A true Malfoy never lets his emotions show. He observes carefully before drawing conclusions, rather than permitting anyone to see any outward fluctuation.
Draco was such a Malfoy. Or rather, shaped by long and dark memories, he was no longer the arrogant, wilful boy he had once been, but had gradually become a cautious and discreet person.
This approach, however, might not serve him well in front of his parents. They were completely unaware of the dramatic changes within Draco and still saw him as an eleven-year-old boy. If they found their proud and wilful son suddenly quiet and withdrawn, they would keenly sense that something was wrong.
How would he explain it? Draco himself hadn't worked that out, and he had no desire to say anything sensational at this point.
He had grown accustomed to distrusting everyone, and no longer harboured any pathetic illusions that anyone could truly understand him.
Even his loving parents had never fully understood him.
So when Draco appeared at the breakfast table, he tried to present the lively attitude that an eleven-year-old boy ought to have — qualities he had carefully gleaned from the long archive of memory now living in his mind.
Clearly, he had succeeded. Lucius and Narcissa continued to enjoy the breakfast served by the house-elves, entirely unaware that anything was amiss.
During the meal, Draco couldn't help but steal glances at them, again and again.
They looked very young — far younger than he remembered.
His father's face was free of wrinkles, without any trace of fatigue or haggardness. He wore his favourite snakeskin suit, his platinum-blonde hair neatly arranged, flowing and shimmering in the morning light.
His mother was still beautiful and graceful, elegant in every gesture. Her proud and imperious face softened into a smile only for her husband and her son.
Draco was becoming increasingly certain of the authenticity of his past-life memories. Lucius and Narcissa were discussing the same estate affairs and Ministry of Magic matters as he remembered — almost word for word.
"Cornelius Fudge has actually applied for the Order of Merlin, First Class, for himself, and even intends to award it to himself..." A hint of contempt crossed Lucius's face.
"He sounds like a man thoroughly obsessed with power and status," Narcissa said leisurely, taking a sip of her tea. "We do love these sorts of pompous Fudges, don't we? Vain and weak, short-sighted and easily manipulated. Let's hope he's just as greedy for money as he is for recognition..."
Lucius nodded slightly in agreement.
That's right — just as in his past life, his parents were already scheming how to cultivate a closer relationship with this self-congratulating Minister of Magic.
Draco could even predict with confidence that when the house-elves brought out the final course, the conversation would inevitably turn to him.
"So..." Lucius slowly lifted the small silver spoon reserved for dessert, apparently admiring the pudding. "Durmstrang or Hogwarts — which shall it be?"
Draco did not answer immediately.
In his memory, he had once blurted out an answer, only to be harshly dismissed by his father.
Lucius had scoffed at his response as poorly considered, calling him a "reckless little fool" who didn't know how to think carefully before speaking.
He had no desire to be ridiculed like that again.
Lucius had always been strict with his son in everything.
He liked to deliver verbal rebukes when Draco grew too puffed up with pride — a way of bringing him back to a state of humility. His intentions, in their way, were good. But he had no idea what a devastating effect his sharp tongue would have over the years. Under the relentless weight of his criticism, Draco had become a sensitive boy who was both arrogant and deeply insecure.
No one could say that Lucius didn't love his son. During the war, he had finally revealed a rare tenderness — a paternal love he had never shown during peacetime.
That kind of fatherly love could only appear in extreme circumstances, Draco thought — like stars that shine only in a dark sky and are seldom seen in the light of day.
Ultimately, his father had never truly cared about his son's fragile, laughable sense of pride.
Draco took a small sip of tea, thinking quietly.
During most of the daylight hours, Lucius reserved whatever tenderness he possessed for Narcissa. Only with his mother could a father possibly show something resembling genuine care.
This was something Draco had never properly noticed in his previous life. In his memories, his parents had always talked enthusiastically in front of him about scheming, profit-driven schemes, or the tedious politics of wizarding society — nothing remotely warm between them.
They rarely expressed affection for each other directly in his presence.
He had never once heard his father say "I love you" to his mother in front of him.
And so, in his previous life, he had assumed that the occasional closeness between his parents was nothing more than a hypocritical union based on family interests.
Beyond pure-blood supremacy, what else could they possibly have in common?
Take their attitudes toward him, for instance: his father was stern, cold, and blunt, while his mother was gentle, warm, and roundabout. Their personalities were entirely different. Rather than a devoted couple, they had seemed more like partners in a strategic arrangement.
That was how Draco had understood it.
It wasn't until everything was on the verge of collapse that he realised the bond between his parents might have been far less shallow than he'd thought.
His mother had never abandoned his father, even when Lucius was imprisoned in Azkaban and every social circle closed its doors to her on account of the "stain" on the family name. And his autocratic father had, remarkably, abandoned his autocracy — he had chosen to listen to her, trusted her in a way he trusted no one else.
Was there something like love between them, beyond shared interests? Draco wondered, glancing at his parents from the corner of his eye.
"I want Draco to go to Hogwarts." Narcissa looked up at her husband, a faint smile on her well-maintained face, and said what Draco remembered: "I think the son of a school governor shouldn't be at any disadvantage there, do you?"
"Of course..." Lucius set down his spoon, leaned back comfortably in his chair, and looked at his wife with quiet warmth. "Of course Draco would be treated very well at Hogwarts. But you also know Dumbledore's attitude toward certain branches of magic — I worry our son might not receive the education he deserves..."
Narcissa frowned slightly. "But Durmstrang isn't even in England. Who knows where on the European continent they'd put him? I've heard it's dreadfully cold there..."
"I have connections with the headmaster — Igor Karkaroff — so Draco wouldn't suffer unduly," Lucius said casually, toying with his snake-headed cane.
The friendship of Death Eaters, Draco thought.
Karkaroff — a cowardly Death Eater. When the Dark Lord returned years later, he had abandoned his post as headmaster and fled. They were hardly men of substance. He was even worse than Dumbledore.
Draco scooped up some pudding with a spoon, doing his best to appear absorbed in it, while inwardly sighing.
Thinking of Dumbledore involuntarily summoned one of the greatest nightmares of his past life — the tragedy on the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore had simply... died. By Professor Snape's wand. It was utterly absurd. Even now he could barely believe it, though he remembered every detail with terrible clarity. He could not dwell on it for even a moment without the threat of crying out.
He forced himself to stop, and quickly recited the principles of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and the seven hundred fouls in Quidditch.
"Is there any better way to distract yourself than by reciting facts?" the girl in his memory had once asked him, chin lifted. "Yes, you're right, Granger, it really does work," Draco thought to himself.
Narcissa caught her son's quiet sigh.
"Draco, darling — let Mummy hear your thoughts. Which school do you prefer?" she asked gently, assuming his low spirits were the result of being neglected in the conversation.
His mother's love and care for him had always been obvious — never as subtle as his father's.
As for the question of which school, Draco had already made up his mind while eating the pudding.
Based on his parents' behaviour, the memories that had flooded his mind overnight were almost certainly true.
He would call it his "past life," for now. And the present — this might be something like a "rebirth." He had lived so long in those memories, had been so weathered and worn by them, that it felt as though he had already lived an entire life and glimpsed its end.
If everything from his past life was real, and turmoil was coming, he had to plan ahead.
He still had several years. He had considered leaving England entirely, putting distance between himself and the coming bloodshed — perhaps Durmstrang after all. But he also clearly understood that while Durmstrang might provide a temporary escape, there would be no safety once the Dark Lord returned. Hadn't Karkaroff tried the same thing?
Hogwarts might seem fraught with peril, but at least he had years of prior memory to draw on. He could learn from his past failures. He would be far more prepared than he had been before, better in control of the situation.
Besides, the Malfoy family's 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 Malfoy family could surrender many things, but not their traditions.
Escape was not the answer. It never had been.
There was another reason, too.
A faint, hazy, beautiful lingering memory. An unspoken, undeniable hope still somewhere in his heart. A shattered dream that had left him bewildered and full of despair.
"Hogwarts," he said. "I want to be near home so I can come back for Christmas." He looked at Narcissa, put on his most innocent and guileless smile, and caught — from the corner of his eye — the predictable look of mild disdain crossing his father's face.
Lucius was frowning slightly, apparently displeased by his son's rather sentimental reasoning, or perhaps by the implication that his presence at home might intrude on his and Narcissa's time together.
Father, that stern expression of yours can no longer frighten me — not when I know, beneath it, exactly how much you love me.
Even if it's just a little, Draco thought calmly. But outwardly he maintained his expression of perfect innocence.
He added, for good measure: "And Professor Snape will look after me, won't he? He's Head of Slytherin and Potions master, and very skilled in the Dark Arts. I'd like him to teach me more..."
Lucius suddenly found himself without a satisfying objection.
After the meal, Narcissa walked briskly from the dining room, thoroughly satisfied with how things had gone. Draco guessed she had gone directly to her study to send an owl accepting the Hogwarts offer.
Lucius lingered at the table, his expression slightly cool, and addressed his eleven-year-old son sternly. "Stop playing the little child with your mother — it's undignified. You're not a baby anymore. And since you'll be studying nearby, have some respect for yourself—"
He leaned closer, his tall frame looming over Draco's small one. "A proper Malfoy upholds the family honour. Study hard. If I don't hear that you're applying yourself, don't even think about coming home for Christmas."
Draco met his father's gaze steadily, and said at last, "Yes, Father."
Lucius looked into his son's pale grey eyes, and found something unexpected there: not panic, not fear — but a faint glimmer of warmth.
This puzzled him. He cleared his throat, a little awkwardly. "Tomorrow, your mother and I will take you to Diagon Alley to buy your school things. Think about what else you need and we'll sort it out together." He turned and strode away, toying with his snake-headed cane as he went.
Draco was left alone, staring at the extra serving of chocolate pudding in front of him, and gave a quiet, private laugh.
His father was still so awkward.
In his past life, there had been a very similar conversation at this very table.
And how had young Draco reacted then?
He had been driven to the brink of tears by his father's cold and threatening words, and had gone running to his mother for comfort. He had felt certain that his father was becoming more and more unapproachable, that the man he admired might not love him at all, that only his mother cared for him.
He had been too young then to see the expectation hiding beneath his father's sternness, and had entirely overlooked the significance of the extra chocolate pudding.
Draco could have summoned a house-elf and had dozens of portions brought at any time. He was the young master of Malfoy Manor — there was no shortage of anything. But Lucius had stubbornly saved his own portion for his son.
This kind of silent, indirect care might be clearer to an adult; to an immature child, it was far too ambiguous to recognise. Who could have noticed it then?
After his parents left the table, Draco finally allowed himself to stop performing. With the same unhurried, deliberate manner as Lucius, he thoughtfully finished his second helping of pudding, slowly turning over in his mind the decision he had made through careful, rational consideration.
He was going to Hogwarts.
Hogwarts.
His seven years there had not been what he once hoped. In particular, he'd had to contend daily with the arrogant Potter, the Weasleys who mocked him, and the insufferably know-it-all Granger.
Draco grunted softly — then felt an involuntary chill run down his spine. Several years on, the punch Granger had landed on his face remained vividly etched in his memory.
If she hadn't been Potter's friend. If he hadn't been so insufferably difficult back then. If he had shown this Muggle-born witch even a little more respect...
After all, she wasn't stupid. She was, in fact, remarkably clever.
Lucius had always compared her marks to Draco's, which had made him both ashamed and furious in his past life. His father had never let him forget that he couldn't outperform a Muggle-born girl.
As a child, Draco had both revered, feared, and admired his father, treating everything he said as absolute truth.
He had wanted nothing more than his father's complete approval — to become a Malfoy his father could be proud of — and would have given anything to achieve it.
And so the sting of his father's disapproval had clouded his judgement, causing him to ignore his own truer feelings and busy himself instead with deepening his hatred of Potter and his friends.
Back then, he had been accustomed to being the centre of attention. He had loved the spotlight and craved admiring glances — as most eleven-year-old boys do.
Potter and his friends had stolen that spotlight from him. Or rather, Potter's brilliance was so overwhelming — so blindingly bright, like the moon — that it had made Draco's own light, the Dragon Star, seem dim by comparison.
This stark contrast had infuriated him, and he had responded by relentlessly provoking the three of them, attacking from every angle he could find.
He hadn't even fully understood the source of his own anger before he'd thrown himself headlong into the rivalry.
Merlin. Looking back on those seven years, it seemed he had spent most of his energy in conflict with them. When Draco recalled it all now, he found only his past self utterly ridiculous.
He had no desire to repeat any of it. He had more important things to do, and real, formidable enemies to face.
The Dark Lord — that name that could not be spoken — had not yet returned. But he was stirring somewhere, and would soon bring chaos to the wizarding world.
The Malfoy family motto held that the greatest glory in life was not in never failing, but in rising again after every fall.
If those memories represented Draco Malfoy's Waterloo, then this was his perfect opportunity for a comeback.
It was not too late.
Not too late to leave behind all that filth and disgrace.
There was still time to preserve the Malfoy family's honour.
There was still time to make a different choice. To seize the moment, to grasp that fleeting opportunity.
Those cruel Death Eaters and werewolves must never again defile Malfoy Manor or terrorise his father and mother. Never.
How he had acquired these memories, and how he had come to inhabit an eleven-year-old body again, seemed less important to him now.
What mattered was the time. The moment. The place.
In his previous life, Dumbledore had offered him a choice, there on the Astronomy Tower.
But when he had hesitated — when he had tried to reach toward a different path — Dumbledore was already in dire straits, and perished in a flash of green light beneath the Dark Mark.
He had missed his moment, and after that there was no other choice to be found.
More and more opportunities had slipped away through his fingers during countless hesitations, until it was far too late for regrets.
But now, he had been reborn. He was still safe. He still had a choice.
Was this a warning from Merlin? Or a chance to begin again?
Draco didn't want much.
He had no desire to create any grand legacy.
He wasn't so arrogant as to imagine he could defeat the Dark Lord with his bare hands simply because he'd been given a second chance.
At the very least — keep the Dark Lord in check. Prevent his resurrection, or delay it. Use Slytherin cunning to trip him up at every turn and render him ineffective.
Ultimately, Draco Malfoy only wanted to protect the Malfoy family and his world.
To protect the people who mattered to him.
The Malfoy family had weathered centuries of storms and still stood strong on the Wiltshire plains. Now, with so much foreknowledge to draw upon, why shouldn't they fight for a chance to come through unscathed?
Tomorrow, he would finally see Potter again. The crucial figure necessary to defeat the Dark Lord. The foolish Potter who had saved him at the critical moment.
Eleven-year-old Potter, that simply dressed little boy, was truly someone to look forward to.
"Harry Potter," Draco said softly. "Let me get to know you properly this time."