Chapter 2
His mother hadn’t asked any questions. She never did when it mattered. She simply held him, her arms a steady, unwavering presence around his small frame.
They had been sitting in the garden for nearly two hours now. The afternoon sun had softened, casting long golden streaks through the rose bushes. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the warm air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of Narcissa’s favorite white gardenias.
Draco hadn’t moved from her embrace, his face pressed against the soft silk of her dress. She had been stroking his hair in slow, rhythmic motions, her fingers threading through the strands like they had when he was a child frightened of thunderstorms. There was no storm now—at least not outside.
He knew he was too old for this. Even in the body of his eleven-year-old self, this wasn’t proper. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not cling. But he couldn’t let go. Not yet.
His mother had always been there when he needed her most. He had seen it in his past life—felt it in the way she had shielded him, lied for him, saved him when no one else would. She had risked everything, defied the Dark Lord himself, all for him. And now here she was again, holding him as if he was still just her little dragon, as if nothing had changed.
For her, nothing had. But for him, everything had.
The realization sent a lump crawling up his throat.
He exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. He was glad he was light for an eleven-year-old; even so, his weight must have been wearing on her. He would have to move soon. His father would be home before long, and Lucius Malfoy would not tolerate this.
Draco had spent a lifetime striving to be the son his father expected—the perfect heir, poised and disciplined, untouchable. But right now, he wasn’t ready to slip back into that mask. He wasn’t ready to let go of this moment, to untangle himself from the warmth and safety of his mother’s arms.
Because when he did, reality would set in.
The war, the Dark Lord, Harry Potter—none of it had happened yet. But it could.
He had to stand. He had to move forward. He had to make sure it didn’t.
But just a little longer.
Just a little longer in the comfort of the only person who had ever truly loved him.
His mother finally spoke, her voice gentle, almost hesitant. “You must be hungry. Let’s go get ready for dinner—your father shall be home soon.”
She didn’t push him away. She never would. Instead, her fingers continued stroking his hair, as if she knew how much he needed this moment.
Draco knew he was too old for this—too old to be curled against her like a frightened child, too old to seek out the warmth of a mother’s embrace—but he couldn’t bring himself to move just yet.
He was in the body of his eleven-year-old self, but his mind carried the weight of someone much older. Someone who had seen and done things that could never be undone. And yet, here, in this untouched past, his mother was whole—unburdened by war, by loss, by the exhaustion he remembered so vividly in her eyes.
She was here. She was real. And for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.
But his father would be home soon. And this… this wasn’t the kind of thing Lucius Malfoy would tolerate.
Draco forced himself to sit up, though his body protested the loss of comfort. He smoothed down his slightly wrinkled shirt, straightened his posture, and pressed a soft kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Of course, Mother.”
She cupped his face for a moment, brushing away a stray tear with her thumb. “Go get ready, darling. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He nodded and stood, walking back inside before he lost his resolve.
The halls of Malfoy Manor were eerily silent, the marble floors cold beneath his shoes. It felt… the same. The same towering archways, the same ornate chandeliers, the same pristine elegance. But it wasn’t the same.
He wasn’t the same.
Draco entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He took a slow breath, then moved into the adjoining restroom.
His gaze locked onto the mirror.
A pale boy stared back at him—his own face, young and unfamiliar, with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. He scowled at his reflection.
Pathetic.
His fingers twitched as he rolled up his sleeve. The bandage Dobby had wrapped earlier was still neatly in place, the fabric stark against his skin.
He hesitated.
Then, with careful fingers, he unraveled it.
The wound beneath had begun to scab over, an ugly patch of raw skin where his nails had torn at it earlier. It should be healing. It should feel better.
But it wasn’t enough.
The Dark Mark should be there.
It should be burned into his skin, a permanent brand of what he had done, what he had been.
His breath hitched.
He pressed his fingers to the smooth skin. Then, almost without thinking, he began scratching.
At first, it was light—just enough to feel something. But the more he focused on the emptiness, the more frantic his movements became. His nails dug deeper, harder, until the scab split, and blood welled to the surface.
The sting grounded him.
It burned.
Good.
The pain was something real. Something that couldn’t be erased like the Mark had been.
He barely noticed the quiet sound that left his throat. His breaths were coming too fast, his vision unfocused.
A waste.
A failure.
He didn’t deserve—
A loud crack shattered the silence.
“Young Master—”
Dobby’s voice faltered the moment he saw him.
The elf’s large green eyes went wide, his ears twitching as he took in the sight before him—Draco’s trembling hands, his bloodied arm, the mess of torn skin.
Dobby gasped, horror evident in his small face. “No, no, no—Young Master must not be hurt! Young Master must not do this!”
Draco exhaled sharply, frustration curling in his chest. “Dobby, calm down,” he muttered, rolling his sleeve back down as if that would somehow make the problem disappear. “It’s nothing. Just clean it and help me get dressed.”
“But—”
Draco clenched his jaw. “It doesn’t hurt, alright?”
Dobby wrung his hands, his ears drooping slightly. But he didn’t argue further. With a snap of his fingers, a clean cloth and a small bowl of warm water appeared.
The elf worked quickly, dabbing at the fresh wound with careful hands, his usual frantic energy subdued. The cool water stung against the broken skin, but Draco didn’t react.
Dobby’s small fingers trembled as he wrapped the fresh bandage around Draco’s arm. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something worried, something sad.
Still, he said nothing.
Once the bandage was secure, Dobby hesitated only briefly before stepping into the wardrobe. Moments later, he emerged with a set of formal dinner clothes—dark green trousers, a crisp silver-trimmed vest, and a black dress coat.
He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, the clothes were fitted onto Draco, perfectly pressed and pristine.
Dobby glanced up at him, and asked once again. “Would Young Master like to slick back his hair?”
Draco looked at his reflection again. He already looked like a Malfoy. He didn’t need to look like him.
“…No.”
Dobby blinked but didn’t question it. “Yes, Young Master.”
Draco took one last glance at himself.
The bandages were hidden beneath his sleeves. His face was composed, wiped clean of emotion.
On the surface, he was perfect.
And soon, his father would be home.
He straightened his spine and left the room.
Draco descended the grand staircase, the familiar sound of his polished shoes tapping against the marble floors echoing through the silent manor. The chandeliers above cast a soft glow over the long corridors, illuminating the intricate silver and emerald tapestries that decorated the walls. Everything was the same—pristine, controlled, perfect.
As he approached the dining room, the heavy mahogany doors were already open. His father sat at the head of the table, straight-backed and composed, as always. The Prophet was in his hands, held up just enough to obscure his face, though Draco could still see the sharp angles of his jaw and the ever-present coolness in his posture. At the opposite end of the table, his mother sat elegantly, her hands wrapped around a delicate porcelain teacup, her gaze distant as she absentmindedly stirred her drink.
Draco hesitated only for a moment before making his way toward his usual seat—the one directly to his father’s right. That’s where he had always sat, ever since he was little. A place of expectation. A place of quiet obedience.
But tonight…
Tonight, he pulled out the chair next to his mother instead.
For a fraction of a second, there was only silence. Then, with the softest rustle of paper, Lucius Malfoy lowered his newspaper just enough to glance at him. A single brow arched, an almost imperceptible sign of curiosity. But, in true Malfoy fashion, he said nothing.
Draco kept his expression neutral as he settled into his seat. The moment he did, the house-elves worked their silent magic, and the table was instantly adorned with an extravagant spread—roast lamb, buttered vegetables, warm bread, delicate pastries, and a crystal pitcher of rich red wine that his father would surely partake in.
Draco swallowed. He wasn’t hungry. His stomach churned at the sight of the food, but he knew he had to eat. He had to be normal.
Picking up his fork, he forced himself to take a bite. The moment the food touched his tongue, his father finally spoke.
"Why is your hair not slicked back today?"
The words were calm, emotionless, but Draco felt them like a hook in his throat. He swallowed stiffly, setting down his fork with calculated ease.
He had prepared for this. He knew it would come.
"That hairstyle doesn’t appeal to me anymore," he said, voice steady.
Another beat of silence.
His father’s face betrayed nothing as he studied him, searching, dissecting. Then, in the same measured tone, he simply replied, "I see."
Draco didn’t relax.
Lucius had accepted the answer for now, but he wasn’t a man who simply let things go. It wasn’t defiance, not outright, but it was a shift—a small but noticeable one. And his father noticed everything.
His mother, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm.
"It suits him," she said, setting her teacup down gracefully.
Lucius glanced at her, and for a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them.
Draco focused on his plate, trying to force himself to eat another bite. His appetite had long since disappeared, but he knew his father well enough to know that not eating would raise suspicion.
A moment later, Lucius returned to his newspaper, and the conversation ended.
Draco let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
It was a small victory. But a victory nonetheless.
—
After dinner, the household fell into its usual quiet routine. His father had retreated to his study, likely to finish whatever business he had left for the evening. The soft clinking of fine china echoed as the house-elves cleared away the remnants of their meal, their movements practiced and efficient, leaving no trace that a feast had been laid out just moments before.
His mother, ever observant, had noticed his barely touched plate. She had said nothing during the meal but had placed a gentle hand on his arm as they stood to leave. “Are you feeling unwell, darling?” she asked, her blue eyes searching his face with quiet concern.
Draco had simply given her a small, reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Mother. Just not very hungry tonight.”
She had not pushed further, merely nodding in that graceful, understanding way she always did. But he knew she would remember. She always did.
As he made his way through the long corridors of the manor, his footsteps barely made a sound against the polished marble floors. The manor was eerily still, the kind of silence that felt suffocating rather than peaceful.
Draco exhaled slowly as he reached his bedroom, pushing open the heavy oak doors. His chambers were just as he remembered—large, immaculate, and coldly perfect. The emerald-green curtains billowed slightly from the night air slipping through the cracks in the window, and the fireplace burned low, casting flickering shadows across the dark wooden furniture.
He shrugged off his outer robe, letting it slide off his shoulders and onto the velvet chaise near the fireplace. The exhaustion of the day pressed down on him, heavier than he’d expected. His mind refused to settle, thoughts racing wildly—about his mother, about his father, about everything that had happened… and everything that was to come.
His fingers ghosted over his forearm, where he had reopened the wound earlier. It was bandaged again now, thanks to Dobby’s meticulous care, but beneath the fabric, he swore he could still feel it—the mark that wasn’t there anymore.
A reminder. A ghost of what he had once been.
He pushed the thought away.
Crossing the room, he collapsed onto his bed, sinking into the silk sheets. His mattress was as plush and luxurious as he remembered, but somehow, it still felt unfamiliar, as if it belonged to a stranger. He turned onto his side, staring at the canopy above him.
For a while, he just lay there, listening to the distant sounds of the manor—the occasional creak of the old house settling, the muffled footsteps of an elf scurrying about, the faint hoot of an owl somewhere outside.
His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to let go. Memories, emotions, regrets—all of it swirled inside him like a storm, relentless and unyielding.
And yet, his eleven-year-old body wasn’t as resilient as the one he had left behind.
Despite the turmoil in his thoughts, the weight of fatigue slowly pulled him under, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
Before he could fight it, before he could dwell on the past any longer, sleep finally claimed him.
—
When Draco awoke the next morning, he felt something unusual—his body, still small and unfamiliar, was well-rested, and his mind, though burdened with the weight of two lifetimes, felt clearer than it had since his return. The heavy haze that had clouded his thoughts since he first opened his eyes in this past world had lifted slightly, giving way to a sense of focus.
He laid still for a moment, staring up at the emerald canopy of his bed. The silk sheets beneath him were cool, the morning air crisp despite the warming charms that kept the manor at an even temperature. His breathing was steady, his hands calm against the fabric. No tremors, no panic. Just clarity.
He had to make plans.
He couldn’t let everything happen again.
He couldn’t let his mother suffer.
Pushing himself upright, Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into his slippers, feeling the plush material cushion his steps as he moved toward the large mahogany desk in the corner of his room. His nightclothes—his favorite green silk pajamas—were fresh. Dobby had likely changed him while he slept, ensuring he was comfortable. He made a mental note to thank the elf later.
The dim morning light streamed in through the curtains, casting long shadows over the room as Draco rummaged through his drawers, searching for a blank piece of parchment. His fingers finally closed around one, the texture crisp and smooth beneath his touch. He retrieved a quill and ink, settling himself in his chair as he prepared to organize the tangled mess of knowledge and memories in his mind.
How should he go about this?
He needed a timeline.
Draco knew a lot about Potter’s adventures, more than he ever should have, given his role in them. He tapped the quill against his chin, considering how much he actually remembered. More than enough. His mind was a vault of critical information—events, names, outcomes—all pieces of a game he had once been nothing more than a pawn in.
First Year: Harry, Weasley, and Granger stopped the Dark Lord from stealing the Philosopher’s Stone. Harry barely survived. If things had gone differently, if Quirrell had been even slightly more competent, the Dark Lord could have been revived much earlier.
Second Year: The Chamber of Secrets. The attacks. The diary. Father gave the diary to Ginny. The realization sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. He had known this, of course, but seeing it written in front of him made it undeniable. The Malfoys were directly tied to one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes. To everything that happened that year.
Third Year: Sirius Black. Pettigrew. Sirius was innocent. That one stung. Draco had taunted Potter about Black, had believed the lies, had laughed at the idea of Potter's crazed godfather hunting him down. I was wrong. And Potter… Potter had risked everything to save a man who wasn’t even safe in the end.
Fourth Year: The Triwizard Tournament. The Dark Lord’s return. Potter didn’t cheat. He was used. Sacrificed. And Barty Crouch Jr.? He had been right under their noses, impersonating Moody. The entire tournament had been orchestrated to serve Voldemort’s return. Draco had celebrated when Diggory died, relished in Potter’s suffering. I was such a fool.
Fifth Year: The prophecy. The Ministry’s denial. Father’s arrest. The battle in the Department of Mysteries was the beginning of the end for the Malfoys. Potter’s blind charge into danger had nearly destroyed everything, but in hindsight, it wasn’t foolishness—it was courage. And Draco? He had been at home, reveling in the idea of his father’s success.
Sixth Year: Dumbledore. The mission. The weight of it still pressed on Draco’s chest, heavy even now. He was dying anyway. The cursed ring had ensured Dumbledore’s fate long before Draco had ever been given his impossible task. The Vanishing Cabinet, the plan to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts—it had all been for nothing. And Snape… Snape was never loyal to the Dark Lord.
Seventh Year: The hunt for Horcruxes. The war. The Elder Wand. Draco’s hands clenched slightly at the memory. The wand had belonged to me before Potter ever took it. Another mistake. Another misstep in the long list of them.
He set the quill down, running a hand through his hair. His heart was racing, but he forced himself to take a steadying breath.
Now, the question was—should he get involved or stay out of the way?
If he did nothing, things would most likely play out the same. Potter would defeat the Dark Lord, just as he had before. His mother would die, his father would fall from grace, and he would… what? End up right back where he had been at the end of the war. In Azkaban.
No.
That wasn’t an option.
Draco picked up his quill again, dipping it back into the ink as he drew a single line beneath his timeline.
If he got involved, he could manipulate events to go his way. He could ensure his mother never had to suffer. He could prevent his family’s fall. He could make sure things didn’t spiral out of control.
But that meant taking risks.
It meant interfering.
And it meant he had to decide—how much of the future was he willing to change?
Considering everything on the list, Draco knew there was little he could do in the immediate future. Most of the major events—the stone, the Chamber, the Triwizard Tournament—took place at Hogwarts, where he’d have limited influence, at least in the beginning. He couldn’t exactly waltz up to Potter and hand him a detailed guide to surviving the next seven years.
But there was one thing he could change. One crucial piece in the game that had been mishandled before.
Sirius Black.
Sirius Black was more than just an escaped convict. He had been Potter’s rightful guardian. If he had been freed earlier, if Potter had gained his protection sooner, things might have played out differently. More importantly, if the truth about Peter Pettigrew came to light before the Triwizard Tournament, before the war truly reignited, Potter would have had more time to prepare, to plan.
Twelve years in Azkaban.
Draco shivered at the thought. He had barely survived two.
The cold, the endless silence, the weight of the Dementors pressing in, sucking the very essence of hope from his soul… He had never known true despair before Azkaban. Not even with Voldemort’s return, not even with the war. The prison had broken him in ways that battle never could.
And Black had endured twelve.
Twelve years, alone, with nothing but guilt and grief.
Twelve years of being buried alive in a place that fed on suffering.
Draco swallowed, running a hand down his face.
It was no wonder Black had been so unhinged when he finally escaped. The man had clawed his way back into the world, only to be hunted like an animal. He had spent what little time he had left hiding in a house that had become his prison, only to be killed before he could really live.
Draco had once mocked Potter for losing his only family.
Now he understood what it was like to watch a parent fade away in front of him, helpless to stop it.
He exhaled sharply, pushing away the ache in his chest.
Black needed to be freed earlier.
But how?
The Ministry wouldn’t listen to an eleven-year-old Malfoy suddenly claiming Black was innocent. His father had influence, but Lucius wouldn’t waste it on something so politically dangerous. Pettigrew’s survival had been a secret, and Black had never had a trial to begin with.
Which meant evidence.
If he could expose Pettigrew before the events of third year, Black’s name could be cleared.
It wouldn’t be easy. Pettigrew was hiding as Weasley’s rat, and Draco had no way to approach the Weasleys without raising suspicion. He needed a plan—a way to reveal the truth without making himself look like a lunatic.
This was delicate. He couldn’t afford a single misstep.
If he played his cards right, he could secure Potter’s greatest ally before the war even started.
And that could change everything.