Chapter Text
The Dementor's kiss was quiet.
That was the worst part, Draco thought. He had expected screaming, or at least some grand, theatrical finale befitting a Malfoy. But Lucius Malfoy died as he had lived for the past year: on his knees, silent, hollowed out by a monster he had helped unleash.
Draco stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the guards lead the Dementor away. His father's body slumped forward, empty and still. There was no breath, no spark, no him. Just a shell.
He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years—not in Azkaban, not at the trials, not when they'd sentenced him to community service and surveillance and a life of being watched, judged, and pitied.
He was nineteen years old, and he had nothing.
Malfoy Manor was colder than he remembered.
The elves were gone, sold or freed in the aftermath. The portraits were silent, their occupants long since faded or removed. The only sound was the echo of his own footsteps as he climbed the stairs, higher and higher, until he reached the highest tower.
He had been here before, as a child. He and his friends — Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy — had dared each other to lean over the edge, to look down at the grounds far below. Back then, it had been a game. A thrill.
Now, it was an answer.
Draco stepped onto the balcony, the wind whipping his hair across his face. He was thin—Azkaban had taken muscle, appetite, hope. His robes hung loose on his frame. His hands shook, but not from cold.
He looked down.
The ground was far away. Far enough that it would be final.
"Second chances," he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue. "That's what they called it. Mercy."
It wasn't mercy. It was a slower death.
He thought of his mother, locked away in a Healer's ward, mind fractured by curses and grief. He thought of his friends, scattered, dead, or imprisoned. He thought of him—Potter, with his green eyes and his impossible luck, standing over Voldemort's body while the world cheered.
He had hated him once. Now, he just envied him.
At least he had a purpose.
Draco climbed onto the ledge. The stone was rough under his palms. The wind howled in his ears.
"I'm sorry," he said, though he wasn't sure to whom. His mother? Himself? The boy he had been, before the war, before the Mark, before everything broke.
He let go.
The fall was shorter than he expected.
There was no pain, no impact—just a sudden, jarring wrongness, like being pulled through a keyhole. The world twisted, colors bleeding into each other, and then—
Light.
Draco gasped, his eyes flying open.
He was in a bed. A bed. Not the cold, narrow cot of his Azkaban cell, not the hard floor of the Manor's tower. A bed, with silk sheets and a canopy overhead.
He sat up too fast, his head spinning. His hands—small. His arms—thin, unscarred. He looked down at himself and froze.
His body was wrong.
Not broken, not injured—wrong. Smaller, softer, different. He threw off the covers and stared at himself, his breath catching in his throat.
This wasn't his body.
He scrambled out of bed, stumbling to the mirror across the room. The reflection that stared back made his stomach drop.
A child. A girl. Eleven, maybe twelve years old, with pale skin, sharp features, and silver-blond hair that fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were gray—his eyes—but everything else was...
"Merlin," he whispered. His voice was higher, younger. "What—"
The door opened. A house-elf peeked in, eyes wide.
"Miss Draco?" the elf squeaked. "Are you... are you awake?"
Draco— Miss Draco —stared at it. "What year is it?"
The elf blinked. "It's... it's 1991, Miss. July the 30th."
1991.
Eleven years old.
He was eleven years old again. And he was a girl.
The elf hesitated. "Your mother said to tell you... your trunk is packed, Miss. For Hogwarts."
Draco's knees gave out. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his mind racing.
Hogwarts. 1991. First year.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be. But the bed was real. The mirror was real. The body he was trapped in was real.
He looked down at his hands again. Small. Unmarked. No scars from curses, no calluses from wandwork, no weight of a Dark Mark.
Just... a second chance.
His throat tightened.
What do I do with this?
He thought of the tower. The fall. The emptiness.
And then he thought of him — Potter, on the train, in the Great Hall, in the dungeons. The boy he had tormented, the man who had saved him without knowing it.
If this was real... if he was really here...
He could change it.
He could be better.
Draco took a deep breath and stood. His legs were shaky, but they held.
"Tell my mother," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, "I'll be down for breakfast."
The elf nodded and scurried away.
Draco turned back to the mirror. The girl in the reflection stared back, wide-eyed and uncertain.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Let's try this again."