Chapter Text
“Class dismissed,” Professor Snape said, eyes impassive as he left the classroom, his black robes billowing around him as he walked.
To his left, Crabbe started putting his things in his bag, grumbling something about points and other shit he couldn’t care less about right now.
Behind him, Goyle seemed to be whispering into Theodore’s ear as the other boy took notes and compared numbers. A displeased frown on his face.
Draco didn’t really care all that much.
A small, pale hand gently landed over his own.
Silver eyes met dark blue ones.
“Are you okay?” Pansy asked, her own frown ruining her cute, young face. “You were silent the whole class.”
“You didn’t even answer Professor Snape’s questions,” Theodor sneered. “How are we supposed to get points if you are not doing your best?”
“Yeah, Malfoy,” Blaise rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest, sarcasm thick in his voice. “How is our grade supposed to stand out if you are not Theo’s little dancing monkey, using your relationship with Professor Snape for our collective benefit?”
Theo’s cheeks flushed.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he defended himself. “Draco is the best in Potions in our year, better than Granger, better than Boot, his participation in class always guarantees us House Points.”
“Sure,” Blaise mocked, his smile widening.
“Both of you stop it,” Pansy hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Not here, not in front of everyone else.”
Draco stared at them, silent, trying to force himself to care about such a petty squabble and finding himself unable.
What was the point when they were all going to die?
2 hours ago, Draco hadn’t been 13, hadn’t been this rosy cheeked, bonny kneed teen on the cusp of puberty.
He was 30, he was broken, he was stabbed.
He had gone to prison for his crimes, and the fact that he had been coerced into those crimes was something Potter had taken into account while sentencing him to five years - Why was Potter the one taking part in his sentencing at the time? Draco hadn’t been sure himself - and he and his parents had served their sentences, had done their time, had paid their reparations.
The time came for Draco to be released, for him to start his probation and he had thought he could at least finish his studies, sit his NEWTS and maybe inherit his family’s title at least until his father finished his own sentence or his mother was released as well.
Because he had a responsibility for the people under the Malfoy family.
But no one came for him.
Months passed.
Aurors came and went.
Blaise asked one of them whether they were to be released and Draco at the time had listened attentively. He hadn’t honestly realized Blaise was there to begin with. He had been neutral, after all. He didn’t have the mark and there was no reason for him to be arrested.
The auror had laughed at Blaise then, grabbing his face to threaten him into silence or something worse would happen to such a pretty face and Draco felt something cold settle on the pit of his stomach.
He should have known, he had thought at the time, but he didn't.
He hadn't.
Blaise had looked at him, fright and despair clear on his eyes and Draco hadn't known what to tell him.
Tell his actually innocent man in front of him that this was the way of their world.
That he shouldn't have believed in them.
Because Draco wouldn't.
Never again.
It was only six months later that Pansy approached him, the limp on her left leg telling Draco she hadn't gotten the medical attention she had been promised - or maybe she had and then she had gotten hurt again for no apparent reason - and she had grabbed his hand, almost pulling him with urgency so he could lean towards her with the bars between them.
Her voice was hoarse, her eyes were watery, her teeth chattering from the cold but she managed to whisper into his ear.
The Malfoy patriarch had died.
The aurors whispered his weakened body had not been able to hold on, she told him, and he succumbed in the night.
"But," she whispered, eyes wildly darting around. "Theo said he heard him choking in the night, after drinking his water. He said he called out for you, for your mother… and then his lips turned blue, blood leaked from his eyes and ears…"
Draco didn't have to listen anymore.
Pansy and Theo might have their suspicions, but to Draco, Severus Snape's star pupil and best potion student in his generation, there was no need to know more.
His father had been poisoned.
His mother followed a month later, Pansy told him as the moon hid behind the dark December clouds.
Same symptoms.
Same illness.
Same poison.
Draco remembered he had wrapped his arms around his bony knees and cried for the last time. His chest heaving, tears streaming down his cheeks, biting his lips to drown out his sobs until they bled.
And then…
Everything lost its meaning.
Time.
Cold.
Pain.
Sometimes Pansy reached with her crooked nails towards him, combing his long hair as best she could.
Draco let her, not because he knew it was something she needed.
Maybe helping him control his appearance brought her a semblance of peace, maybe worrying over someone else made her feel useful.
Draco didn’t know.
Couldn’t force himself to care anymore.
What was the point?
His life was over.
He only had to wait until he was eventually poisoned like his beloved father and mother.
Until death came for him like it did everyone else.
And it did…
One chilly evening, snow piling on his windowsill.
A riot broke up.
A riot where Draco couldn’t recognize a single “prisoner” but then again, he hadn’t looked at anyone in the eye for what seemed like years. These clean looking, strong muscled and chubby cheeked prisoners could be newcomers he hadn’t seen coming in until today.
Draco didn’t leave his cell when all the doors flew open, he didn’t join the other prisoners when they desperately ran for their freedom, he didn’t even make a sound among the cacophony of their screams.
Until one of the “new prisoners” made it into his cell, blue eyes wild, freckled cheeks red with excitement. He sneered, spitting words of hatred Draco couldn’t even make up and he seemed to pull a knife out of nowhere, his lips curling into a wicked smile.
Draco didn’t move even when the knife sunk into his chest.
He didn’t scream when the red-haired “new prisoner” spit onto his corpse, dropping him onto the dirty ground.
He didn’t even twitch as the “new prisoners” moved away and he fell into darkness.
‘At least I’ll get to see mother and father,’ He had thought because what else was he supposed to think?
He had been betrayed.
He had been murdered.
He expected to go into nothing, to feel Queen Morrigan’s hands in his as she led him to what followed.
But that didn’t happen.
He found himself instead in a huge white void, warm, for the first time in decades, surrounded by lights that zoomed around and trembled when he tried to touch them.
“Help,” one hissed in his ear.
“Help us,” another pleaded.
“Save him,” the first one demanded.
“Save them…” the second one whimpered.
“Save yourself,” they echoed each other.
“From what?” Draco had asked, confused, his voice hoarse with disuse.
Something fell into his hands then, something heavy.
A book.
Many books.
Without understanding much, Draco began to read, wondering what was so important about these muggle people living in their normal house to warrant 7 long books…
… until he got it.
Because this book wasn’t about their lives.
Or his own.
It was about Potter.
Events Draco had wondered about for years suddenly made sense, but they didn’t.
Questions finally found their answers.
But more questions arose.
How Potter was a mediocre student at best and was still able to miraculously win the House Cup despite Draco and other students breaking their backs with extra curriculars and amazing grades each year.
How every single law seemed incredibly harsh for minors, but for Potter they bent and turned until they all worked in his favor.
How people appeared out of nowhere to fix Potter's issues without being prompted.
Some things in this book didn’t make sense.
Potter had been forced into the Triwizard Tournament in their fourth year, Draco had known it even back then - but that never stopped him from mocking Potter about it - but all Potter actually had to do was not compete, he had to be part of the competition because he had been entered into the magical contract, but all he had to do was sit there and let the other, the actually chosen, champions win.
Some were explained in ways he knew for a fact were not right.
And what happened to the Black wealth.
Because as far as Draco had known, neither Aunt Andromeda and Uncle Sirius shouldn't have been able to inherit the family fortune because the two of them had been vanished from the family tree and Aunt Bella couldn't until she served her time in Azkaban, but then, by logic of blood magic, the wealth should have gone to his mother as the only living, still recognized, free relative and therefore to him as well.
But for some reason the courts gave excuses over and over since Grand Aunt Walpurga died and the matter was never settled.
Because someone was pulling at strings behind the scenes to make sure black sheep, disowned Sirius Black got it all.
And then, by virtue of bulshit, to Potter.
How convenient.
Draco could bet this was another one of Dumbledore's manipulations.
He was the type to do that kind of thing.
Especially if Draco knew or a fact that the Ancient House of Black's library was still hidden in their home, opening only to the home owner and their heirs. Something neither Potter nor Uncle Sirius would know or care about in the grand scheme of things, but if Potter authorized it there was no reason for the old man not to indulge it he old grimoires.
Or just stop a Dark Family like the Malfoys from getting to them.
Bastard.
Some people he had thought were good people broke the law over and over.
Even his godfather.
Snape had told him before his first year that he wouldn't have time to help him, should he need it while they were in school. That whatever childish fancy accosted him should be directed to other, more competent adults.
Draco at the time had thought Snap wanted him to grow up, to be self-sufficient.
In the end, apparently, he had just wanted to dedicate his whole time to Potter and his mission, and if Draco or the other Slytherins made requests of him as their Head of House, he would have to listen to them as to not to break his cover as a spy, but that would definitely interrupt his …. Potter dedicated time.
Draco felt sick to his stomach.
He had heeded his godfather's words.
He was his godfather after all.
He had told his housemates not to bother their Head of House, organized an inter house bartering system, older students helping younger ones in exchange for chores.
A small mirror of the wizarding society outside, because he had believed him, had believed his godfather wanted his students to be independent, self sufficient.
He had been such an idiot.
And then the war came and went.
Students and teachers died by the hundreds, but only a few were mentioned, only the ones Potter cared about, but then again most he could tell he didn't actually care about, because they were just mentions, so and so died, so and so laid lifeless on the ground, so and so disappeared.
In the end it never mattered.
The fight was Potter and the rest were just meatshields for his glory.
Just as he had been.
And suddenly he was there, with a
wife and a child
Draco knew for a fact he didn’t have.
Draco stared, shocked.
“This is a lie,” he whispered. "This whole thing is not true…"
“Help us,” the lights whimpered again. “Stop this.”
“Protect him.”
Draco looked around, at the void, at the lights, at the books in his hands.
“How?” he asked. “How can I stop this? It already happened.”
“Go back,” the lights cried. "Go back! We'll protect you from it! Save him! Save them! One chance! One chance is enough!"
"Save who?" Draco demanded as the lights swirled around him, blinding him. "Who am I supposed to save?"
One of the lights sank into his chest.
The other melted into his outstretched hand.
As the world around him grew dark, he heard a name.
His eyes widened.
And then he was sitting in the dungeon, Snape's voice dronning and Draco's knife sank into his index finger, much to Goyle's surprise and Draco could only stare at his small, too small hands, free of scars and calluses he had gained over the years of his imprisonment.
His hair didn't fall against his back, it barely graced his neck.
Draco looked around, silent, confused.
He hadn't seen this classroom since he had been arrested that night in 1997.
He hadn't seen Snape since he left Malfoy Manor a year earlier.
Draco's eyes fell onto his parchment, where all his notes laid.
11th February, 1993.
Was this… what the lights meant with "go back"?
Not in place, but in time.
Before his life and the lives of many were turned for the worst?
Before the children in front of him were slaughtered or incarcerated, or both?
'Save him…' the voices had asked. 'Save yourself' .
Draco's eyes narrowed.
His mother and father were still safely back at home, they had wrapped their arms around him, his mother's lips kissing his forehead as he went back to school from the Yule holidays - that his mother refused on principle to celebrate, calling it the colonizer's holidays - his father had told him to be safe, fear clear in his deep blue eyes.
They were alive, right at this moment.
They were safe.
He could protect them from the fate their world had prepared for them.
From his left, Pansy and Blaise continued to bicker.
Nott and Goyle looked at him in barely disguised annoyance.
Crabbe sneezed.
Apparently he was given a chance for once in his life.
And he was going to take it.
A small smile curled up his lips, his eyes glinting.