The scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express puffed its steam into the sharp September air. Platform 9¾ was once again a sea of faces.
First years huddled together in nervous clusters, their eyes wide with wonder. They clutched their new wands and shiny textbooks, whispering excitedly about the sorting ceremony and the enchanted castle that awaited them. Their parents hovered nearby, torn between pride and anxiety as they prepared to send their children off into an unfamiliar world. Older students, already clad in their house robes, greeted each other with boisterous laughter and warm embraces, eager to catch up after a summer apart.
Amidst the bittersweet farewells and joyful reunions, there was a solitude figure, tucked away in a secluded corner.
The face was hidden beneath the hood of a robes, a disguise that would not conceal the unmistakable features underneath for long.
Platinum blond hair, once slicked back with meticulous precision, now hung limp and lifeless around his face. Gray eyes, once alight with arrogance and disdain, were now shadowed and haunted, darting warily from side to side as if expecting an attack at any moment. His posture, too, was a far cry from the confident swagger of years past. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, he seemed to be trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
If anyone had bothered to look closely enough, they would have seen the grown but empty shell of a once bright and hopeful boy who had strutted through the halls of Hogwarts like he owned the place. But those days were long gone.
The young man was none other than Draco Malfoy, returning for his final year of magical education.
It was thanks to none other than Harry Potter and Hermione Granger that he had been granted this unexpected reprieve.The irony was not lost on him. The very people he had tormented and ridiculed for years, the ones he had fought against in the final battle, were the ones who had spoken up for him at his trial. They had argued for leniency, citing his youth and the immense pressure he had been under from his family and the Dark Lord himself.
"Draco Malfoy was a victim too," Potter had said, his green eyes blazing with that infuriating righteousness. "He was raised to believe in pureblood supremacy, indoctrinated from birth to follow Voldemort. But in the end, he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, even with his family's lives on the line. That has to count for something."
And then there was Granger -of all people- Brilliant, insufferable Granger, who had every reason to hate him more than anyone. She had been the constant target of his cruelty, the recipient of his most vicious slurs and taunts. He had called her 'mudblood' more times than he could count, had mocked her appearance, her blood status, her very existence.
His heart had stuttered when she took the stand, her chin lifted and her eyes blazing with that Gryffindor determination. He had braced himself for a scathing condemnation, for her to lay bare every cruel word he had ever hurled her way. But instead, she had spoken of the boy she had seen beneath the bravado and the prejudice. The boy who had looked sickened and terrified as she was tortured on the floor of his drawing room. The boy who, even in the midst of battle, could not bring himself to kill.
"I don't believe Draco Malfoy is evil," she had said. "I believe he made terrible choices, yes. But he was also a child, a child raised in a toxic environment of hate and bigotry. And when it mattered most, he chose not to follow in his father's footsteps. He chose, in his own way, to be better."
"He could have easily identified us," Granger had added, meeting Draco's gaze across the room. "But he didn’t. And I want to believe that it was because there is still some good left in him. If we close our hearts to the idea of redemption and second chances, then what are we truly fighting for?"
Her words had struck him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless and reeling. How could she, of all people, believe there was anything good in him? After everything he had done, everything he had said? It was a kindness he knew he didn't deserve.
Draco had sat there, numb with shock, as the Wizengamot had deliberated. And when they had announced their decision - a year of probation, with the requirement that he complete his education at Hogwarts - he had felt a rush of emotions so complex and contradictory that he thought he might be sick right there in the courtroom.
Relief, first and foremost. He wouldn't be going back to Azkaban, to that cold, dark cell where the screams of the other inmates had echoed in his ears day and night. He wouldn't have to face the Dementors again, feeling their icy fingers clawing at his mind, dredging up his worst memories and deepest fears. But there was anger, too, and humiliation. The thought of owing his freedom to Potter and Granger, of being indebted to them in any way, made his skin crawl. And beneath it all, a deep, gnawing sense of unworthiness. He didn't deserve this second chance, this opportunity to start over. Not after everything he had done, everything he had been complicit in.
But here he was, standing on the platform, his trunk at his feet and his wand in his pocket.
Draco's fingers grazed the familiar hawthorn wood. His wand. But it wasn't really his anymore, was it?
Potter had disarmed him in the Manor and in that moment, the wand's allegiance had shifted. And now, even though it was back in Draco's possession, it remembered. The wand remembered the strength of Potter's magic, the purity of his intentions and it did not accept Draco as it's owner anymore. It still functioned, sure, but the magic felt sluggish, resistant. Simple spells that once flowed effortlessly now required intense concentration, and even then, the results were often unpredictable.
Everything -the wand included- felt like a reminder of his failures.
As Draco stood there, lost in his thoughts, his eyes drifted to a family nearby. A mother was adjusting her young son’s robes, her hands tender as she tucked stray strands of hair behind his ear. She smiled at him, her face radiant with love. The boy was squirming, embarrassed, but his eyes were filled with pride, and he grinned from ear to ear. The father, too, stood beside them. His hand rested on his son’s shoulder, a silent promise in that simple gesture. When the boy looked up at him for reassurance, the father’s smile softened, his grip tightening in a way that spoke volumes.
And it broke Draco.
He wanted that. Merlin, how he wanted that. He wanted to know what it was like to be looked at with love and pride, to be the recipient of a parent’s affection without the coldness of expectation attached. He wanted to be that child, innocent and full of promise, untainted by the poison of his past.
He desperately tried to push the feeling down, to bury it deep inside the hidden compartments of his heart that he only allowed himself to access under the cover of night and solitude. But today, it had no use. Too many compartment doors had been opened, too much demanding to be felt all at once. The walls he had built around himself were falling apart. They had been showing signs of decay for some time, but it seemed the sight of such open affection was the final blow to their stability.
It was ridiculous, really. Yearning for something you never truly had. And he hadn’t, not the kind of love that was freely given, without condition or expectation.
Draco had learned early on that love was a commodity, doled out sparingly and only when earned through obedience and perfection. There had been some fleeting moments, he was sure. A rare smile from his mother, a nod of approval from his father. But always, always, there had been conditions. Expectations to be met, standards to uphold. The Malfoy name to honor.
And he had tried, Merlin knew he had.
He had studied until his eyes burned, practiced Quidditch until his body ached, and parroted his father's pureblood rhetoric until the words tasted like ash on his tongue. There was always another test, another trial, another opportunity to prove his worth. And with each passing year, the price had grown higher, the stakes more deadly. But it was never enough. Nothing he did could ever measure up to the impossible standards set by Lucius Malfoy.
And his mother, Narcissa... She had loved him, in her own way, but her love was a fragile thing, constantly overshadowed by her fear of her husband's wrath. She had tried to shield Draco from the worst of it, but there was only so much she could do. In the end, she too had been forced to stand by and watch as Lucius molded their son into a miniature version of himself - cold, cruel, and utterly beholden to the Dark Lord.
A sudden burst of laughter startled Draco from his thoughts. A group of first years had gathered nearby, their faces alight with excitement as they chattered about the wonders that awaited them at Hogwarts. Draco envied them.
They seemed so carefree, so untouched by the horrors of this world. They had their whole lives ahead of them. What he wouldn't give to go back to that time, to have a chance to start over - to make different choices.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that he was one of them. That he was boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, his future a blank slate waiting to be written. At the Sorting Ceremony, he would let the Hat see into his heart, to glimpse the hopes and dreams he had buried so deep. Maybe it would place him in a different House, one where he could find true friends, people who would stand by him not out of fear or obligation, but because they genuinely cared. Maybe he would fall in love once or twice. He wouldn't bully and belittle others, wouldn't cling to outdated notions of blood purity and superiority. Instead, he would spend his time discovering who he truly was. He would learn to think for himself, to question the beliefs he had been spoon-fed since birth. He would explore his passions, delve into the subjects that truly fascinated him.
Potions, perhaps. He had always had a knack for it, a natural intuition for the subtle art of brewing. Or maybe he would have pushed to pursue a career as an Auror later, dedicating his life to fighting the very darkness that had consumed his family. It would have been a fitting irony, the son of a Death Eater working to bring his father's allies to justice. He would learn to stand up for what was right, even if it meant standing against his own family.
He could picture it so clearly. It was a beautiful dream, a tapestry woven of what-ifs and if-onlys. But as the train whistle sounded, harsh and shrill, the dream slipped away and reality sank in:
There was no button to rewind time.
He had made his choices, and now he was left with the consequences.
He was no innocent first year student anymore; he was a Death Eater, just freshly released from Azkaban .
Draco's hand unconsciously drifted to his left forearm, where the Dark Mark burned beneath the layers of his clothes.The brand of his servitude, the symbol of his greatest shame. He had taken it willingly, even eagerly, so convinced that it would finally earn him the respect and admiration he craved. But the reality had been far different.
Instead of glory, he had found only terror and pain. Instead of power, he had become a slave to a madman's whims.
And for what? A father's love that never came, a cause he never truly believed in, and a lifetime of regrets that threatened to drown him in every waking moment.
When train whistle sounded once more -the final signal to board- Draco was surprised to find his cheeks damp.
He could almost hear his father's voice, cold and cutting, admonishing him for his weakness.
Malfoys are not supposed to cry. Malfoys are strong, unyielding and unbreakable.
Hastily, he wiped the tears with the sleeve of his robe before he picked up his trunk.
Something had shifted. In him. And in some ways the world had ended.
And perhaps, perhaps he wasn't a Malfoy after all.