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Draco's eyes flew open with a violent start, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, the phantom pain of a curse piercing through him still lingering in his ribs.
He looked around blankly. What met his eyes was not the war-torn ruins of Hogwarts, nor the cold stillness of a morgue, but the familiar sight of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
—Racks laden with every manner of wizarding robes, the air thick with the scent of wool and aged fabric, worn yet strangely comforting.
He was standing on a wooden box to add height, and a middle-aged witch was bustling around him, a measuring tape darting and looping as she took his measurements.
Draco stared at her for a long moment before dredging her identity from the haze of memory—it was Madam Malkin. But how could she look so young?
"Master Malfoy, what's wrong? You look dreadfully pale." Madam Malkin paused her work and looked at him with concern. "Are you feeling unwell?"
Master Malfoy? Draco stiffly lowered his gaze to his own hands. They were slender, pale hands, with the unformed softness of youth—no calluses from years of gripping a wand, no scars from battle, impossibly clean.
His heart clenched. Draco looked up, and his gaze crashed into the mirror behind Madam Malkin. The reflection staring back at him made his breath catch:
Platinum-blond hair fell softly over his forehead, pale skin, cheeks still carrying the last traces of baby fat, and a pair of grey eyes—but those eyes held none of a middle-aged man's steadiness and weariness. Instead, they bore the shape of youth, yet the depth of a soul that had lived too much, a dissonance that made them seem out of place.
—This was Draco Malfoy, first year. This was not the face of his forty-year-old self!
An absurd yet seductive thought exploded in his mind, sending his heart into a frantic gallop. His voice trembled as he asked:
"Madam Malkin, what day is it today?"
"Today?" Madam Malkin blinked in mild confusion, then answered with a smile, "Why, it's the day for Hogwarts first-years to be fitted for their robes, of course. Have you forgotten? Your parents sent an owl just yesterday to confirm that you'd be coming in today for your school robes."
Hogwarts... first-years? Draco's breath stalled, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
He swept his gaze around the shop once more, over the racks of robes, the brass hooks glinting faintly in the sunlight, the breeze from the open door stirring the gauze curtains to reveal the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley beyond the window.
His fingertips brushed against the stiff parchment in his pocket—a Hogwarts acceptance letter.
"I was just making sure." Draco drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. A forty-year-old soul gave him far better control over his emotions than any eleven-year-old body should have. He pressed down the churning inside him and restored a mask of composure, though beneath that mask churned thoughts like a storm-tossed sea. "Please continue, Madam Malkin."
"Master Draco, lift your arm a bit more—this part needs taking in."
Madam Malkin moved around behind him with the measuring tape, her voice carrying its usual familiarity. Draco complied, raising his arm, but his gaze drifted almost involuntarily toward the corner of the shop—
A black-haired boy stood there, thin and small, a lightning-shaped scar hidden beneath the fringe falling over his forehead, dressed in ill-fitting Muggle clothes. That scar was glaringly conspicuous.
It was Harry at eleven—still carrying the raw awkwardness of the Muggle world, unease flickering in his eyes, nothing like the sharp-eyed savior who would one day stand at the center of a battlefield.
Draco remembered countless confrontations with Harry in his previous life, the childish provocations and petty feuds, their opposing sides in the war, and finally dying in Harry's arms, with that look of panic and pain in his eyes.
Now, none of it had begun. Harry was still the bewildered boy just stepping into the magical world, and he was a soul returned with decades of memory.
This time, he did not want to repeat the same mistakes. He did not want to make enemies because of his family's arrogance, did not want to be dragged into that brutal war, did not want to watch his father sent to prison, did not want to lose Astoria, did not want Scorpius to grow up alone.
Perhaps... perhaps if he did things differently from the very beginning, so much could change.
Draco adjusted his cuffs, suppressed the surge of emotion in his chest, and stepped down from the wooden box, walking toward that figure. His stride was steadier than expected—none of the swagger of youth, only the restraint of a middle-aged man.
"Hello."
Draco heard his own voice, bright with the clarity of a boy's. He walked up to Harry, extended his hand, and tried his best to make his tone sound friendly.
"I'm Draco Malfoy."
Harry was clearly caught off guard by this sudden kindness. He looked up sharply, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly, and then a flicker of panic and awkwardness flashed through those green eyes.
—It was the look of someone meeting a peer offering friendliness for the first time, momentarily at a loss, frozen in place and unsure how to respond.
Harry stared at Draco as if deliberating something, and only after a few seconds did he nod hesitantly. "Er—I'm Harry Potter."
Draco extended his hand, his fingers slightly tense—this was the first time he had ever proactively offered goodwill to Harry, a gesture colored by an adult's caution and tinged with a desire to make amends for the past. "Pleased to meet you, Potter. At Hogwarts, perhaps we could—"
Before he could finish, he saw Harry's expression shift. A fog seemed to settle over those eyes, something vague and unreadable flashing through them, too quick to catch, and then clarity returned—only now the wariness in his gaze had deepened.
Harry stood rigid, his lips moving soundlessly, but no words came. He did not take Draco's hand.
The air thickened. Draco's hand hung in the empty space between them, his fingertips growing cold.
He saw, with painful clarity, that flicker of aversion in Harry's eyes—the same look Harry had worn countless times in their previous life after one of Draco's taunts. So that was how it was. Even given a second chance, some things simply couldn't be changed.
A profound sense of loss welled up inside him, mingled with the sting of rejection—even at nearly forty years old, Draco's pride could not stomach such a cold reception.
He withdrew his hand, fingers curling against his side, and forced a faint, barely visible smile tinged with self-deprecation. "It seems I was being presumptuous."
What Draco felt was not anger but a weary, desolate calm. He did not look at Harry again. He turned back to the mirror and said to Madam Malkin, "Please go on, Madam Malkin. I'm in a hurry."
Throughout the rest of the fitting, Draco did not glance Harry's way once. He cooperated with Madam Malkin's work in silence, his mind churning endlessly—if he had truly been given another life, what could he actually change?
His father's fate, Astoria's life, the honor of the Malfoy family... could any of it truly be altered? Were the regrets of his past life merely predetermined outcomes, impossible to reverse?
Draco left Madam Malkin's shop and boarded the carriage back to Malfoy Manor. The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, the shops on either side bustling with the vibrant energy of the magical world. But to Draco's eyes, it all carried a desolate air of things changed beyond recognition.
He remembered how, after the war in his previous life, the Malfoy family had fallen from grace. Many of the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley no longer looked kindly upon him, and those who had once fawned over the Malfoys had all kept their distance.
Seeing this prosperous scene again felt like a lifetime ago.
By the time he returned to Malfoy Manor, the setting sun was slanting against the wrought-iron gates, gilding the silver-green crest in warm gold.
Dobby was already waiting at the door. The moment he saw Draco, he bowed low and said in his high, squeaky voice, "Young Master has returned! Dobby has prepared afternoon tea, and Mistress asks that Young Master come to the study after he returns."
Draco nodded and slowed his steps, letting his gaze wander over the familiar grounds—the perfectly trimmed holly hedges, the white swans gliding in the fountain pool, the albino peacocks strutting across the lawn. Everything was exactly as he remembered, yet unnervingly vivid.
After the war in his previous life, the manor had not been confiscated, but it had lost all its former glory. Half the peacocks were gone, the fountain had stood dry for years, and decay had crept into every corner.
Draco stepped into the entrance hall, where a massive crystal chandelier blazed with light, illuminating the opulent decor.
Portraits of Malfoy ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes scrutinizing him with expectation, filled with hope for the family's glory.
In his previous life, he had lived under the weight of those gazes, striving to become a worthy Malfoy heir, and yet the family had still careened inexorably toward ruin. This time, he would not let that happen.
The house-elf Kreacher approached with a silver tray bearing a cup of hot cocoa and several delicate little cakes.
"Young Master, your hot cocoa, with three times the sugar." Kreacher's voice was deeper than Dobby's, carrying the solemnity of an old-fashioned house-elf.
Draco accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into his fingertips and loosening some of the gloom in his chest. He sat on the sofa and watched the flames dancing in the fireplace, his thoughts drifting far away.
He now possessed an extraordinary advantage: he knew everything that was going to happen. If he could avoid the worst choices, could he change it all? And yet what had happened in the robe shop had shaken his conviction. If he couldn't even change his first meeting with Harry, could he truly alter those crushing fates?
"Draco."
Narcissa's voice came from the doorway, breaking his reverie.
Draco looked up to see his mother gliding toward him in an elegant black dress. "Have you received your acceptance letter? Did the robes at Madam Malkin's fit properly?"
"Everything's fine, Mother." Draco rose to greet her, and looking at her young face, a faint, almost imperceptible ache rose in his chest.
The image of his mother's aged face from his previous life was still burned into his memory. Seeing her so young again stirred emotions too complicated to name.
Narcissa seated herself on the sofa, holding a gold-embossed envelope, her face radiant with undisguised pride. "Draco, you will certainly be sorted into Slytherin, just like your father and me."
Draco nodded in assent, though inwardly he felt a pang of helplessness. In his previous life, he had cared too much about so-called honor, too much about the pure-blood cause, and it had dragged him step by step into the abyss. This time, he only wanted to pass his years at Hogwarts quietly and prepare for the changes to come.
Over the next few days, Draco remained at the manor, either shut in the library poring over ancient texts for any clues about the Greengrass family's hereditary blood curse, or sitting on the lawn watching the albino peacocks drift about, reconstructing the details of his past life in search of the junctures where fate might be diverted.
He did not return to Diagon Alley, nor did he seek out Harry—if their first meeting could not be changed, perhaps temporary distance was the wisest course.
The day to leave for Hogwarts arrived before he knew it.
In the early morning, the Malfoy carriage set off for King's Cross Station. Draco sat inside, watching the scenery fly past the window, his heart caught between anticipation and unease.
He remembered how, after the war in his previous life, his past as a Death Eater had barred him from ever setting foot in Hogwarts again. Even Scorpius's parent-teacher meetings had been attended by proxy professors. This time, he could finally walk through the castle gates as a student once more, and feel it all again.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross was as chaotic as ever, packed with students bound for Hogwarts and parents seeing them off.
Draco pushed his luggage trolley alone, weaving through the crowd, and boarded the Hogwarts Express. He did not seek out Pansy and Blaise as he had in his previous life. Instead, he found an empty compartment by the window, sat down, and watched the crowd on the platform thin out as the train slowly pulled away.
The train gradually filled with noise as students clustered together, chattering about the coming term. Draco leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to the familiar clamor. Inside, he was calm. He knew the journey ahead would echo his previous life in many ways, but he also knew that his own heart had already changed beyond recognition.
After several hours, the train finally pulled into Hogsmeade Station. Night had fallen, and several small boats waited by the shore of the Black Lake. Draco followed the crowd and climbed into one of the boats, watching as the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle sharpened against the night sky, its spired towers piercing the darkness like a silent, imposing beast.
When Draco's feet touched the grounds of Hogwarts again, he paused for a beat. The great doors stood open, warm light spilling from within. He drew a deep breath, pushed down the rush of emotion, and followed the stream of students into the castle, along the familiar corridors, until he reached the base of the marble staircase leading to the Great Hall.
The first-years were waiting in loose clusters on the steps for Professor McGonagall, torchlight flickering across the stone walls, the air thick with nervous excitement. Draco stood alone in a corner a little apart from the others, his fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of his robes, his mind still turning over thoughts of his family and Astoria.
—It had been beside this very staircase in his previous life that he had swaggered up to Harry with all the arrogance of youth, and within a few sentences, things had soured. This time, he deliberately kept his distance, wanting only for both of them to be left in peace.
Pansy waved at him from not far away; he gave only a slight nod, making no move to join her. A soft nudge came from behind—Crabbe and Goyle, two hulking figures, squeezed in beside him. Crabbe's gruff voice rasped close to his ear: "Draco, look—that Potter. He's staring at you."
Draco started, turning his head instinctively.
On the other side of the staircase, Harry stood beside Ron, clutching a copy of A Beginner's Guide to Magic that Hermione had pressed into his hands, though he wasn't looking at it. Those unmistakable green eyes were fixed directly on Draco, cutting across the scattered first-years, with an undisguised curiosity—as if observing something strange and unexpected.
The moment their eyes met, a flicker of surprise crossed Draco's mind.
He had assumed that after their encounter in the robe shop, Harry would feel the same aversion toward him as before and keep his distance. He had not expected to be watched so closely.
He did not lift his chin in a sneer as he once would have, nor did he pointedly look away. He simply met that gaze with calm composure, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly lowered his eyes back to the stone steps before him.
Before long, Professor McGonagall approached in emerald-green robes, her stern face softened slightly for the new students. "Now then, children, follow me. It's time for the Sorting Ceremony in the Great Hall."
The first-years fell silent and followed her up the marble staircase toward the Great Hall. Draco walked among them with steady steps, though every now and then he could feel a gaze settle on him—faint, intermittent, but unmistakably present.
The Great Hall blazed with light. Four long house tables were draped in red-and-gold, blue-and-bronze, yellow-and-black, and green-and-silver cloths. Thousands of candles floated overhead like a canopy of stars. The tables were already packed with students, who rose to their feet applauding.
The first-years were led to the front of the hall and arranged in a loose line before Professor McGonagall. The thrill of youth fizzed in the air like bubbles. Some craned their necks to peer at the house tables; others clutched their friends' arms and whispered guesses about the Sorting; still others stole glances at the boy with the scar on his forehead, their eyes filled with curiosity and awe.
Draco stood in the middle of the line, deliberately keeping a slight distance from the crowd, his platinum-blond hair striking under the candlelight. Within moments, several boys in fine wizard robes had clustered around him.
"You'll be in Slytherin for sure, won't you, Malfoy?"
Goyle's eyes gleamed with sycophantic agreement. Crabbe nodded beside him, mouth still full of a smuggled Chocolate Frog, mumbling indistinct assent.
A few other pure-blood scions drifted over to exchange pleasantries, their words laden with talk of "pure-blood pride" and "Slytherin supremacy."
Draco responded with perfunctory murmurs, but his gaze strayed almost against his will toward the front of the line—where Harry stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ron, heads bent together in whispered conversation, their shoulders bumping now and then. Clearly, they had already become fast friends.
Ron's red hair stood out in the crowd. He was wrinkling his nose, saying something in a voice pitched for only the two of them to hear, and glancing back now and then at Draco and the pure-bloods around him, his expression of disgust entirely unconcealed.
Draco didn't need to guess what Ron was saying. It was the same old Weasley prejudice against Slytherin, the same contempt for pure-blood supremacy.
Sure enough, he saw Ron lift his chin in a subtle, pointed gesture toward Draco, and Harry's eyes immediately followed. Those emerald eyes no longer held the confusion from the robe shop; now there was something more probing in them.
When that gaze landed on him, Draco's heartbeat stuttered almost imperceptibly. He reflexively averted his eyes and pretended to listen to the chatter around him, though his fingers curled tightly at his sides.
He remembered this moment in his previous life—how he had preened before his new acquaintances, caught Harry's eye, and offered a provoking smirk. Now, he felt only exhaustion.
Ron's words were like a thin needle, puncturing his fragile hope for change—some prejudices ran bone-deep from the very beginning, just as Slytherin was branded "evil" and the Malfoy name was stamped with "arrogance."
"...My dad says the Malfoys are all a bunch of snobs who only care about blood purity," Ron's voice drifted over again, blunt and sharp with youthful cruelty.
"Slytherin loves taking in that sort. And Dark wizards—nearly all of them came out of Slytherin. He'll definitely be in Slytherin, no question."
Harry said nothing, only glanced at Draco once more.
Draco did not acknowledge that searching gaze again. He closed his eyes, and images flashed through his mind—Astoria's pale face, his father haggard in Azkaban prison robes, Scorpius clinging to his leg and asking, "Why can't Daddy pick me up from school?"
In this second life, he did not care what others thought of the Malfoy name, or of Slytherin's reputation. He was just a middle-aged man in a boy's body, desperate to protect his family and undo the regrets of a lifetime.
"Draco Malfoy!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through his thoughts. Draco's eyes snapped open. The murmuring around him died down instantly, and every gaze in the hall fixed on him—some expectant, some appraising, and a few, like Ron's, openly contemptuous.
Draco drew a slow breath, pushed down the churning inside, and stepped forward. His stride was steady, his bearing composed—nothing like a thirteen-year-old boy, but rather like a man who had weathered a lifetime.
A visible stir rippled through the Slytherin table. Some students had already begun to clap, and knowing smiles spread across their faces—a Malfoy, after all, always belonged in Slytherin.
Draco settled onto the stool. Professor McGonagall raised the Sorting Hat, and just as she was about to place it on his head, the battered old hat called out on its own, its voice rasping but clear, echoing through the hushed hall:
"SLYTHERIN!"
It had not even touched his hair. Not a moment's hesitation.
No surprise at all.
Draco rose from the stool and walked toward the Slytherin table, receiving claps on the shoulder and eager looks from the pure-blood students along the way. He sat down at the table, but unlike in his previous life, he did not lift his chin with smug satisfaction. He simply lowered his eyes and looked toward the front of the hall.
Around him, the pure-blood boys were clustered together, murmuring about which house "the Boy Who Lived" would land in, tugging him into their conversation.
"Draco, do you think Potter will end up in Slytherin? My father says his parents were close with Dumbledore back in the day—he might very well go to Gryffindor."
Draco responded with an indifferent murmur, his fingers idly tracing the cold silver cutlery, his thoughts already drifting back to the library at Malfoy Manor—the ancient text he had been reading the night before had mentioned an herb that might ease a hereditary blood curse, but the record was so fragmentary that he needed to research it further.
As for which house Harry Potter would join, that was already a foregone conclusion in his mind. Gryffindor was where the savior belonged. It had nothing to do with him, and it was hardly worth his attention.
The Sorting Ceremony proceeded on schedule. Professor McGonagall called out name after name, and the house announcements rang out one after another.
Hermione Granger went to Gryffindor, and Ron Weasley joined her at the red-and-gold table, watching Harry expectantly.
Everything was exactly as he remembered. Draco barely looked up, only offering a perfunctory "Mm" when someone beside him remarked, "The Weasleys really are all Gryffindor," while his mind was still occupied with the growing habits of that herb.
"Harry Potter!"
When that name rang out, the hall's noise seemed to freeze solid. Draco finally raised his eyes, his gaze cutting through the crowd to the black-haired boy stepping forward, Professor McGonagall lowering the Sorting Hat firmly onto his head. It was the same scene as his previous life, and he felt no particular stir in his chest. He had already preemptively slotted in the announcement of "Gryffindor," his fingertips tapping the table absently as he calculated when he might slip to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to search for that herb.
The Slytherin students around him had also grown quiet. Someone murmured, "Just watch—Gryffindor, for sure."
Draco did not respond, his gaze already drifting back to his plate, waiting for this inconsequential interlude to end.
But in the next second, the battered old Sorting Hat opened its brim wide and shouted a declaration that cracked through the hall like a thunderbolt—
"SLYTHERIN!"
Time seemed to stop.
The silver spoon in Draco's hand clattered against his plate with a jarring ring. His head snapped up, eyes going wide, and it felt as though something inside his skull had detonated, leaving his mind completely blank.
Slytherin?
How could it be Slytherin?