of satisfaction filled him and Cato nodded. This opportunity had fallen into his lap and he had improvised, but it really was perfect. Secret training from someone who knew far more than him and no chance of drawing unwanted attention. Idly, he wondered if she had gotten her wish in the… previous life. "An apprenticeship with de Fauconvalle, in exchange for regular secret tutelage until we graduate."

"Until I graduate," she said firmly, though her eyes burned with excitement. "I'm in Fourth, by the way."

"Deal?" said Cato.

She grasped his hand almost immediately. "Deal."

A figment of a plan formed in his head, like a shard of ice. "So, about this reducto…"

A/N: Hey. Thank you for the positive reception this story has received. Following this chapter, updates will take place weekly. About 60.000 words have already been written for this story.

I'd like to remind you again that we will be undergoing gigantic timeskips until Harry's year 6. The main issue with stories starting in Y1 is that they usually die out before they reach completion, and I have no intention of following in those footsteps.

Minor adjustment made to Ch1's AN for the sake of clarity, following reviews.