A/N:Well, hello there. How are you all doing? If you enjoy the fanfic, comments, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
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A true Malfoy doesn't let his emotions show. He observes carefully before drawing conclusions, never letting anyone see an outward flicker of feeling.
Draco is such a Malfoy. Or rather, shaped by his long, dark memories, he is no longer the arrogant, wilful boy he once was, but has gradually become a cautious and discreet person.
But this approach might not apply to his relationship with his parents. They are completely unaware of the dramatic changes within Draco and still see him as an eleven-year-old boy. If they find their proud and wilful son suddenly turning quiet and withdrawn, they will keenly sense that something is wrong.
How would he explain all this, then? Draco hadn't figured it out himself, and he had no wish to say anything sensational just yet.
Draco had become accustomed to distrusting everyone and no longer harboured any pathetic illusions that anyone could understand everything about him.
Even his loving parents had never fully understood him.
So when Draco appeared at the breakfast table, he tried to display the lively manner an eleven-year-old boy should have, drawing on what he had gleaned from his long memory.
Clearly, he had succeeded. Lucius and Narcissa went on enjoying the breakfast served by the house-elves, unaware that anything was amiss.
During the meal, Draco couldn't help stealing glances at them, again and again.
They looked so young—much younger than he remembered.
His father's face was free of wrinkles, without any sign of fatigue or haggardness. He wore his favourite snakeskin suit, and his platinum-blond hair was neatly styled, flowing and shimmering.
His mother was still beautiful and charming, elegant in every gesture. Her proud, haughty face broke into a generous smile only when she looked at her husband and son.
Draco was becoming increasingly certain that his past-life memories were real. Lucius and Narcissa were discussing the very same estate affairs and Ministry of Magic secrets he remembered them discussing in his past life.
"Cornelius Fudge actually applied for the Order of Merlin, First Class, for himself, and even wanted to award himself the medal…" A hint of contempt appeared on Lucius's face.
"It seems he's a man obsessed with power and status," Narcissa said leisurely, taking a sip of her hot tea. "We love these glamorous Fudges, don't we? Vain and weak, short-sighted and easily manipulated. Hopefully, he's just as obsessed with money as he is with power…"
Lucius nodded slightly to his wife in agreement.
That's right—just as in his past life, his parents were plotting how to get closer to this self-promoting, self-rewarding Minister for Magic.
Draco could even confidently predict that when the house-elves respectfully served their masters the final dessert, the conversation would inevitably turn to him.
"So…" Lucius slowly picked up the small silver spoon reserved for desserts, seemingly admiring the pudding. "Durmstrang or Hogwarts—which one to choose?"
Draco did not answer.
In his memory, he had once answered abruptly, only to be harshly brushed off by his father. Lucius had scoffed that he hadn't taken any time to think, calling him a "reckless little fool" who didn't know how to think carefully.
He certainly didn't want to be ridiculed like that again.
Lucius had always been strict with his son in everything. He liked to criticise Draco sharply whenever he got carried away with pride, to bring him back to humility. His intentions were good, but he didn't know what a devastating effect his negativity would have on his son. Under the relentless, venomous verbal attacks, day after day, Draco had become a sensitive boy, both arrogant and insecure.
No one could say that Lucius didn't love his son. During the war, he had finally revealed a rare tenderness as a father, a paternal love he had never shown in peacetime.
That kind of fatherly love might only appear in extreme circumstances, Draco thought, like stars that shine only in the dark night sky and are rarely seen in the daytime.
Ultimately, the father probably didn't care about his son's pathetic and laughable sense of pride. Draco took a small sip of tea, thinking to himself.
In the daylight of peacetime, Lucius reserved his last bit of tenderness for Narcissa. Only with Draco's mother did his father seem able to show anything like "caring."
This "caring" was something Draco had never noticed in his previous life. In his memory, his parents had always talked animatedly in front of him about scheming inside stories, profit-driven ideas, or extremely boring social connections—in short, nothing romantic at all.
They had rarely expressed their love for each other directly in front of him. He had never even heard his father say "I love you" to his mother.
Therefore, in his previous life, he had thought the occasional intimacy between his parents was nothing more than a hypocritical union based on family interests.
Besides their pure-blood supremacy, what other common ground did they share?
Take their attitudes towards him as an example: his father was stern, cold, and direct, while his mother was gentle, warm, and indirect.
Their personalities were completely different. Rather than a sweet couple, they were more like business partners.
This was how Draco had understood it in his previous life.
It wasn't until everything was about to collapse that he realised the bond between his father and mother might not have been as shallow as he had thought.
His mother never abandoned his father, even when he was imprisoned and all of society shut her out because of his "stain." His autocratic father, in turn, gave up his autocracy and chose to listen to his mother, showing her unprecedented trust—he trusted only her.
Could there be "love" between them, besides interests? Draco wondered, his expression unreadable as he glanced at his parents out of the corner of his eye.
"I want Draco to go to Hogwarts." Narcissa glanced up at her husband, a faint smile on her well-groomed face, and said exactly what Draco remembered: "I think the son of a school governor shouldn't be at a disadvantage if he goes to Hogwarts, right?"
"Of course…" Lucius put down his spoon, leaned back comfortably in his chair, and gazed gently at his wife. "Of course, Draco will be treated very well at Hogwarts. But you also know Dumbledore's attitude towards certain kinds of magic, and I'm worried that our son won't receive the best possible education…"
Narcissa frowned slightly upon hearing this. "But Durmstrang isn't even in England. Who knows where on the Continent it is? I've heard it's far too cold there..."
"I have some connections with the headmaster there—Igor Karkaroff—so Draco won't suffer much," Lucius said casually, stroking his snake-headed cane.
Friendship—the friendship of Death Eaters, Draco thought.
Karkaroff, a cowardly Death Eater. In his memory, Karkaroff had abandoned his duties as headmaster and fled the moment he learned that the Dark Lord had returned.
Friends like these would clearly never amount to anything.
He was even worse than Dumbledore. Draco scooped up some pudding with his spoon, seemingly oblivious, while grumbling inwardly.
Thinking of Dumbledore involuntarily brought to mind one of the greatest nightmares of his life—the tragedy at the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore had simply died… by Professor Snape's wand… It was utterly absurd!
He still couldn't believe it, yet he remembered every detail vividly. He couldn't think about it for even a moment, or he might scream out loud.
He couldn't help sighing, and quickly recited in his mind the basic principles of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and the seven hundred Quidditch fouls.
"Is there any better way to distract yourself than by reciting facts?" the girl in his memory had asked him, head held high.
Yes, you're right, Granger, it really does work, Draco thought.
Narcissa caught her son's sigh at once.
"Draco, darling, let Mum hear your thoughts. Which school do you prefer?" she asked gently. She assumed that his low spirits came from his parents' inattention.
What was certain was that his mother's love and care for him had always been obvious—never as subtle as his father's, Draco thought.
As for choosing a school, Draco had already weighed the pros and cons while eating his pudding.
Judging from his parents' consistent behaviour, the extra memories that had flooded his mind last night were most likely true.
Let's call it the "past life" for now. As for the present, it was probably similar to "rebirth"—after living so long in that memory, so weathered that it seemed he had already lived a whole life and seen its end.
If everything that had happened in his "past life" was real, and turmoil was about to come, then he had to plan for the future.
There were still several years to plan and prepare. He had considered leaving England and keeping his distance from the bloodshed—perhaps by going to Durmstrang.
But Draco also realised clearly that although Durmstrang could shelter him from the conflict temporarily, he would not be safe once the Dark Lord returned—didn't Karkaroff run away too?
Hogwarts might seem fraught with danger, but at least he had several years of memories and could learn from his past failures.
He could be certain that he would be more at ease than before and would have better control of the situation.
Moreover, the Malfoy family's business roots were in England. They had stood on this land for centuries; how could they rashly abandon the legacy passed down from their ancestors?
The Malfoys could give up many things, but their traditions could not be abandoned. Escape was not on his agenda; it wasn't the best solution.
There was another reason.
That faint, hazy, beautiful lingering memory... that unspoken, yet undeniable, delusion in his heart... that shattered hope that had left him bewildered and filled with despair.
"Hogwarts. I want to be closer to Mum, so I can come home for Christmas." He looked at Narcissa, trying to put on an innocent and endearing smile, and out of the corner of his eye successfully caught his father's disdainful look.
Lucius frowned slightly. He was bothered by his son's soft, "homebody" tendencies—or rather, by the possibility that his son might disrupt his time with his wife.
Father, your stern face can't frighten me anymore, though you don't know why. I know you love me, even if only a tiny bit, Draco thought calmly, though on the surface he had to maintain an innocent, harmless expression.
He pressed his advantage: "And Professor Snape will look after me, won't he? He's the Head of Slytherin, the Potions professor, and very skilled in the Dark Arts. I'd like him to teach me more..."
Lucius suddenly realised that he seemed to have no reason to refuse.
After the meal, Narcissa walked briskly out of the dining room, thoroughly satisfied with the outcome of the conversation. Draco guessed that she had gone to her study to reply to the letter confirming his enrolment at Hogwarts.
Lucius stood by the dining table, his expression slightly cold, and said sternly to his eleven-year-old son, "Stop acting like a baby around your mother. It's embarrassing. You're not a little child anymore! And since you'll be studying so close to home, show some self-respect—"
He leaned closer to Draco, his tall frame imposing next to Draco's short arms and legs. "A proper Malfoy must carry on the family's honour. Do well at school! If I don't hear from you that you're studying hard, don't even think about coming home for Christmas."
Draco met his father's gaze quietly, and finally said, "Yes, Father."
Lucius looked into his son's pale grey eyes, which, unusually, held no panic or fear, but rather a hint of joy.
This was puzzling. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Tomorrow, your mother and I will take you to Diagon Alley to buy your school supplies. Think about what else you need, and we'll buy it all together." With that, he strode away, toying with his snake-headed cane.
Draco was left alone, staring at the extra serving of chocolate pudding in front of him, and chuckled softly. His father was still so awkward.
In his memory, Draco and his father had had a similar conversation at this very dining table.
How had he reacted back then?
Driven to the brink of emotional collapse by his father's threatening, cold words, he had cried in distress and run to his mother for comfort. He had felt that his father was growing ever colder and more unapproachable, unsure whether the father he admired actually disliked him, and believing that only his mother loved him.
At that time, he had been too young to see the expectation hidden beneath his father's stern demeanour, and he had overlooked the care behind the extra chocolate pudding.
Draco could easily have waved a hand and had the house-elves serve him countless portions if he wanted. It wasn't as if they couldn't afford it. But Lucius had stubbornly insisted on saving his own share for his son.
This kind of clumsy concern might be clear to an adult, but to an immature little boy it was far too ambiguous. Who could possibly have noticed it?
After his parents left the table, Draco finally didn't have to pretend to be a child anymore. With the same leisurely, deliberate manner as Lucius, he thoughtfully ate his second pudding, slowly digesting the difficult decision he had reached after rational consideration: he was going to Hogwarts.
Hogwarts.
Draco's seven years at Hogwarts had not been as wonderful as he had hoped. In particular, he had had to deal every day with the arrogant Potter, the Weasleys who mocked him, and the know-it-all Granger.
Draco grunted, but a chill involuntarily ran down his spine. Even after all these years, the punch Granger had thrown at his face remained vividly etched in his memory.
If she hadn't been Potter's friend, if he hadn't been so awkward back then, if he had shown this Muggle-born girl a little more respect...
After all, she wasn't stupid; in fact, she was quite clever.
Lucius had always compared her grades to Draco's, which had made him both ashamed and angry in his past life—his father always said that he couldn't even outperform a Muggle-born girl.
As a child, Draco had respected, feared, and admired his father, taking everything he said as gospel.
He had wanted to win his father's complete approval and become a Malfoy his father respected, and he would have given anything for it.
So the disappointment of being rejected by his father had clouded his judgment, causing him to ignore some of his own true feelings and busy himself with deepening his hatred of Potter and his friends.
Back then, he had been used to being the centre of attention. He loved being in the spotlight and craved the admiring glances of others—something every eleven-year-old boy enjoys.
Potter and his friends had stolen his spotlight. Or rather, Potter's brilliance was so overwhelming, like the moon, that it made his own once-dazzling star, the Dragon Star, appear somewhat dim.
This stark contrast had enraged him—he who considered himself a "chosen one"—and he had lost his temper and relentlessly provoked the three of them, attacking from every angle.
He hadn't even figured out the reason for his anger before he started blindly arguing with them.
Merlin, looking back on those seven years, it seemed he had spent most of his energy competing with them. When Draco recalled all of this, he could only find his past self utterly ridiculous.
He no longer had the will to do such ridiculous things. He had more important things to do, and real, formidable enemies who would target him.
The Dark Lord—He Who Must Not Be Named, that terrifying enemy—had not yet returned. But he was stirring somewhere, and would soon be stirring up trouble in the wizarding world.
The Malfoy family rules state that the greatest glory in life is not in never failing, but in being able to rise again after every failure.
If those memories signified a Waterloo for Draco Malfoy, then now was the perfect opportunity for a comeback and a triumphant return.
It's not too late.
It's not too late to get away from all that filth and disgust.
There is still time to preserve the Malfoy family's honour.
There's still time to make a new choice. Seize the opportunity, seize that fleeting moment.
Those cruel Death Eaters and werewolves must never again defile Malfoy Manor or frighten his father and mother, never!
How he had acquired these memories and how he had become an eleven-year-old boy again seemed less important to him.
What mattered was the time, the moment, and the place.
In his previous life, Dumbledore had told him on the Astronomy Tower that he could make a choice.
Unfortunately, by the time he hesitated and wanted to try another path, Dumbledore was already beyond saving, and perished in a flash of green light beneath the Dark Mark.
He had missed that crucial opportunity and had no other choice left.
After that, more and more opportunities slipped away during his countless hesitations, vanishing through his fingers, until it was too late for regrets.
But now he had been "reborn." He was still safe and sound, and he had a choice.
Was this a warning from Merlin? Or a chance for him to start over?
Draco didn't want much.
He didn't want to create any grand achievements.
He wasn't so arrogant as to think that he could defeat the Dark Lord with his bare hands simply by being "reborn."
At the very least, he wanted to keep the Dark Lord in check and prevent his resurrection, using Slytherin tactics to trip him up and render him ineffective.
Ultimately, Draco Malfoy only wanted to protect the Malfoy family and his own world.
To protect the people who were important to him.
The Malfoy family had weathered hundreds of years of storms and still stood strong and resilient on the Wiltshire plains. Now that he had these memories to draw on, why couldn't they fight for a chance to come through unscathed?
Tomorrow, I'll finally see Potter. The crucial figure needed to defeat the Dark Lord. The foolish Potter who saved me at the critical moment.
Eleven-year-old Potter, that plainly dressed little boy, is truly someone to look forward to...
"Harry Potter, let me get to know you again," Draco said softly.