Chapter 1
Two years.
Two years in Azkaban had stripped Draco Malfoy of everything—his pride, his name, the last remnants of his dignity. The cold had settled deep into his bones, turning his once fine-bred frame into something frail and ghostly. The walls of his cell, slick with damp and covered in grime, had become his entire world. Time blurred in this place, stretching and warping under the weight of endless days and sleepless nights.
He had tried, at first, to hold onto something—anything—of who he used to be. A routine, perhaps. Counting the cracks in the stone. Reciting potions ingredients under his breath. But Azkaban had a way of eroding even the strongest minds, and Draco had never been strong to begin with.
Harry Potter had spoken for him at the trial, stood before the Wizengamot and argued that Draco Malfoy had never truly been a Death Eater. That he had been a boy caught up in a war he hadn’t chosen, a pawn in a game played by men far more dangerous than he could ever be. And maybe that was true. Maybe Potter believed that. But the Ministry wanted retribution. The world needed someone to blame. And Draco—his name so deeply intertwined with the rot of the old regime—had been an easy target.
His father hadn’t even made it to a trial. Lucius Malfoy had died the way most Death Eaters did—fighting to the bitter end, refusing to accept defeat. Draco had heard whispers through the prison bars, from guards who took a sick kind of joy in watching the mighty fall. Killed in battle, they had said, like a true believer. But Draco had known better. Lucius Malfoy had been many things—a coward above all else. He wasn’t the sort of man to die for a cause. If he fought, it was only because he had no way out.
His mother had lasted a year. Narcissa Malfoy, once the epitome of grace and composure, had withered before his eyes. When he had last seen her, she had been a husk of herself, her once-pristine hair tangled and dull, her cheekbones too sharp against her pale skin. She had still tried to smile at him, still told him to be strong. He hadn't known it would be the last time. When the guards had finally told him she was gone, they hadn't even bothered to say how. Maybe illness, maybe despair. Or maybe she had simply let go, given in to the quiet death that came for all who stayed in Azkaban long enough.
Draco had spent the months since then in a state of emptiness. He no longer flinched at the dementors gliding past his cell, no longer cared when the guards sneered at him. He had nothing left to lose. No family. No future. He was just waiting, waiting for the day his sentence was over—though he had no idea what waited for him outside these walls.
He should have known he wouldn’t make it that far.
The attack came without warning.
A commotion down the corridor. Raised voices. The distant echo of spells being cast. A few prisoners roused from their stupor, but most stayed where they were, too broken to care. Draco had barely lifted his head from where he sat curled against the wall when the footsteps came.
An Auror, one of the younger ones, stood outside his cell, wand drawn. His face was tight with something unreadable, his breathing heavy.
Draco didn’t move. He barely even registered what was happening.
Then the words—cold and final.
"For what your lot did to my family."
A flash of green.
Draco had just enough time to think, Of course, before the world was ripped away.
No pain. No sensation at all.
Just nothing.
Then—
Light.
Warmth.
Something soft beneath him. A bed? That wasn’t right. There were no beds in Azkaban, only thin mats on cold stone.
And then, against all reason—
The scent of home.
Draco felt the strange urge to open his eyes, though he couldn’t fathom why. His eyes shouldn’t be able to open anymore. Should they? He shouldn’t feel anything—not after everything. Not after Azkaban. Not after the cold, endless days where time had blurred into nothingness. Not after the dementors had stolen whatever scraps of warmth he had left.
Yet, here he was. Aware. Alive.
It was peculiar. Almost maddening.
A warmth pressed against his skin. Soft. Comforting. It shouldn’t have been possible. Light—bright and golden—spilled over him, seeping into his bones in a way that made something deep within him stir. It felt good. Too good for someone who shouldn’t exist anymore.
His breath caught. No. No, he had died. He knew he had died. The cold embrace of Azkaban, the iron grip of an Auror’s wand pointed at his chest—it had been real. His second year in that wretched place had been his last. He had seen the flash of green. He had felt it.
So why did this feel realer than death?
A sense of urgency built within him, clawing its way up his spine. He needed to see. He needed to know. He blinked, his vision swimming against the light, and slowly—hesitantly—looked around.
It hit him like a jolt.
This was his room.
The four-poster bed. The elegant silver and green drapes. The high ceilings, the polished mahogany furniture—it was all the same. And yet, something was different. The air was warmer, gentler, stripped of the cold, harsh edges that had once defined Malfoy Manor. He recognised this place, but it was not the house he had left behind. Not the one that had become little more than a gilded cage, haunted by shadows of failure and regret.
Draco sat up, breath shallow. His gaze landed on something nestled against the pillows. His stomach twisted.
A stuffed dragon.
His stuffed dragon.
The same one he had slept with as a child before his father had deemed it unbefitting of a Malfoy heir. He had discarded it, cast it aside with all the other weak and foolish things a boy of his status had no business clinging to. He had barely thought of it since.
Yet here it was, sitting innocently as though untouched by time. As though the last decade hadn’t happened.
His fingers curled into the blankets. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
He pushed himself up, legs unsteady as they found the floor. The room tilted slightly, but he forced himself forward. Step after step, heavier with every breath, he made his way towards the mirror on the opposite wall. The one that had once reflected the cold, sharp lines of a boy forced to grow up too soon. The one that had shown him what he had become.
What stared back at him now made his stomach lurch.
A child.
Wide grey eyes, too bright, too innocent. A face untouched by the weight of war, of choices that had shaped him into something he could no longer bear to look at. His skin was smoother, his hair slightly messier than he remembered, his frame smaller—more fragile. He looked no older than ten or eleven.
He barely had time to process it before a high, piercing sound filled the room.
It took him a moment to realise it was his own voice.
Too young. Too high-pitched. Too wrong.
His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, his pulse hammering against his ribs. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
A loud crack shattered the silence.
Draco spun around, his heart lurching violently in his chest.
A small figure stood in the doorway, its enormous, round eyes filled with frantic concern. Its bat-like ears twitched, its thin frame clothed in a ragged tea towel, hands twisting nervously in the fabric.
"Is Young Master Malfoy okay, sir? Is Young Master hurt?"
Draco barely heard the voice. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps as his gaze dropped to his arm.
The skin was bare.
The Dark Mark was gone.
His mouth went dry. His pulse roared in his ears. His fingers trembled as he reached for his forearm, pressing against the skin, expecting—no, needing—to feel something. Some trace of it. Some lingering imprint burned into his flesh.
But there was nothing.
Panic surged like bile in his throat.
He dug his nails into his skin, scraping desperately at the pale flesh, his breath hitching. This wasn’t right. It was supposed to be there. It had been there. It had stained him, branded him, marked him as what he was. What he had been.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
His nails dragged harder, scratching, tearing. If he dug deep enough, maybe it would be there, maybe it was just hiding beneath the surface, maybe—
"Young Master!" The frantic voice broke through his haze. "Young Master mustn’t hurt himself!"
Small hands wrapped around his wrist, pulling at him—not with force, but urgency. Draco barely registered the touch. His breath came in short, erratic bursts, his vision tunneling as his mind spun. The skin on his arm was reddened, raw, but still blank, still clean, still—
"Young Master, please! Dobby begs you, sir!"
Draco froze.
His body was trembling. His chest rose and fell in uneven heaves. The name echoed in his head.
Dobby.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. The house-elf stared up at him, eyes impossibly large and filled with distress, ears drooping low in pure, unguarded worry.
Draco swallowed, his throat tight and dry. He knew that name. He knew that face. His family’s old house-elf. The one who had served them for years. The one who had—
His stomach twisted violently. No. That hadn’t happened yet, had it? Dobby was still here. Still speaking to him with unwavering devotion. Still looking at him as if he were something to be cared for.
Draco’s hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides.
This wasn’t Azkaban.
This wasn’t death.
Somehow, impossibly, he had been sent back.
Dobby was still watching him, ears twitching anxiously. "Young Master," the elf said hesitantly, "does Young Master need Dobby to fetch a healer? Or— or perhaps a calming draught, sir? Dobby can bring one at once!"
Draco exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, to grasp onto something—anything—tangible. His body still felt light, unanchored, like he might slip through the floor if he wasn’t careful. He pressed a hand to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment before forcing himself to meet the elf’s gaze.
"No," he murmured, voice hoarse. "No healers. No potions."
Dobby twisted his hands in his tea towel, ears flopping as he nodded vigorously. "As Young Master wishes, sir. But— but if Young Master is hurt—"
"I said no, Dobby," Draco snapped before he could stop himself. The sharpness of his own voice startled him. Dobby flinched, shrinking slightly, and guilt clawed at Draco’s chest.
He exhaled slowly.
"Just… just get me something to wrap my arm with. That’s all."
Dobby’s ears perked up slightly. "Yes, Young Master! Dobby will fetch something right away!" He gave a hurried bow before disappearing with another sharp crack.
Draco finally let himself sink onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. His entire body felt like it was vibrating, his skin too tight, his thoughts too loud. The room was too warm. Too familiar. Too wrong.
He was here.
And this time…
He wasn’t going to waste it.
Dobby reappeared in the room with another loud crack, his small form trembling as he clutched a fresh length of cloth in his hands. Without hesitation, he scrambled toward Draco and set to work, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth that smelled faintly of healing salves. His bony fingers worked swiftly yet carefully, wrapping the gash with surprising precision, his ears twitching every so often as though he expected to be reprimanded at any moment.
Draco sat still, watching in silence as the house-elf methodically bandaged his arm. The white fabric stood out starkly against his pale skin, a sharp contrast to the crimson smears that had marred it just moments ago.
He exhaled slowly. He needed to think. He needed to figure out what had happened, why he was here. But first…
“Dobby, I apologise for my earlier outburst, b—”
Before he could finish, there was a loud bang as Dobby suddenly threw himself forward, slamming his head against the polished wooden floor with a force that made Draco flinch.
“Dobby is bad! A bad, bad elf! Young Master does not need to be apologising! Dobby does not deserve it!”
The sight of the small creature punishing himself sent a strange, uncomfortable feeling twisting in Draco’s stomach. Without thinking, he lunged forward, gripping the elf by his thin, trembling shoulders and stopping him before he could hurt himself again.
“Dobby, don’t.” His voice was sharp, more forceful than he’d intended, but he didn’t let go. His fingers tightened slightly. “Don’t hurt yourself. That’s—” He hesitated for only a second before continuing, “That’s an order. You’re not allowed to do that anymore, do you understand me? It makes me upset.”
Dobby froze, his bulging green eyes snapping up to meet Draco’s. He looked utterly bewildered, as if the words themselves were something he couldn’t quite process.
Slowly, he swallowed and nodded. “Y-yes, Young Master… If that is what Young Master wishes.”
Draco exhaled, loosening his grip before sitting back on the bed. His gaze flickered to his arm, now neatly wrapped. The pain had dulled, but it was still there, still tangible, still real. He flexed his fingers slightly before returning his attention to Dobby, who now stood anxiously before him, still wringing his hands as though waiting for further instructions.
“Dobby, I’m going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them truthfully, alright?”
Dobby bobbed his head quickly. “Yes, Young Master! Dobby will answer anything Young Master asks!”
Draco inhaled deeply. “What date is it?”
The house-elf blinked, as if confused by the simplicity of the question, but answered without hesitation.
“It is July 2nd, 1991, Young Master.”
Draco’s breath caught.
1991.
His stomach twisted.
He hadn’t even started Hogwarts yet.
The Dark Lord was nothing more than a whispered name, a shadow of a past most wizards wanted to forget. His father was still alive. His mother—
His fingers curled into the bedsheets, his pulse quickening.
This was before everything. Before the war. Before the Mark.
Before he made all the wrong choices.
His lips parted slightly, and for the first time since waking up in this unfamiliar reality, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
Draco sat up a little straighter, his fingers still resting lightly on the edge of his bed as he leveled his gaze at the house-elf. “Dobby, what are Mother and Father doing right now?”
Dobby perked up immediately, eager to be of use. “Master Malfoy is at the Ministry, Young Master. Mrs. Malfoy is in the garden, drinking tea.”
Draco stilled.
Mother.
She was here. Close. Alive.
His heart gave an unfamiliar lurch, a tight knot forming in his chest. He needed to see her.
Slowly, he inhaled, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Dobby, will you help me prepare to join my mother for tea, please?”
Dobby visibly flinched, his large green eyes widening at the unexpected word—please. His ears gave a twitch, his expression flickering between confusion and something else, something almost… awed.
“Yes, Young Master,” he said quickly, bowing his head before scurrying toward the closet.
Draco sat motionless, anticipation curling in his stomach. He was going to see her. It was a simple thing, just tea in the garden, and yet—he couldn’t remember the last time he had truly looked at his mother without the weight of the war pressing down on them. Without the fear. Without the guilt.
A moment later, Dobby emerged, clutching a neatly pressed outfit in his small hands: emerald-green tailored shorts and a crisp white dress shirt with soft ruffles along the collar and cuffs. The fabrics were expensive, undeniably Malfoy, but youthful in a way Draco hadn't been in years.
Before he could reach for them, Dobby snapped his fingers, and the garments fitted themselves onto his body in an instant. Draco glanced down, smoothing his hands over the front of the shirt. Luckily, the sleeves were long—Mother wouldn’t see the bandages.
His socks were already pulled up high, his black leather dress shoes polished to perfection, as they always were.
Dobby tilted his head slightly. “Does Young Master want Dobby to slick back his hair?”
Draco froze.
The question hung in the air longer than it should have.
For years, his hair had been combed and slicked neatly into place, an unmistakable mark of his pureblood heritage. Of his father.
He didn’t want to look like his father anymore.
“…No.”
Dobby blinked but didn’t question it. He simply nodded.
Draco turned toward the door, his pulse quickening.
He was going to see Mother.
–
As Dobby led him through the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, Draco felt a chill creep up his spine. The marble floors gleamed under the dim light of the chandeliers, their cold, polished surfaces whispering memories he wished he could forget. Shadows clung to the towering columns, stretching across the vast corridors like the ghosts of the past.
He had seen so much horror within these walls. The screams. The pleading voices. The weight of orders he had given. The echo of his voice—Voldemort’s voice.
Not again.
His jaw tightened. Not this time. This house will not become their lair. Their prison.
They reached the grand double doors leading to the garden. Dobby, ever obedient, pulled them open with a small grunt of effort. A warm breeze curled around Draco’s skin, carrying the delicate scent of roses and freshly cut grass.
And there she was.
Sitting at an ornate wrought-iron table, bathed in golden sunlight, Narcissa Malfoy looked untouched by time. Her pale blonde hair was elegantly pinned back, a few soft tendrils framing her high cheekbones. She wore a flowing periwinkle gown, the fabric draping gracefully over her form. She looked whole.Untouched.Beautiful.
She wasn’t gaunt from stress. She wasn’t exhausted from shielding him, from keeping their family from crumbling. Her blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, held none of the weary sorrow he had become so accustomed to.
And then—she smiled.
It was warm, genuine, sincere.
Draco’s breath hitched.
Dobby bowed low. “T-the Young Master Malfoy wishes to join you for tea, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa’s gaze softened. “Come sit, dear. I’m having a simple cup of Earl Grey today—would you like one too?”
Her voice was soft, laced with an effortless care that made something in his chest crack wide open.
The dam broke.
A sob wrenched itself free before he could stop it. His vision blurred, and without thinking, he ran to her, arms wrapping tightly around her waist as he buried his face in her shoulder.
She stiffened—only for a moment—before her arms enveloped him in return. There was no scolding, no reminder of propriety, no reprimand for his lack of restraint. Only warmth. Only comfort.
Her hand smoothed over his hair. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Her concern seeped into every syllable.
“Are you hurt?”
Draco clenched his eyes shut.
“No, Mother,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Everything is okay now.”
His arms tightened around her as if she might disappear, as if this moment could slip through his fingers like sand.
“I love you, Mama.”
He hadn’t called her that in years.
Narcissa stilled. Then, slowly, she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head.
“I love you too, my little dragon.”