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***
The first week of my new life as Cassius Malfoy was a blur of strange sensations. I, Nathan Williams, a sniper hardened by war, was now a whimpering baby in the arms of Narcissa Malfoy—my mother. The contrast was almost comical, if it weren't so humiliating.
At least Narcissa was a beacon of tenderness amidst the hell that was being a baby. Her blue eyes, so cold at first glance, softened when she held me. Her affection, initially uncomfortable, gradually became comforting.
After years of feeling nothing but the weight of a weapon, the warmth of her arms was a truce I didn't know I needed. She fed me, sang lullabies, and told stories about her days at Hogwarts—a so-called magic school where, apparently, teenagers made things explode.
I couldn't make sense of any of it. Wands? Spells? It was like listening to a mad scientist describe an experiment that defied physics. The idea of someone pointing a stick and conjuring fire or flying felt like the kind of delusion that warranted institutionalization. And yet, considering everything I've seen in these past few days, I don't have much choice but to accept it.
Besides my mother, there was Lucius Malfoy—my father. He was a more distant presence, but no less striking. He'd always come see me after returning from work, his black cloak billowing like raven's wings. He didn't talk much, content to simply observe me and murmur words about how I would be strong and carry the honor of the Malfoy name.
I don't know why, but I had a feeling that man would be trouble. Maybe it was his eyes—they looked too much like those of the most despicable soldiers I encountered in combat.
There was also Dobby, one of the house-elves. He'd appear with a pop, always hunched over, his huge eyes shining with devotion.
His job was to keep me clean. The problem was, he never stopped talking, saying things like, "Dobby takes care of little master Draco and Cassius," or "Dobby does everything to make little master happy!"
I wanted to scream at him to shut up, but little by little, I began to tolerate his presence. There was a genuine kindness in Dobby, something I hadn't seen since... well, since before the war.
His words also made me realize something else—apparently, I had a brother, which was odd since I had never seen him. I theorized he must be as young as I was, maybe a year older. What didn't make sense was why we didn't share the same room. Maybe it was a rich people thing? Or a magical peculiarity? Perhaps both.
***
Two years had passed while I lived a childhood that was both a dream and a prison. Malfoy Manor was a labyrinth of opulence: polished marble halls, tapestries embroidered with threads that seemed to shine on their own, a giant library, chandeliers, and portraits that murmured to one another. It was a place that screamed wealth and power.
Draco, my older brother, was the first piece of the puzzle I confirmed. As I suspected, he was only a year older than me. Physically, he was a miniature copy of Lucius: slicked-back blond hair, grey eyes already carrying an arrogance I couldn't understand someone so young could possess.
He walked around the house as if he owned it, barking orders at Dobby with an authority that bordered on the ridiculous for a boy his age. At first, Draco treated me with a mix of curiosity and disdain, like I was a new toy he hadn't decided whether he liked yet.
"Cassius, you're too quiet," he said once, wrinkling his nose as we played (or rather, as he played and I pretended to care) with a set of magical toy soldiers that marched on their own. "Malfoys aren't quiet. Malfoys are important!"
I wanted to roll my eyes and say that made absolutely no sense, but I held back. Instead, I mumbled something vague and kept watching the little soldiers, wondering how the hell this thing worked.
Draco wasn't a bad person — at least, not yet — but our upbringing made him unbearable at times. He absorbed every word from Lucius as if it were divine truth, especially the nonsense about "pure-blood" and Malfoy superiority. I, on the other hand, couldn't care less. My past life had taught me that noble or common, blood looked the same when it splattered on the floor.
***
A year ago, Narcissa began teaching me what she called "etiquette lessons." They included how to sit and walk properly, how to handle different cutlery, how to speak with elegance, among other things.
"Cassius, straighten your shoulders," Narcissa would often say whenever I drifted off in thought. "A Malfoy never slouches."
In addition to the etiquette lessons, Narcissa dedicated hours to teaching me about the wizarding world — and, by extension, about "Muggles" and "Mudbloods."
"Muggles," she would say, with a slight wrinkle of her nose, as if the very air was tainted by the word, "are limited creatures, living in ignorance. They build machines to compensate for their lack of magic, but they will never be our equals." She paused, adjusting the emerald ring on her finger. "As for Mudbloods… they are an affront. Wizards born of Muggles, staining the purity of magic with their existence. They do not belong in our world, Cassius. Remember that."
I listened in silence, my mind analyzing every word. To Narcissa, Mudbloods weren't just inferior; they were a threat, a corruption that needed to be purged. Her aversion was palpable, and I realized it wasn't just prejudice — it was a deeply rooted belief, almost religious.
While she tried to shape my mind with lessons of superiority, Lucius spoke of far more frightening things.
One night, after dinner, Lucius sat at the head of the table, a goblet of wine in hand. His eyes wandered between me and Draco. "The world is corrupted," he said, his voice low but filled with fervor. "The pure-bloods, the true heirs of magic, are being suffocated by laws that favor the impure. But there was someone… who tried to fix that."
He didn't say the name directly, but I knew who he meant: Voldemort. Over the past three years, I had pieced together fragments of whispered conversations and furtive glances exchanged between Lucius and his 'associates' who visited the manor. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was a near-mythical figure to Lucius — a symbol of a world he dreamed of resurrecting — a world ruled by pure-bloods, where families like the Malfoys would reign unopposed.
"He had vision," Lucius continued, almost to himself, swirling the wine in his goblet. "A world where pure magic would prevail, where there would be no room for the weak or the unworthy." He looked at Draco, then at me. "You two will carry that legacy. The honor of the Malfoys depends on it."
I felt a chill—not out of fear, but from finally recognizing the kind of man Lucius truly was. A fanatic, willing to burn the world for his beliefs, no matter how stupid and senseless they were.
***
When I turned four, Death finally revealed who she wanted me to hunt.
I stood before the mirror in my room at Malfoy Manor, adjusting the formal attire for the birthday ball my family had organized. The outfit was a masterpiece of ostentation: black velvet so dark it seemed to swallow light, with golden embroidery in intricate patterns that resembled intertwined serpents.
It was ridiculously over the top, but for the Malfoys, even a four-year-old had to look like a king. I felt more like a mannequin in a display case than the birthday boy.
'I look ridiculous.' I was trying to smooth down my blond hair when the air in front of me shimmered, like heat rising from sunbaked asphalt. Before I could react, a sheet of yellowed paper with ragged edges materialized out of nowhere.
My instincts kicked in and I jumped back, eyes scanning the room for any threat, but everything remained still, the only sound being the distant ticking of a clock.
I turned my attention back to the paper, and what I saw at the top made my stomach tighten. Written in cursive letters, as if burned into the surface by cold fire, was my true name: Nathan Williams.
I took three cautious steps forward and picked up the sheet between my fingers. Then I began to read.
—Name: Nathan Williams
—Role: Executor of Death
—Current Location: Dimension-7991
—Mission Duration: Indefinite
—Objective: Eliminate Nicolas Flamel, Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort), and Herpo (Herpo the Foul)
I stared at the paper for long moments, my mind processing the names. Nicolas Flamel, the legendary alchemist who created the Philosopher's Stone. Tom Marvolo Riddle, apparently Voldemort's true name—the same man my father worshipped. And Herpo the Foul—a name that meant nothing to me, but by context, seemed just as problematic as the others.
'…I thought there was only one.'
***
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.