Chapter 1
Everything had gone through utter shit.
It was difficult to stomach everything; all as if the events in his life had become a quick, subsequent flurry of punches into his gut that mercilessly caved into the depths of his organs. Just continually baring into flesh and blood the very means of his existence to become a show of ridicule for all to witness. To witness how he’d failed. To witness how the decisions he’s made all throughout his life were but a speck of dirt under the shoe of all those who he’d once sneered over. It was humiliation. A deep, burning humiliation that burned so hot it felt cold. Like the blistering stones thrown to his bare feet had burned more than muscle and bones.
It felt like being back to being a child again. Back to being a failure that couldn’t even start a simple spell with his mother’s wand even as she held him close on her lap, patiently helping him to repeat the instructions for him. It hurled him into a state of self-hatred that he’d repeatedly deluded himself into believing never existed. A Malfoy doesn’t feel shame. A Malfoy feels inherent pride.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel any pride within that name other than the bile piling into his throat. Perhaps he’d never grown out of that doubt beneath the delusion. He’d convinced himself of all the lies fed to him so harshly it became second-nature. Because the lies were safety. They were promises of a man who would be better. A man who could hold pride with his family name, be a man his father could be proud of—be a man even better than his father. They were delusions that he’d grow. That all of his fears would be washed away with age the same way his mother would never be afraid of the dark the same way he was as a child, desperately holding onto the sleeve of her sleeping gown as he begged for her to stay in his room just for a bit longer.
It never turned out that way. His fears didn’t wash away with age. Draco was older, but he could never have felt any younger. He had looked oddly out into the dark space outside of his cell in Azkaban, an emptiness in his eyes even as the tendrils of his fears started to crawl into his rotting bones. It was as if the hands of the dead had found their bloodied ways into him, as if the entire cell were made of eyes. He could see it. See the nerves within every textured crunch of the eyes as he looked emptily into the darkness. He craved for his mother’s reassurance. But she was in another cell, her state unknown to him but her crimes all the same known. He wanted to cry—cry like a wounded child within the throes of his failures. But only a choked quiver ran through his lips, still unable to tear his eyes away from the dark outside his cell. He was afraid of the dark. Draco Malfoy, the cunning, bloody Death Eater, was afraid of the dark. The mere admittance to it made him want to go crazy. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dark despite how his tired mind supplied him with irrational scares of what could be out there. He didn’t want to look anywhere else. Look where the eyes would stare back at him like he was under justice’s hammer of judgement.
So, he watched. Watched the dark and ignored how his eyes dried, wishing to cry. He watched the dark and ignored how his heart palpitated at the thought that something would appear. His days spent in Azkaban looked to be of a man deeply within consternation, within the deepest depths of his regrets. But he was far from a man. A broken man, yes. But he was far from the rational thoughts of his situation. He was simply a child once again, staring into the dark in fear that it would look back at him. But he knew he wasn’t a child anymore. No longer could he at least have the safety of thought that his parents would be nearby, just nearby enough for him to run to. He was a grown man stuck with the wracking fears of a child he’d never allowed to be brave.
He’d thought he’d cry at least once in that cell. It wasn’t uncommon. It was even expected to hear the cries of the criminals especially with how the war had ended. But he hadn’t. Instead, he found himself heaving pathetically, vomiting onto the floor with the acid in his own stomach. The taste stung. It was as if it all ate him alive as he heaved and coughed, unable to stop the way his stomach contracted and begged. He felt pathetic and immensely disgusting as he watched the way the bile seemed to spread into a thin puddle over the floor, not even able to show him a reflection of his own deplorable state. He knew he looked disgusting. He knew he looked like a complete shell of what once. But he could only laugh to himself, the taste of his own pathetic bile accompanying him as he coughed.
Potter had testified for him and his mother. Sitting in that room and being let go of most of the severe punishments made bile rise to his throat again. He could see his mother crying. Out of shame or relief, he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t want to know. He kept his head low as he was pushed out with the ones accompanying him sneering at him in clear disdain. He gulped back the bile, knowing he’d probably vomited enough of it already to have destroyed at least some of his throat. He wanted to hang his head as he walked, but the last stubborn spark within him raised his head, forcing himself to walk with some sense of dignity he didn’t even know he had anymore. He wanted to see his mother. He wanted to hold her in his thinned limbs and sob.
But of course. “Malfoy.” That bloody name. And that bloody voice. Potter had stopped him, looking at him warily. He looked like he’d ran all the way to the hallway Draco situated in, being held back by two Aurors as his hands remained cuffed. He wasn’t panting, Potter was far too much of an athletic prat to be panting from a simple run. But his hair was messy, as if he’d roughed away at someone to run off. Draco had scoffed inwardly at the thought. He wasn’t faring any well at all, yet it seemed he still had it in him to find a snide wrong within Potter. Old habits simply couldn’t die hard enough. Even at the moment when he’d run in the battlefield, throwing all caution into the wind when his breath had caught at the sight of Harry’s body looking as still as the dead. He couldn’t even understand why. He couldn’t understand why he’d done that… that inane act. He left the comfort of his mother’s hold. All because his bloody mind was inane enough to stop working and think of Potter to be dead. To have had his heart stop within itself and think of Potter—Potter…
He scowled as Potter looked awkwardly at him, his breath seeming to have caught within his throat as he opened and closed his mouth like an imbecilic fish. The Aurors held him tighter, as if they’d thought that a man so broken and weak already could do something to their all-mighty Saviour. Potter had looked between him and the Aurors, looking behind him before struggling once again. Draco would’ve guessed he wanted to have a private conversation without the people arresting Draco, but he’d pushed that thought away.
“Malfoy, you…” Potter licked his lips, still struggling. His eyes bore into Draco as if he was willing for Draco to understand his intentions, his hand in his robe pocket moved. He had opened his mouth to speak once again, but Draco could hear of nothing more as the Weasel caught up panting with Granger following closely behind. They both glared at him, condescending. He’d straightened himself seeing it, willing himself not to buckle and fall. The Weasel cursed at Potter, chiding him for actually leaving to talk to… Draco.
He shook his head, walking to the side of the hall that wouldn’t allow him to encounter Potter again. The Aurors took Potter’s friends’ interruption to be the end of it, taking Draco away with not even a glance back to Potter. Draco didn’t look back, willing himself not to fall. He was a criminal. But he held himself together, piecing his dignity together no matter how little was left of it. He didn’t look back even when Potter called for him, his voice quietened by his companions until he was out of sight.
He looked at his mother, dreary and tear-stricken. She looked tired. It broke the last of him as tears rolled down his sunken cheeks. He gulped, being allowed free of his cuffs as he was caught in his mother’s embrace. He cried into her shoulder despite how he’d grown far taller than her, he still cried like he was still a child begging his mother not to leave his side. She cried more quietly, almost as if she felt that she had to be the stronger one in this moment, cradling Draco’s head as her voice cracked trying to whisper comfort to him.
They were allowed to return to their Manor within jurisdiction, the remnant of death still rampant within the place he once called home. His mother excused herself to the room she shared with her husband, comforting Draco with her embrace before she left. Draco couldn’t follow her. He didn’t want to hear his mother crying. He knew she loved him. But he knew even more of how much his mother loved his father. His father, still incarcerated for his crimes in Azkaban. He couldn’t be pardoned in the same way as his family.
Draco didn’t know how he should feel of it. But either way, it wouldn’t matter. Because his home was a shell of what it once was. And his family would forever be a shell of what it once was, just the same. He breathed wearily, finding himself outside of the Manor instead of inside it as he looked out to the expanse of the estate. His eyes felt as empty as ever, staring straight. It was as if the Death Eaters still resided within him home and his entire being recoiled at the thought. He couldn’t allow himself to look back into his… his home. He felt disgusted seeing it. Even more disgusted than when he’d vomited bile over his clothes.
He stared absentmindedly. He worried for what would happen now. He’d never thought any of this… any of what had happened. He always followed whatever his father had instructed. But now his father was incarcerated with no way out of his crimes and Draco… Draco was lost. He was lost. Unbearably, laughably lost. Everyone around him had practically prophesied his future for him. And he’d believed all of it. Yet he sat alone. Lost, humiliated, and without a semblance of dignity left. He felt immensely pathetic.
He didn’t know where to go after all of this. He’d be forever scorned everywhere he goes. The name he once took pride in was forever stained. He was… a failure.
He bit at his shame. He was a failure. A miserable, pathetic failure. He’d always despised being a failure. He’d envied Potter greatly because he knew inwardly that he was a failure compared to the Boy-Who-Lived. And yet that same Potter had testified so his mother and him would be pardoned the greatest of their punishments. He looked at his hand, flexing his fingers.
His wand… was still with Potter.
He was even more lost. Everything was utter shit.
He curled into himself in the cold of the incoming night. He could hear steps behind him. He knew it was his mother, but a part of him was terrified at the thought of another Death Eater being in his home—regardless of how it’s deteriorated. A left breath him as his mother sat next to him, eyes tired.
“Draco.”
“Mother.”
No one else was left. They were all alone. Mother and son.
“Draco.” Narcissa sighed, her shoulders relaxing despite the cold. “Do you regret it?”
Draco blinked, his brows furrowed. He wanted to laugh inside, pushing his head into his hands. Was his mother going to make him feel his wrongs? Yes. He regretted so much. Because now he doesn’t understand anything. And it hurts to look at his mother. It hurts to see her so drained. He remained silent, hoping his mother knew his answer without it needing to be said.
“I’ve regretted things once.” Narcissa said slowly, “Regretted many things in my life until I was too lost to understand what I was regretting.”
Draco hesitated to nod, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt the same regret. The regret of having the mark was as fresh as it was branded onto him, the tingling sensation on his arm still as unbelievably unbearable as it always was. He felt it in his cell, felt as he was separated from his parents to be arrested, felt it when he’d thrown his wand to Potter in the heat of the moment even as the drumming of heart was able to somehow quiet the tingling touch of the mark, he felt it all clearly. He knew his mother wasn’t marked the same, but she was following the life of a Death Eater all the same.
Draco accepted his fate. He’d lost as a failure. He’d lost as a man that could have never decided on another path. He’d lost as a man that allowed death and madness to thrive. But he’d regretted it. He regretted it even more seeing how his father was gone, and even more how sad his mother looked. It ached the most. She loved him the most. And now she was all he had. And he failed her. He couldn’t try hard enough. He couldn’t succeed within anything enough to have at least give his mother a sense of pride within him. It hurt the most to contemplate all of it alone in his cell.
Narcissa’s voice softened, a soft drawl of exhaustion in her tone. “I lived as a muggle.” She looked ironically at her lap as she tugged at her shawl, a tug of a bittersweet smile on her lips.
Draco blinked. His head snapped to see his mother as she looked distantly away from him. The question of what she meant stayed on his tongue, unable to make any kind of sound. His mother… as a muggle? The person who prided herself on the purity of her blood the most? He couldn’t even fathom the thought of it.
Narcissa scoffed softly, shaking her head. “I ran away. Around the same age as you now. Bella… Bella and I had one of the worst scuffles of our lives that day. Tensions were high due to some troubles, and…” She looked far off, as if she was looking into a different world. “I ran away. I was spurred so simply by everything she’d spouted. Enough that I challenged everything I was taught to run off into the muggle world.”
Draco looked incredulously at his mother, feeling that perhaps their respective time in Azkaban had truly corrupted the states of their sanities. He looked worriedly at her, moving to her side to coax her down. He’d learned to do it to himself when his thoughts strayed too far in the dark. Something he’d overheard Granger doing to Harry one day when the latter was wracked with his emotions that he couldn’t function to even stand up (he’d scoffed at the sight of it, but it ironically saved his mind in that drab cell). His mother had never allowed herself to stay in the Muggle world for too long, deeming it all far too dirty and disgusting to even lay her eyes on. He opened his mouth to console her, but Narcissa only shook her head, holding her shawl close to her.
“I lived there. For years. I was too stubborn to return because Bella mocked me when I left, stating that I would come back in due time.” Narcissa said, “I was… I was angry. Stubborn. And the first few days in that world…”
Narcissa laughed, almost mockingly. “I enjoyed it. I still deemed them all to be beneath me, but it was all different there. I explored. I found pleasures and drab sights. I was so stubborn within that scuffle that I deemed everything else to be better. And I felt myself freed to so much.” She shook her head, “I almost allowed myself to settle there. And I never married your father.”
Draco paused before frowning, holding his mother by his side, figuring that she’d calm down soon enough. “Mother… it’s alright. You don’t have to tell me about… this…”
Narcissa sighed. “I lived as a muggle, my dragon. I lived a life where your father wasn’t there. I lived a life… where you weren’t there. And I explored the muggle world on my own. And… I regretted it.” She laughed sadly, “I regretted all of it. I was so lost. I couldn’t go back to my family. Muggles… muggles are disgusting. The crimes they have against each other… it was all so… so unbearable. I saw the truth to why we must all disdain against their kind. And I wanted to go back.”
She gently moved his hold, reaching into her pocket. She held out a tiny string holding onto a silver object. She smiled almost melancholically at the sight of it in her hand. Narcissa allowed a large breath to leave her, her shoulders relaxing. “But I came back. Back to before I ran away. Back to before I allowed myself to be spurred by Bella’s words. Before all of the problems leading to that scuffle. And I… I lived a life I didn’t regret.”
“Mother, what are you talking about—” Draco started, unbelieving.
“I went back in time—no, I went to another life. One that I didn’t allow myself to live to regret.” She corrected herself, smiling at the sight of her son.
“Mother, please, do you want to lay down?” Draco was more worried than before, closing her hand over the object as the string hung limply. “Let’s get back inside, okay? It’ll be okay.”
Narcissa shook her head. “Dragon, it’s okay. It is okay. I’m okay.” She pushed the item into Draco’s hands, looking sad at the sight of it with him.
Draco opened his hand, watching as the dingy looking thing opened itself to reveal a locket watch. He looked doubtfully at it before looking back at his mother. “Mother…”
“I’m serious.” Her voice softened. “Go back. Live a life you won’t live to regret.”
Draco sighed, “Mother, please. Let’s just go back inside, we can talk about this another time.”
Narcissa sighed. “Draco.”
Draco stiffened, his hold over the locket closing. Narcissa sighed, holding the hand that was holding it. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m alright. And I… don’t want you to regret everything.”
Draco frowned, looking back at the clock. He sighed, “Do you regret it?”
Narcissa smiled, holding his hand tightly as she moved the other to hold his face in her hand. “With you, and your father, my dragon?” She laughed, a bit of life returning to her face that Draco felt so relieved to see. It was as if everything was safe. It was as if she was comforting him when he was younger once again. It was as if everything hadn’t gone into utter shit yet. “I’d never regretted it. I would never regret it. You and your father are what I lived again for.”
“So… why?” Draco’s voice broke hearing the love in her voice. He allowed himself to go along with her words, if at least to entertain her. “Why don’t you… use, use this thing, then?”
Narcissa held him tighter, “I don’t regret this life, dragon.” She smiled, holding him so tightly as if he was about to disappear in front of her. “Despite everything, I could never regret this life. I could never regret marrying and following your father. I could never regret having you.”
Draco swallowed, “I would never regret you as well, mother. I don’t need this.”
Narcissa held him, shaking her head firmly. “I will always be there for you, my dragon. But this isn’t the life you were supposed to have—not when you’re regretting what led to it.”
The locket twitched as if the turns within it started, and they both felt it move, the machinations as loud as a real clock. Narcissa smiled sadly, holding her son close to her shoulder as she kept it in his hand, kissing his forehead. “I will always be there for you. My dragon, live a life you won’t regret. No matter what choice you choose to lead to it, I will love you.”
The locket ticked again, almost blearing in Draco’s ears as he panicked, holding onto his mother’s shawl in desperation. He felt warm tears run through his hair, his mother’s stubborn grip keeping him from pulling away and asking what was happening. He heard the last of her voice, her hold as warm and loving as ever. “Take care of your father. And be nice to that Potter boy. He may be a half-blood… but he’s a good boy. Take care, my dragon.”
Before Draco could call for his mother again, he found sitting upright on silken sheets. His breathing was laboured, heart hurting against his chest even worse than the time when Potter had casted that Sectumsempra spell on him. His eyes couldn’t seem to adapt to his surroundings, rendering him blind for a moment as he struggled to feel everything around him. He was like a wounded animal, desperately touching whatever was around him for a way to ground himself from the shock. He gulped, his breathing starting to slow as it cooled his body, giving shivers to wrack through his skin. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing despite the fact it made everything so bloody cold.
When he could finally see again, he looked around, finding himself in his bedroom in the Manor. Except—except it was in perfect condition. Lived in, but in perfect condition. It looked recently cleaned, all tidy with all the decoration—Merlin! Draco flung off of his bed, expecting his legs to catch onto the floor only to trip onto himself, landing himself face first onto the ground as his chest ached against the carpeted floor. The decoration… the decoration was before he’d overhauled his room in the third year. Far longer than before his third year.
His eyes locked onto the ground, ignoring all the pain in his body to help himself upright. His lower body remained on the floor, his hand pushing against the soft carpet to give him the ability to look at the how small his hand was as he held it open. It was night-time, but he’d taken to asking his mother around this age to allow him a small night light by his bed, allowing him to see locket with the string attached to it still in his possession. He trembled, unable to believe his eyes.
He first noticed his size. He first thought he’d shrunken, but his fingers were… pudgy, and small. He was small. He held the locket close, sitting upright before pressing his hand against his cheek, looking over his entire body the best he could before his face paled. He looked at the locket, his heart palpitating. His mother—his mother! She would be all alone… and, and he was a child. He was a child again. He cursed at the locket, only to slowly start begging it to send him back to his mother. He didn’t pay attention to anything else, only feeling a sob wrack through him as he repeatedly called for his mother.
He wiped his tears, still holding the locket close as he looked around, rushing to his window and throwing the curtains open to reveal how the outside of the manor was still pristine. Not a single trace of war or fighting being shown as the same moon he’s always seen reflected its light into the dark expanse of the night. His breathing slowed, trying to understand his situation even as sure as he was that he was quickly rushing down to a panic attack. He bit at his lip, hand pressed against the glass. He looked at the locket, trying to question it about what was going on but with no answer to be given.
Draco worried for his mother. He didn’t understand the mechanics of all of this… if he went back in time, he had no idea what would become of his mother and… and himself. What was to become of the traitorous Draco Malfoy? Did time simply stop itself by that point to restart at this moment of time? Or… or was this another life? Another point of change, another point of time. He worried heavily, his heart hurting physically. He collapsed onto the floor, holding the locket close as if he could access the warmth that his mother had left him. He breathed, curling into himself.
After a few hours of simply feeling himself panic on the floor, the sun was starting to rise, allowing light to shine through his room. He still didn’t feel alright, but he was starting to have some sense of thought returning to him. He thought back to his mother’s words, remembering how she’d mentioned she’s used… this… before. She was… living as a muggle. The mere thought of it made Draco want to re-evaluate everything he had thought of to that point. Not even mentioning how she’d apparently gone back in time and lived a different life from what she’d regretted; wait, no… not apparently. From what was going on now… his mother wasn’t lying or going crazy when she’d told him that. Because it was happening to him now. And Draco felt like he was going crazy because of it.
He contemplated what he could do. Begging to go back and asking for what was going on to the locket was proving to be inane and ultimately unhelpful despite the desperation behind it. He could go to someone. Anyone to help him. His mother could help him, if she had really gone back in time herself and knew of the existence of the bloody thing in his hand. But he hesitated at the thought. He hated the thought of seeing her face when she learns of why he even went back. What kind of mother would be happy to know that her son built up so many regrets and pain that the only way to right it was to go back to being a child?
He would have to tell her eventually, but the thought of it all was still too fresh on his mind. It would hurt to tell her everything. He never mentioned anything about what happened to his mother even after the trial when they’d been reunited; everything was too painful to even think of, let alone talk about. But he needed… he needed…
Draco swallowed. He couldn’t tell anyone. No, no. Not right now, at least. He… he couldn’t bring himself to confess of every crime he’s allowed himself to commit. He couldn’t go to his father. Not in this time when he was scrutinizing his growth the most, without the knowledge of just how much Draco could fuck everything up yet. He couldn’t talk to his mother knowing of how his failures had cost her pain. He couldn’t… couldn’t talk to his godfather. The memory of his death still haunts him, and the wound was far too fresh for him to, within good nature, speak to him.
Draco wiped his tears, walking limply to his bed. He collapsed into the strangely familiar sheets, curling into himself. Ridiculous. Blood ridiculous. Not only had he returned to being a child, but he also felt like a child once again as he exhaustedly covered himself with his blanket, hoping that nothing out there would creep into him.
He cried silently into the duvet, refusing to get out of bed even as his instincts told him he needed to be out of bed by this time. He didn’t want to come out. Not now. Not ever. Not when it all felt like it’s gone back to a time where nothing mattered when he did something for once. He wanted to stay in his bed.
The door opened and closed gently, steps moving to the side of his bed. “Dragon…” His mother’s gentle voice hurt. He cried deeper into his pillows, panic rising into bile at his throat as he apologized repeatedly to his mother in his mind for leaving her in his time. “Dragon... are you alright?”
Draco shook his head, still deep into his pillow and refusing to look up even as his mother touched his hair. He didn’t think he had the strength to see her.
“Dragon, it’s time for breakfast. You’re already late. The food’s going to go cold.” Her voice turned fond, “Did you have a nightmare? It’s okay now, it’s okay.”
Draco turned to his mother, his heart hurting at the sight of her. She looked… she looked younger; regal, shining. He hugged her, crying woundedly. He wished it was all a nightmare. A long, horrible nightmare. He dearly wished it was as she soothed him carefully.