Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy did not believe in miracles. Everything in life, whether it went his way or not, happened for a reason. Each event led to the next, and only those who reached for their dreams got what they wanted. This world had always been governed by cause and effect. Every decision carried a price. Every triumph was earned, or in other cases, stolen.
When he got an O on his Potions OWL, it was because he spent countless hours memorizing all the nuances of each ingredient in his textbooks, and not because of his very likeable professor, who also happened to be his godfather. Those who reached for what they wanted, who possessed enough determination, intelligence, or ruthlessness, eventually claimed it. Those who did not simply watched someone else take their place. It was a philosophy that had served Draco well. The universe owed no one kindness. It merely rewarded those willing to seize it.
When he escaped the Room of Requirement, it was because, well… Harry bloody Potter existed, and he had to save every fucking person he possibly could.
From his naturally powerful magic, his ‘Chosen One’ status, and his green, green eyes, Harry Potter was given everything he ever needed to succeed. Perhaps that is why Draco Malfoy despised Potter’s Gryffindor-ish bravery, his flustering anger, and even his lack of interest during his trial with Wizengamot. For Draco hated everything that belonged to Harry Potter, down to every last insignificant thing.
In the trial room, Draco was trapped on a cold metal chair. Chains locked his wrists down, though he had no desire to retaliate. Above him were the members of Wizengamot Council, sporting plum colored robes with an embroidered letter ‘W’. Their eyes were brimming with shame and contempt. To his side were the Golden Trio, seated in the audience. Draco hesitantly looked up at Harry, but once he did, he wished he hadn’t. Harry Potter’s stare was soulless. There was no anger, no triumph at seeing his childhood rival finally brought to justice. Not even the bitterness Draco had spent years cultivating between them. It perplexed him.
Draco had prepared himself. He could be hated, scorned, laughed upon. The choices he made, the outcomes, he deserved every drop of his anger.
But indifference? That was far crueler.
For reasons he couldn't explain, it hurt far more than any sentence the Wizengamot could possibly hand down.
Hopelessness seeped into Draco’s very skin. Every step he had planned out for his future had crumbled the moment he followed in his father’s footsteps. When he took on the dark mark, there was no going back, no other path to follow.
Draco Malfoy was then sentenced to the dementor’s kiss by Wizengamot, with little protest from Dumbledore’s lot, his supposed peers.
He collapsed to the cold hard floor of Azkaban with his arms around his knees, eyes red but bearing no tears to show for his pain. Surrounding his cell were large metal bars on all sides. It was protected with numerous containment wards, preventing the casting of any wandless magic from the prisoner. What even is the point of these wards? It’s not like I can do any wandless magic, he thought bitterly.
Draco’s head fell down to his knees. Azkaban was as fearful as it was advertised. The constant soul-sucking from the nearby dementors became almost normal. At this point, the screeching had become a low lull in the background. His arm fell to his side, revealing the dark mark. The image contrasted from his milky white skin. Moonlight filtered through the narrow window high above, illuminating his pale skin even more. His arm throbbed as he remembered the pain when he had taken on the mark. His eyes watered as he pictured Voldemort branding the insignia directly to his skin, marking him as if he were property. It was meant to be an honor to have the Dark Lord’s mark on you, but now, all Draco felt was as if his body was no longer his.
He attempted to scream, but nothing came out. His throat only felt more hoarse and prickly after trying. Draco glanced around his cell, noticing similarities to the cellars of his ancestral home that had once held the famous Harry Potter as a prisoner. He barked out a cold, hard laugh. The walls were not what made this prison unbearable, it was the silence. Draco Malfoy had never been alone. From his birth, there had always been someone at his shoulder. Professors eager to curry favor with the Malfoy name. He was always surrounded by fellow Slytherins, revering him for being the heir to one of the sacred 28 pureblood families. He pranced around, followed by his loyal friends, Vince, Greg, Theo, Blaise, and even his once-girlfriend, Pansy. He had spent his entire life surrounded by people, Draco Malfoy was never alone, but perhaps that never stopped him from being lonely.
His thoughts drifted to his mother, Narcissa, and how she always opposed Lucius Malfoy’s decision to follow Voldemort. Draco had dismissed her concerns, convincing himself that following his father was the only path left to him. Mother was right. I’m too weak.
Narcissa was sentenced to life in Azkaban. As much as Draco wanted to do something, to take on his mother’s punishment, there was no solution. Azkaban provided no bargains, no second chances. All he could do now was hope for a miracle.
Two guards approached the cell and opened the door, rusty metal screeching against the floor. They took Draco by his arms and led him to a separate room in the highest tower of Azkaban.
Draco slumped into the chair in the center of the circular room. He closed his eyes and his expression turned somewhat into a smile as he began to accept his inevitable fate.
The guards left the room and the door closed with a deafening clang. After the kiss, Draco would lose all contact with his friends and family. Victims of the Dementor’s Kiss were left as soulless shells, incapable of communication and feelings. After this, he was going to be isolated from humanity for the first and last time. A sudden chill swept through the cell. It was not the ordinary cold of damp stone or sea air. This cold reached beneath his skin, coiling around his bones and stealing the warmth from his lungs.
A dark figure emerged from the shadows where there was nothing before. Its tattered robes drifted unnaturally through the air, unraveling into wisps of shadow that seemed to swallow what little light remained. A Dementor. It glided toward him without haste.
Draco stared at the wraith-like monster, his entire body twitching with fear. And then it began to scream. The sound was unlike anything human; a ragged, soul-rending wail that seemed to tear through flesh, bone, and thought alike. It echoed inside his skull. Draco couldn’t breathe. He strained under the pressure as he felt his happiest memories escaping his mind. He heard Crabbe and Goyle laughing over some foolish joke in the Slytherin common room. He saw the thunderous crowd during a Gryffindor-Slytherin match. And he even saw Potter, forever catching the snitch before Draco’s reach.
He remembered the day he learned that the Chosen One was going to be in his year and how excited he was to meet him. That day, he had made a big fuss, telling Narcissa about his plans to befriend the boy. He made such a clamor in the halls and knocked down so many paintings that the house elves had to spend hours fixing the damages from his uncontrolled, wandless bursts of magic. When Lucius learned of his plans, Draco was taken to the cellars without ceremony. The doors closed behind him before he had time to understand what he had done wrong. There was no lecture, no warning, only the sound of a walking stick striking skin, and the raw, red wounds that remained. This was the first time Lucius had lashed out at his son, and Draco made sure it was the last. Nobody spoke of the events of that day in the following years.
The dementor began sucking at his soul, urging him to give up and end his resistance. An unbearable pain jolted in every inch of his body. Draco cried out and tears came flowing down his cheeks as if a dam had been lifted. Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! he repeated in his head. Of course, nothing happened.
Draco had never been able to produce a patronus. Although his wand had a unicorn hair core, known for its light magic capabilities, nothing but wisps ever came out of the tip. Ironically, the most successful memory he had used was the one of him laying in his mother’s lap, droning on and on about his friendship-to-be with the Chosen One. But however fond he was of that moment, it wasn't enough to produce anything corporeal.
Narcissa. Please, if I could save Narcissa. Draco choked down sobs as he relaxed into the chair and closed his eyes. God, please let me save Narcissa. It’s not her fault, it’s mine for getting her tangled up in this mess. If God exists, I’ll go to hell and back if it means I can protect my mother! Bloody hell, I’ll repent for my sins, I’ll stop teasing the bloody Gryffindors, I’ll actually study for my practical exams, I’ll even pay attention in classes besides Potions! Draco panted fast and shallow as sweat glistened on his face. He finally looked in the eyes of the dementor who was here to give him his sentence. Except it had no eyes, so Draco was making eye contact with the empty sockets of a skull. Great.
Just when he had given up on his nonsensical prayer, pain split through his skull. Draco thought he was seeing stars as he spasmed in his chains. He jerked forward towards the Dementor.
And then, a figure of blue light appeared before him. It was not corporal, not fully real, more like a memory given shape.
The woman had a ghostly sheen, as though she had been carved from a patronus spell itself. Although his gaze was hazy and threatening to knock him out, he could see that the ghostly maiden was beautiful. Her hair streamed behind her in an unseen wind, bright and untouchable. Accompanying her was a beautiful white stag made from the same patronus hue, equally luminous.
Keep your promise, an ethereal voice said in his head, volume barely above a whisper. He looked at the figure, but she was already gone, her ghostly shimmer dissipating into darkness. For a moment, Draco wondered if he had imagined it entirely, for there was no trace of it remaining. Except, on the floor was a pure white silver hourglass, knocked on its side, perfectly still except for the slow spill of bluebell-colored sand slipping from one chamber into the other.
Draco heaved, his breaths unsteady. But before he could begin to process what was happening, the pain in his head worsened and his eyes betrayed him.
When Draco opened his eyes, dread seeped into his very bones. A deep onyx chandelier loomed above his head on the ceiling. Surrounding the suspended crystals were gilded dragon heads that spewed Avada Kedavra green fire, lighting up the room to expose an elaborately furnished interior. Ornate glass panels allowed just the right amount of sunlight to touch the alligator-leather covered armchairs and dark walnut wood floor. The room was one decorated with endless care and precision, none of which belonged to Draco. Narcissa Malfoy had personally perfected every inch of the large bedroom, though it had not been this fresh and pristine since Draco was a first year. This was not his room in any meaningful sense anymore, it was just a memory of his childhood.
“Bloody hell..?” Draco murmured and rubbed his eyes as if it might explain what he was seeing. What happened to the dementor? And that strange ghost lady… Where am I? Is this Malfoy Manor?? Countless thoughts flooded his mind as he recognized what was inexplicably his bedroom in the opulent villa he spent his childhood years fooling around. He was just in Azkaban, receiving the dementor’s kiss, and yet…
“Ah yes, I must be dead,” He quipped. “My soul is gone, so I’ve gone to the afterlife. Great taste the angels must have, my old bedroom is quite finely decorated to say the least. Might I say, the green fire… it might have to go. God, what was I thinking, asking mother to charm the dragons with fire,” Draco droned on.
He pulled off the covers and groggily stepped off of the bed and into his slippers. On the right side of his bed was a large, full-length mirror with a glistening silver gilded frame adorned with amber stones. After taking an appreciative look at the tasteful furnishing, Then his eyes shifted to the reflection
“Blimey!” Draco yelped, his hand shooting up to his agape mouth. His jaw dropped when he saw the young boy in tacky dragon pajamas standing across from him do the same. Is that me?! Good god, I look like a first year! And my hair!
Draco rushed to his bathroom and ran the faucet, letting cold water spill into his hands before wetting his hair. He thoroughly scrubbed at the remaining hair gel clearly left from an inadequate wash the day before. He firmly pressed a towel to his face for longer than was needed before putting it down. He studied the face looking back at him in the mirror. Silver-blond hair clung to his forehead, wet from the wash. Cloudy grey eyes covered by thick, long lashes stared back at him. His fingers trembled under the soft, untouched skin. Draco quickly tousled his damp hair. His hands came up before he could stop himself, fingers groping his cheeks, testing if the mirror told a lie. A scowl finally formed on his youthful face. He slammed the dark wooden door shut and returned to his room.
He scanned the room and noticed something unfamiliar on his left bedside table. The obsidian-dark counter contrasted from the silver hourglass that lay upon it, as if begging for someone to notice it. Draco picked it up. The metal was cool against his palm, and when held to the green fire, he could make out an opalescent sheen. Along the base, evenly spaced circular indentations circled the rim, each one cut with careful craftsmanship. Above them sat a small engraving he could not yet make out.
‘Pluto’s hourglass. modrytram otsyad ehttnuoci.’ Pluto, does that refer to the planet or the Roman god..? But that doesn’t look like Greek or Latin, so that doesn’t make sense either. Is it some kind of time-turner? I don’t recall there being silver hourglass varieties… Perhaps not. It must have come back in time with me. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Draco spent ages studying the small minute details of the little charm, looking for any details that would suggest divine intervention. However, all he found was a small clicker on the top that revealed a silver chain for it to be worn as a necklace.
He fastened the chain around his neck and tucked it under the black robes he put on. He played with the charm with his fingers and began reconstructing his memories from the previous night. There was a beautiful ghostly lady that had appeared just before he lost consciousness, and a silver blue stag. His mind lingered on the stag. It looked awfully similar to Potter’s patronus. How he knew that was hard to explain.
Even after the war, some things never changed in Draco. For one, he was annoyinging obsessed with Harry bleeding Potter. Ever since before he even knew the git, Draco was obsessed with Potter. It started off as curiosity. The Boy Who Lived was a story that was told through the Wizarding world that he couldn’t help but admire. But slowly, the feeling grew to something he couldn’t name. The instinct to look across a crowded hall to see where Potter was sitting became habitual. A glance in a corridor, long instances of staring during class, but who was he to blame? Potter always returned the gaze.
Reminded of his history as a death eater, Draco quickly pulled up his sleeve. All that was exposed was bare skin. His dark mark was gone, erased from his body leaving no evidence at all that it had ever been there. His breath came unevenly as he sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers still hovering over the place the Mark should have been. It was as if reality itself had simply decided to undo his past mistakes.
Past mistakes… Mother!
Draco jumped off the bed and was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. He ran faster than he had in months. His parents had not shared a room since before he could remember. Better for him, Lucius Malfoy was not the person he wanted to run into during the early hours of the day. Draco rounded the corner and stopped short. Narcissa Malfoy was already dressed and standing outside her room. Her face was youthful, none of the fine lines of age creeping on her face like they had the last moments Draco had seen her. Her expression held a quiet clarity and there was a certain tranquility to her eyes. She adjusted a fold in her dress before looking up at him.
“Don’t run in the hallways, my uncouth little dragon,” She scolded him lightly, “It isn’t becoming.”
All the words he had rehearsed in his mind for this moment vanished in an instant. All the apologies, every desperate attempt to explain what he had become and what he had failed to protect went out the window when he saw her. She was alive, unharmed, caring even when she was reprimanding him. Nothing he wanted to say seemed right.
“I apologize, Narcissa,” he mumbled out. His mother’s face made an expression he couldn't quite understand, but it quickly changed to a smile.
“It’s alright. Now Draco, let us walk to breakfast. The weather is lovely today, so I thought we might enjoy a meal out by the patio,” she hummed as they walked side by side.
When they arrived at the table beneath a large umbrella blocking the morning sun, his father was already sitting at the end. He sipped a cup of coffee and wordlessly charmed the Daily Prophet to stay afloat as he read. This was the man Draco wanted to become for 17 years of his life, who he had believed was untouchable. But it was not true, for the illustrious Lucius Malfoy cowardly followed Voldemort’s beck and call. He had taught Draco the importance of blood purity and trained him to hold anyone of lesser blood in contempt. Ignorant bastard. What good is blood purity when a Muggleborn is at the top of the year? And she punched me! What Lucius Malfoy didn't teach was that there was something more important than blood purity. Power. And Draco had very little power. That was one of the numerous things he vowed to change this time around. But first, he had to go to Hogwarts.
“Father, has my Hogwarts letter arrived yet?” He said, tone calm and steady. Lucius didn’t look up from the paper.
“Patience, Draco. It should be coming any minute now. Pureblood families receive their owls first.”
A familiar answer. Draco lowered his gaze to his plate. He felt the desire to lash out, but he interested himself in the scrambled eggs and tomatoes on his plate instead. After all, there was no need to cause a scene.
A few moments later, something shifted in the air. A large tawny owl swooped down onto the stone balustrade, extending one leg with practiced impatience. Tied to it was a thick envelope sealed in emerald wax. Draco carefully untied it from the owl’s leg. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could suppress it.
“May I be excused? I would like to read this in my room,” Draco asked, already rising from his chair before he got a confirmation. He was already out and running when Lucius finally glanced up from his newspaper. Draco was already halfway across the courtyard.
Draco ran all the way to his room, his Hogwarts letter in his arms. He carefully clutched the parchment, as if it might vanish if he were to be not careful. He didn’t stop until he reached his room. The door shut behind him with a soft click. His breath hitched from prolonged activity.
Only then did he finally look properly at the envelope. He reverently caressed the seal and reached for the letter inside.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
The term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
The truth finally settled into place with quiet certainty. This is his reality now. Draco was back in first year, seven years before everything had gone wrong. He sank into the mattress, still holding the letter like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
This time, he had knowledge of his previous mistakes. This time, he could choose differently. This time, he had a chance to change.