A/N:The first chapter is a bit short. This is a fanfic, so some things will differ from the original canon. If you're looking for exact lore and details, I highly recommend reading the original books.
This story probably won't be everyone's cup of tea, and that's completely fine. If it's not for you, feel free to move on to something else. There will also be plot holes here and there—I'm not a professional writer, just someone writing for fun.
The romance is a very slow burn. Honestly, much slower than I originally intended, and I may have dragged it out a little too much… but it is what it is.
That said, if you do enjoy the fanfic, comments, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
Draco Malfoy, the sole heir of the Malfoy family, had been reborn.
One second ago, he was still scrambling atop that wretched pile of junk amidst the
raging flames of the Room of Requirement, stretching his hand out to the foolish
Potter—yes, he had grabbed Potter's hand, hauled himself onto the broomstick, and
been saved.
The next second, he awoke from the thrill and elation of that near-death escape to
find himself lying peacefully in the familiar, grand, and comfortable four-poster
carved bed at Malfoy Manor.
All around was quiet, broken only by the soft chirping of insects in the grounds.
Draco registered the difference at once. This was the dawn of a midsummer morning
scented with roses—not the bleak, late-spring midnight he had just dreamed of. The
timing was wrong. The season was wrong. He sat bolt upright—and nearly lost his
balance.
He raised his hand in surprise, then stared at everything on his body: a child's
feet, a child's legs, a child's hands and arms.
Shock. Yet he struggled to remain calm—a discipline honed through years of terror.
Drawing a slow breath, he crossed to the full-length antique mirror standing to one
side of the room—and found he had transformed entirely into a small boy.
One who vaguely resembled his eleven-year-old self.
Merlin's beard!
For a moment, he could not tell whether everything he had experienced before waking
was a dream, an illusion, or reality.
And yet the memories of seven years at Hogwarts remained vivid and lifelike,
coursing through his mind without pause—every detail of his pain, fear, despair,
and struggle piercing his chest again and again.
This could not possibly be a long, drawn-out dream.
What exactly was going on? Was the boy's body he occupied right now the very one
from those memories?
The first faint light appeared in the sky beyond the window. In that pale glow,
Draco studied his own reflection—eyes full of doubt and unease. He watched the
platinum-haired boy in the glass frown with an air of maturity far beyond his years.
He pinched his own cheek hard with small fingers, coaxing a sharp flush of colour
into his pale face.
The pain confirmed the world was real. He was, without question, a small boy.
Merlin. He turned away from the mirror. He did not want to see that expression again.
He paced back and forth in the dim dawn light, trying to quiet his turbulent emotions.
Wake up. You must have come across some dark artefact, or it was a nightmare taking
hold. Wake up! He pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples, forcing himself to
surface.
Memories of dreams typically fade and blur as one fully wakes. What terrified him
was that as time passed and his mind sharpened, the flood of memories showed no sign
of receding—instead, they gushed forth like water from a broken pipe, turning his
carefully ordered memory palace into a vast, chaotic surge.
The torrent poured endlessly, every fragment drifting and swirling through his mind.
And with those memories came an enormous weight of magical knowledge—powerful proof
of seven years of study at Hogwarts. The complex spells, potion-making techniques,
and centuries of magical history crowding his head could not possibly have been
planted there by a dark artefact overnight.
He even retained knowledge of ancient runic research and alchemy—knowledge he had
used, in those memories, to repair a Vanishing Cabinet that even Borgin had
struggled with.
It was all so real. So specific and so detailed that not a single memory rang false.
Draco's thoughts spun. He stood at a loss.
Could those things have truly happened? Then why had he been turned back into an
eleven-year-old?
Restless, he looked through the window at the manor courtyard bathed in the soft
early light.
The place was a picture of prosperity. The roses his mother Narcissa had planted in
the garden—white, red, yellow, and even pink—were all in full bloom, peaceful and
beautiful, exuding a captivating fragrance.
It was so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes.
This scene was worlds apart from the Malfoy Manor he had known at seventeen. By
then, the Dark Lord's filthy followers had shamelessly occupied his home, turning it
into a lawless, degraded place.
That had been the most humiliating memory of a proud Malfoy's life.
No noble pure-blood family should ever be subjected to that.
A surge of rage welled up within him. Those disgusting creatures must never again
appear at Malfoy Manor—must never again trample the pride, dignity, and honour of
the Malfoy name.
Never again.
His hand gripped the windowsill, trembling, as he thought of what his father and
mother had endured.
The Dark Lord had stripped his father Lucius of his wand—the thing a wizard
cherishes more than his own life. Like an eagle with clipped wings, he had been left
defenceless, a target for anyone's cruelty. Any Death Eater, any Auror,
could curse him or humiliate him at will.
His mother Narcissa, who should have been the most pampered noblewoman in England,
had been reduced to something like a servant within her own home. The elegant
composure she wore like a second skin had crumbled; her proud, serene face had been
replaced by one etched with anxiety and fear. The Dark Lord could torment her on a
whim, at any moment he chose.
As for the Dark Lord himself—he was a usurper. He had turned the Malfoy estate into
something between Azkaban and a slaughterhouse, letting brutal werewolves swagger
through a house that prided itself on its lineage. It was a slap to the face of
everything the Malfoys stood for.
Draco's face went white.
His father must never be stripped of his wand again, must never return to that
terrible place. His mother must never be humiliated again, never forced to grovel
before lowly creatures in the home she had always been so proud of.
And he himself must never again be forced to plot Dumbledore's murder.
Draco slowly sank to the floor, hands unconsciously gripping his platinum-blonde
hair.
Sixteen. A devastating year.
At sixteen, he had harboured all the resentment that age was meant to be free of.
It should have been the finest year of a boy's life—full of light, friends, perhaps
even the first stirrings of romance—but instead he had been pressed into plotting
the murder of the most powerful wizard of the century: Albus Dumbledore.
A suicidal mission. Fail to kill Dumbledore, and the Malfoy family would be
destroyed. Succeed, and his own soul would die alongside it—if a pathetic Death
Eater could still be said to possess one.
He had never wanted to be a murderer. Not once. How could a proud Malfoy have blood
on his hands? He was meant to move through the world in sunlight, clean and
untainted.
But when his father was taken to Azkaban, the Dark Lord had used his mother's safety
and the future of the Malfoy family as leverage against a sixteen-year-old boy
reeling from the sudden ruin of everything he had ever known.
It was a monstrous thing—blackmailing a child in the grip of panic.
That was the Dark Lord's way: cruel, evil, and utterly without mercy.
Draco had had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
The Malfoy family's old allies had begun to show their teeth: with the death of his
grandfather Abraxas, their network of connections had crumbled. Money no longer
bought loyalty—it only invited greed. Those former friends wore expressions of
sympathy while their eyes gleamed with poorly concealed expectation, all angling for
a share of the Malfoy family's ruin.
As for their opponents—the Malfoys had long since placed themselves on the opposite
side of Dumbledore's allies. What fantastical help could possibly come from them?
Surrender to Potter? Seek aid from Dumbledore, the very man he was meant to kill?
The people he had been taught to despise since childhood were far too busy gloating
to offer him anything.
The Malfoys had always regarded Dumbledore and his circle with deep suspicion. It
had never occurred to Draco—he had never dared imagine—that Dumbledore, even at
the very end of his life, would still reach out to salvage his wretched soul. Just as
it had never occurred to him that the foolish Potter would wheel back at the brink of
death and pull him onto a broomstick.
It was a kindness he had not encountered in a long time. A kind of care he had never
once felt from the Dark Lord or the Death Eaters. The feeling was layered and
confused, and his eyes stung with an unwelcome moisture.
A feeling of regret crept over him, slow and heavy.
Draco had to admit one thing: he should have asked them for help. Asked Potter.
Asked Dumbledore.
They might have helped him. Their ideologies, beliefs, and loyalties were entirely
different—but they shared a common enemy in the Dark Lord. That alone made
cooperation possible.
The Dark Lord was no longer the figure Draco had been taught to revere. During the
months he had spent under the Dark Lord's occupation of Malfoy Manor, Draco had
gradually come to see the truth: the man was not the elegant, noble, visionary leader
his father had described—not the one who would restore the glory of pure-blood
wizards.
He was capricious, monstrous, violent, and cruel, slaughtering wizards without
discrimination, pure-blood or otherwise. Draco had felt a private grief over this
that he could share with no one—though his father Lucius had called such feelings
shameful, emotions fit only for cowards.
Perhaps Draco Malfoy had always been a coward. Or perhaps Lucius had simply been too
consumed by devotion to the Dark Lord—too deeply invested, too far sunk—to see
clearly anymore. He had grown so convinced of the Dark Lord's inevitable victory that
he had lost all capacity to imagine failure.
Draco's dream had ended. Stepping back from the fever of that fanaticism and looking
at the Dark Lord with clear eyes, he saw nothing but a heartless madman.
He remembered the faces of the Death Eaters as they regarded the Dark Lord: without
worship, there was no love—only fear.
Most of them—excepting Bellatrix—were simply terrified. Many had long since sensed
that something was deeply wrong. But they had gone too far down the path to turn
back, and so they pressed on, gambling everything on a chance of survival.
Draco did not want to press on down that path and meet with ruin. Siding with
Dumbledore and Potter was the only chance the Malfoys had of escaping the Dark
Lord's grip—and perhaps of turning their fortunes around entirely.
Potter—foolish as he was—Draco desperately needed him to be the legendary saviour
he was supposed to be, the one who would deal the final blow.
After all, Potter had slipped through the Dark Lord's fingers more than once.
The first time, he had been an infant in swaddling clothes. The second was in the
graveyard, where even the Dark Lord had been unable to kill him—his father had
explained that their wands had formed a rare connection, rendering the killing spell
ineffective. The third time was when the Dark Lord borrowed his father's wand and
pursued Potter through the air—only the wand was destroyed, while Potter escaped
unharmed.
If it came to a fourth time, would things be any different?
Potter seemed to possess some mysterious power to resist the Dark Lord—though Draco
had never quite been able to identify what it was.
In his estimation, the foolish and arrogant Potter, for all his fame, had never shown
any talent or ambition that could truly rival the Dark Lord. No one had watched
Potter more carefully than Draco—his father had insisted on it. And what he had
observed was a boy who was, by any objective measure, disappointingly ordinary.
Apart from the scar on his forehead, he was no different from any other boy.
Neither particularly hopeless nor particularly extraordinary. A boy who might live a
decent life in peacetime, but who appeared to possess none of the qualities needed to
match the Dark Lord in any real contest.
This was why the Malfoys had pledged themselves to the returned Dark Lord almost
without hesitation—they had seen no path to a Potter victory.
Had they known then that this seemingly ordinary boy possessed the inexplicable power
to survive the Dark Lord's every assault, they might have been considerably more
cautious.
Draco looked up at the fading moon, a troubled frown on his face. Their judgment had
been catastrophically wrong. They had chosen the wrong side.
Joining the Dark Lord had brought them nothing. They had lost their dignity, their
standing, their wealth, and been left living like hunted dogs—sleepless, hopeless,
and afraid.
The moment the Malfoys ceased to be useful, the Killing Curse would be nothing more
than a flick of the Dark Lord's finger. He would not spare them a second thought. He
cared only for himself.
Draco exhaled. The weight of it all—the regret, the disillusionment, the collapse of
a faith he had never truly chosen to hold—left him utterly hollow. He slumped onto
the Persian carpet at his feet, fingers absently clutching and tearing at the fine
wool, as though his hands were performing what his chest could not.
He had cried alone before. Had despaired alone. More than once.
He had never wanted to be a pathetic, shame-filled Death Eater, living in constant
dread of what tomorrow would bring.
Then, on impulse, he reached out with a trembling hand and pushed up the sleeve of
his light grey silk nightgown.
His wrist was clean. Unmarked.
The Dark Mark was gone—as though it had never existed.
Draco let out a long, slow breath, and a smile spread across his face.
He stroked his wrist again and again. "That's wonderful," he murmured.
The relief in his soul was tangible. The pain, the oppressive weight, the sinister
pressure of the Dark Mark he carried in his memories—all of it had vanished.
No Mark. And his father had not stolen the prophecy orb, had not been arrested, had
not been sent to Azkaban.
Malfoy Manor remained peaceful and beautiful—a symbol of everything the family was.
Draco rose abruptly—too quickly. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he steadied himself
against the carved antique table.
Were those memories dreams, or reality? It had all come on so suddenly, so strangely.
He still could not quite believe it, and found himself drawn once more into the same
spiral of circular, disorienting thought.
Then he saw them, there on the table: his Hogwarts acceptance letter—a thick yellow
parchment envelope bearing his name in emerald-green ink. Beside it, the letter from
Durmstrang.
Going back to the very beginning.
He remembered: the morning after receiving these two letters, the Malfoys would
discuss his choice of school over breakfast. As he recalled, they had chosen Hogwarts.
An opportunity to test the truth of his memories had been placed directly before him.
If, in a few hours, his parents' conversation matched what he remembered—broadly, at
least—then he could say with some certainty that he was reliving days already lived,
walking paths already walked.
Then perhaps those seven years at Hogwarts were real, and none of it a nightmare.
Wait. Wait for breakfast. See how things unfold.
Draco steadied himself. He walked slowly back to his bed and lay down again. The
emotional storm had exhausted the limited reserves of an eleven-year-old's body. He
gazed up at the intricately patterned bed curtains, watching the shimmering silver
dragon ornaments shift among the embroidered folds—and his eyes grew heavy, and he
slept once more.