Draco Malfoy, sole heir of the Malfoy family, is reborn.
One second, he was in the Room of Requirement. Flames consumed everything around him. He scrambled desperately across burning debris, his hands reaching upward in panic. The stupid Potter. He grabbed Potter's hand, pulled himself up, climbed onto the flying broom. He was saved.
The next second, he jolted awake.
His eyes flew open to soft morning light filtering through the canopy of his four-poster bed. The familiar carved wood gleamed in the gentle dawn. Silence surrounded him—only the distant hum of insects drifting through the open windows of Malfoy Manor.
Draco's heart still raced from the flames, from the terror of nearly burning alive.
But something was wrong.
The light outside was golden, bright with midsummer warmth. The scent of roses drifted through the window—his mother's garden in full bloom. This was not the desolate midnight of late spring that he remembered from his dream. The season was different. The time was different.
He pushed himself up on trembling arms and froze.
His hands were too small. His legs too short. His entire body felt wrong, compressed, childlike. Panic spiked through him as he staggered from the bed toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall.
The reflection made his breath catch.
The boy staring back at him was eleven years old. Platinum blonde hair. Pale skin. The face he had not seen in years. His own face, but impossibly young.
"Merlin's stinking socks," he whispered.
For a moment, Draco did not know what was real. Had everything he experienced—the seven years at Hogwarts, the war, the darkness—been nothing but an elaborate nightmare?
Then he pinched his cheek hard.
The pain was sharp and immediate. Too real to be a dream. This was no illusion born of a dying mind. He was genuinely small. He was genuinely young. His body had transformed into that of an eleven-year-old child.
Yet the memories did not fade as dreams do upon waking.
Instead, they sharpened. They crystallized. Seven years of Hogwarts lived vividly in his mind—the pain, the fear, the despair, the struggle. All of it remained perfectly intact. Every detail pierced his heart with absolute clarity. This could not possibly be the remnants of a single night's sleep distorted by a dying consciousness.
As he paced the length of his chamber in the dim dawn light, more evidence emerged. The vast amount of magical knowledge flooding his mind could not have been implanted by any nightmare or dark magic charm. He remembered complex spells he should not know at eleven. He recalled the specific methods for brewing advanced potions. Ancient rune theory. Alchemy. Knowledge of the Dark Arts. All of it remained perfectly preserved in his memory.
He even remembered using ancient rune and alchemy knowledge in what felt like a dream—repairing a vanishing cabinet that had troubled even skilled craftsmen. The specificity was too precise. Too real.
Draco's thoughts spiraled into chaos. He did not know how to process what was happening.
Could those memories be genuine? But if they were real, if he truly had lived through seven years and was now somehow back at eleven years old, what did that mean?
He moved to the window and looked out across the manor grounds.
The gardens were breathtaking. White, crimson, yellow, and pink roses crowded the flower beds in full bloom. His mother's pride and joy. The sight was so beautiful it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
This was nothing like the Malfoy Manor he remembered from his seventeenth year.
When he was seventeen, the Dark Lord's servants had occupied his home. They had defiled it. Left it in filth and ruin. Werewolves and Death Eaters had desecrated these very gardens without care. The memory of that humiliation burned in his chest.
Anger erupted inside him—sudden, violent, all-consuming.
Those disgusting creatures could never set foot in Malfoy Manor again. Never. He would not allow them to trample the pride and honor of his family. He would not permit them to humiliate his parents ever again.
His hands shook as he gripped the window frame.
He thought of his father. Lucius had been stripped of his wand—as precious to a wizard as life itself. Without it, he became defenseless. Broken. Like an eagle with shattered wings. Any Death Eater, even the lowest servant, could curse him with impunity. His father had lived in constant fear of humiliation.
And his mother. Narcissa should have been the most pampered lady in all of wizarding Britain. Instead, she had become a servant in her own manor. She lost her composure. Her pride crumbled. Anxiety replaced her elegant certainty. The Dark Lord had threatened to torture her if she displeased him.
The Malfoys' own manor became a prison. Worse—a murder scene. The Dark Lord allowed the lowly, brutal werewolves to enjoy themselves openly within these walls. Creatures from the lowest ranks of society, allowed to deface a home built on pure-blood pride. It was a slap in the face of everything the Malfoy name represented.
Draco sank to his knees on the Persian rug, his small hands clawing at the soft wool.
He was sixteen when it all began to collapse. Sixteen years old, and the Dark Lord had given him an impossible task: murder Albus Dumbledore.
A suicide mission. If he succeeded, his soul would be forfeit. If he failed, his entire family would be destroyed. His father had already been sent to Azkaban. The Dark Lord held his mother's safety as leverage. There was no choice. There was only compliance or annihilation.
He had never wanted to be a murderer. How could a proud Malfoy have blood on his noble hands? He should be clean. Free. Allowed to shine in the sunlight.
But his father was imprisoned. His mother was threatened. And Draco was trapped.
He had nowhere to turn. No one to trust. The old families who had once called themselves friends were already circling like vultures, waiting for the Malfoys to fall so they could claim what remained. Even money could not buy genuine support anymore. It only attracted greedy, covetous eyes.
And his enemies? The Malfoys had stood opposed to Dumbledore for generations. What hope could he possibly have from that direction?
Should he bow to Potter? Ask Dumbledore—the very man he was supposed to kill—for help? How could those he had been taught to despise, who had openly mocked him for years, ever assist him?
Yet Dumbledore had tried to save him at the end. In the Astronomy Tower, even as his life slipped away, Dumbledore had attempted to offer redemption to someone who deserved none.
And Potter. Stupid, foolish Potter. On the brink of life and death, as the flames consumed everything, Potter had turned back. He had extended his hand. He had offered salvation to a Malfoy who should have burned.
It was kindness Draco had never known. Care he had never experienced from the Dark Lord or his servants. The memory of it brought moisture to his eyes.
He had been a fool. A blind, arrogant fool.
The Dark Lord was no noble leader fighting for pure-blood supremacy. He was a madman. Violent, cruel, indiscriminately murderous. He killed all wizards, even pure-bloods. He killed anyone who ceased to serve him.
Draco had finally seen the truth only at the very end, far too late to matter.
He stood suddenly, feeling dizzy. He steadied himself against the antique carved table beside his bed.
On the table lay two letters. Two invitations to school. One from Hogwarts. One from Durmstrang.
They were exactly as he remembered them.
The morning after receiving these letters, his parents would gather to discuss which school he should attend. He could recall that conversation with perfect clarity. The outcome had been predetermined in his memory: Hogwarts.
If that conversation played out exactly as he remembered, then he would have his proof. His memories would be confirmed as real. He would know that he truly had lived those seven years. That this was not a nightmare but an actual second chance.
Draco lay back down on his bed, pulling the silk coverlet up to his chin. He stared at the intricate embroidery above him—silver dragons frozen in eternal flight across the canopy.
His emotions had drained him. The limited energy of an eleven-year-old body was already depleted by the shock and turmoil of the past hour.
He closed his eyes.
In a few hours, he would know the truth. He would know if his memories were real. And if they were real—if he truly had been given a second chance—then everything would be different this time.
Everything could be different.
Draco allowed himself to drift back to sleep.