Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy woke with a scream lodged in his throat.
One moment, there had been firegreen, blinding, agonizing light. A battlefield strewn with rubble. He remembered stumbling upon that exact rubble when a searing pain hit his body, the echo of the Killing Curse radiating through the grounds like a shockwave. The curse thrown carelessly into the crowd by a Death Eater, not meant for him, but killing him all the same. A happy accident. He had felt his own body collapsing from the curse snapping tight around his heart. His last thought- why him, why, someone, please, please help me-
And the next instant: Silence. For a moment, peace. Then, a ceiling. White. Clean. Strangely familiar.
Draco gasped and sat bolt upright, palms slapping against fine silk sheets. Similar to the ones he had at Malfoy Mano- Nausea immediately overtook him. His chest heaved. He tore at the shirt covering him as if the piece of clothing was causing him to be short of breath. But when he looked at the hands clawing at his chest, he halted, they were odd. Too small. Haha. He had small hands-
No, children's hands.
What.
He tore the blanket away from himself and scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over them, he hadn’t been this short in years. He stumbled toward the mirror at the wall opposite of the bed. A thin but round, pale face stared back at him; undercut white blonde hair, grey eyes too large, too bright, but too haunted for his age. There was no soot. No blood. He raised the sleeve of his right arm. No Dark Mark. His face and body were also not as gaunt as they were the last few years. But most importantly, no killing curse curse was gnawing at him from the inside and making quick work of his weak heart.
He pressed a trembling hand against his chest and felt a steady, strong heartbeat underneath. Eleven beats, a dozen, and still it went on and on and on and-
Draco exhaled a long breath he had been holding since- he didnt even know since when.
His mind, trained from years of avoiding certain death, immediately sorted through the possibilities. Dream. Polyjuice. Resurrection. Or, and the thought flickered so fast he nearly missed it, he had been sent back in time. He quickly walked up to the wall next to the mirror and hit his head hard against it. For a second everything went fuzzy and then came the pain. Sharp, pointed and annoying pain. So not a dream, then. But there was also an absence that old familiar curse-riddled shriek that went through every nerve which he would experience after getting hurt, due to months of torture and punishments effectively mutilating some of his nerves. He then turned to observe his surroundings.
He was in his own room. Not the East Wing, with its grown-up chill and the view of the racing green fields surrounding the manor, but the old nursery suite, with its carved silver bedposts and the dragon mobile hanging uselessly from the chandelier. Huh. The last time he’d seen it, he’d packed his trunk for first year. He ran on jelly legs to the window and wrenched aside the curtains. Outside, the manor grounds were preternaturally green, pale fog unraveling over the hedges. He searched for clues of season, year. The black poplars had all their leaves; the cypresses were new-planted, slim and roped to bamboo stakes. There was a small line of rose bushes bordering the dark metallic fences next to the main gate. The kind which his mother loved and took care of prefously but which were burned down as punishment for their reccuring failure to serve the Dark Lord properly. Or it had just happened on a whim of one of the Death Eaters' dislike of flowers. Who could say.
What was important was that they were no longer there, burned to ash and any proof of their once existence carried away by the wind. But here they stood, as magnificently and beautiful as he remembered them being.
He then turned and scanned the room for a calendar. There, on the ornate writing desk: a schedule of lessons in his mother's handwriting, and the date: August 30. August 30. Draco's hands trembled so badly the letter opener on his desk rattled in its stand. There was a time, between terror and war, when the date had meant nothing at all. But not now, not since he'd clawed through the calendar counting down to Hogwarts.
So it wasn’t a dream. Draco was sure that he had really died. And time really dragged him back. That was really the only explanation he could think of. But why?
“Draco?” his mother’s voice came from the hallway, soft and elegant, but tinged with concern. “Are you awake, darling?”
He froze. Narcissa. Alive. Untouched by the war. Beautiful, distant, worried Narcissa who hadn’t yet seen her world collapse.
He swallowed hard. “Y-yes. I’m fine.”
A pause. “Breakfast in ten minutes.” He heard her footsteps receding.
Draco sagged to the floor, shaking. Not fine. Not even close.
He started to think. If this really was a sick joke by destiny and he was somehow back in his eleven year old body.... Then he could be unstoppable! He knows what happens in the future. He could achieve everything he ever wanted! He could excel at Hogwarts, get recognized as the most talented young wizard due to this superior knowledge of spells and potions, he could even become a Quidditch champion! And he could finally make his Father proud by becoming most useful to the Dark Lord.
A shudder went through him and his body went cold.
The Dark Lord. Volde- He could not bear to speak his name out of fear, even now. The one and the same who tortured him, had made him so physically broken that he at times could not even perform magic for weeks after. The one who ruined his life, tore his family apart and led him to an early grave. No. Not again.
But then what? What was the alternative? Draco knew just how powerful the Dark Lord had become, how seemingly unstoppable. He shuddered at the almost certain knowledge the he would rise again and, in the end, would win. The only hope he had was, honestly, Harry Potter. However strange it felt admitting this to himself. But for a brief moment at Malfoy Manor, this same hope had made him say he did not know if the captured was Potter. Even though Draco could have never mistaken his school rival after years of admiration turned twisted jealousy and hatred. Harry Potter was really the only hope he had of bringing about the defeat of the Dark Lord.
Draco mused. The Dark Lord did fail to kill Harry Potter with the Killing Curse. And Potter did have a sizeable army behind him.
He wondered if he managed to do it. He wondered if Potter actually managed to defeat Voldemort. Draco guessed he would never know for certain. But it just might be his best bet.
Draco began to seriously ponder. Siding with the Dark Lord again might just lead him to repeating history. And he could not risk that. He wanted to protect his family and himself this time. Those were his priorities. Draco knew that even if the Dark Lord were to win, a life under his rule would be a life constrained to the whims of the Dark Lord and his followers. He knew that now, after having lived with them for months under the same roof. Furthermore, Draco could not bear to witness any more torturing. Just the thought, the intimate knowledge of what the victim was going through, made his skin crawl. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his too-small chest, fingers bunching the silk like a talisman.
Draco knew it was a long shot, helping and protecting Harry Potter in the hopes that he could one day kill the Dark Lord, but it was the only shot he realistically had. And he had an advantage.
He had lived this life before. He knew what should happen. However, the small triumph in Draco's mind was short-lived. Because he also knew everything he changed would ripple unpredictably. Draco frowned. Even worse, he didn’t know why he had been pulled back- And how the timeline could possibly already be bending in ways he couldn’t predict. That history was no longer guaranteed. He closed his eyes. He should focus on the most important thing: He had been given a second chance. And he would do his best to honor it.
“Breakfast in ten minutes,” echoed in his mind. Draco padded over to the wardrobe, half-expecting to find a set of Hogwarts robes pressed and ready; the evidence of another loop, another fairy-tale rewind at the expense of his already threadbare sanity. Instead, the doors yielded row upon row of velvet and satin, tiny fineries his mother had always insisted upon. He rooted through the hangers until he found something even remotely comfortable, then dressed with shaky efficiency. Buttoning the cuffs with slow, deliberate care, he marveled at how small his wrists were in the soft morning light.
He dressed carefully, breathing through the nausea of déjà vu, and he padded into the corridor. The familiar pattern of silver snakes wound around the banister. The echo of his own footsteps seemed both a comfort and an accusation. He descended the stairs of the manor with an uncomfortable awareness: This house no longer felt like home, only a memory of danger.
In the dining room, his mother stood in front of the stove holding a shining teapot, pouring out his favorite Assam. She turned toward him, a study in understated Slytherin grace: high-boned cheek, hair perfect, eyes only slightly shadowed from sleeplessness. “Good morning, my dragon,” she said, and smiled, and for a moment Draco forgot about the war and dying and everything except the impossible miracle of her, alive and well.
He almost cried.
Draco then turned and looked over at the other person in the dining room. Lucius Malfoy sat at the head of the long dining table, pristine in his dark robes, silver-blond hair draped over his shoulders. Cold. Regal. Terrifying.
He kept his eyes lowered. In his memories, he had relied on this man, wanted his approval more than anything else, rebelled against him only once through one small act during Potter's capture and, in the end, he had watched him break. But now, Lucius was powerful again. Commanding. Dangerous.
“Draco,” Lucius said mildly. “You look pale. Nightmares?” Draco’s heart slammed.
“Yes, Father,” he managed.
“First-year nerves. Perfectly normal.” Draco forced a tight smile. He didn’t mention it had been no nightmare, but the memory of his death.
“Today,” Lucius continued, slicing a pear with unnecessary precision, “we take you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. You will be representing the Malfoy name at Hogwarts. I expect nothing but excellence.”
Draco nodded. His hands were still shaking.
Lucius didn’t notice, or didn’t care.