CHAPTER II
CHAPTER II
He sprung awake, and his eyes burned from the brightness. Draco squeezed his eyes shut; the burning white still seared into them. He opened his eyes, this time slowly, to be greeted with a jarring scene he would never have thought to see again…
A room decked in royal green, a shelf filled with books and trinkets in front of him, separating a teak wood desk and a green sofa. As well as an animated figure of a silver dragon flying about in a corner of the room, a Swedish short-snout.
“…”
It was his room…his childhood room, where he spent his early years obsessing over dragons and potions. The room where his mother had enchanted the ceiling to constantly show him the constellation of his namesake, Draco…The room before Hogwarts, before everything chaotic and sinister in his life is slowly revealed to him. Is this what heaven’s like? For all of people’s adamant declaration of him being condemned to burn in hell for being a death eater, this is…underwhelming. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful or not…
His hands were clenched at the sheets of his bed, he looked at it for a second. Stunned with a sudden distress, he raised his hand and scrutinized it with wide eyes, it is smaller? Maybe, he thought, that being dead he wouldn’t even have a body, a clean one at that. But here he is, in his room. A place that seemed so innocent and normal— He pulled away from the sheets and saw his legs…they also shrunk, in fact, he’s whole body did. Even if he is dead, he’s pretty sure his body shouldn’t have shrunk on its own.
He looked back to his hand, a silent void in his mind, until he looked further down to his arm and his ears roared. Pale, unblemished skin. The black snake and skull nowhere to be found.
“Ha…ha ha…what is this?” Slowly, Draco started to chuckle to himself.
Suddenly, a loud snap resounded besides him, making Draco flinch away immediately grabbing for something, a pillow. And he swerved his head and see a—Dobby.
…What?
“Young master Draco, missis Narcissa do asking why young master Draco isn’t downstairs eating his breakfast.” The elf spoke with his somewhat decent English. But Draco wasn’t focused on that, “My mother’s dead.” He replied blankly. Well, he’s dead as well and is currently talking to an elf who is also supposed to be dead, so why even mention such fact? But the supposedly dead elf seemed horrified by his statement.
“No! Young master Draco, mistress Narcissa downstairs!” The elf was so startled by Draco’s words that he couldn’t form a proper sentence. A silent rage echoed in his chest, what nonsense is this elf sprouting? Isn’t this supposedly dead elf supposed to be…well…dead? He’s getting a bit redundant.
“Mississ Narcissa do asking young master Draco to eat with her.” The little creature insisted.
Well, Draco supposed he could just go, maybe he really would see his mother, if…Dobby is here. He doubts it, but it wouldn’t hurt to see. He’s dead. Very dead. Like his mother. And Dobby…Draco’s getting really tired, he sighed.
He stood up from the bed, and came up to a height he wasn’t used to, he’s even shorter now. Perhaps he wasn’t the best person growing up, and he wasn’t exactly a good person all around when he died, a bit mad and out of it from his stay in Azkaban, but he’s pretty sure the universe doesn’t punish people by shrinking their bodies when they die. But what does he know? He flinched when a loud snap, had once again, popped beside him, Dobby had disapparated away. Right, breakfast…
He went straight out of his room, expecting the end of this weird fever dream, and finally see the carnal punishments he will receive for his life-long stupidity. Then he opened the door, only to see the manor’s hallway, and its immaculate artworks and furniture. And a pot of plant. Vibrant green a stark contrast to the dark themes of the hall, an anomaly.
“…”
He continued forward, as what else are you supposed to do in a hallway? And his feet carried him to the dining room his family has always used for meals, and in later years, a place for a giant snake to feast. When did he get here? He pushed the door open, and saw their beautiful dark wood carved table, the intricate silver candelabras and the assortment of fine cuisine. Then his eyes fell to the end of the table—
He froze.
A young woman with an elegant blond and dark mane, wearing a complimenting blue dress. Narcissa, his mother. She is sitting at their dining table leisurely, sipping her tea from the floral China on her hand. Eyes cast down as she read the newspaper, completely oblivious to the pale boy at the door. Draco is frozen like time itself had stopped, which, it might as well have. His bare feet were grounded, stuck to the cold marble floor, or was it freezing? His hands clenched at the doorknob as he tries to steady himself.
…It can’t be true.
“Draco, darling, what are you doing there? Come and eat your breakfast.” The soft and pleasant voice of his mother prompt him to open his eyes, Draco didn’t know when he had looked away and closed his eyes in a desperate plea.
He didn’t answer, he merely stared at her in, in what exactly, he didn’t know either. Disbelief? His feelings were likened to being smashed by a raging toddler and mixed in a faulty cauldron. And when the silence continued to stretch, Narcissa became worried, “Draco, are you alright?”
…Is he alright? He’s dead, why does it even matter? But his mother is right before him, and so much younger than he had remembered. Draco felt dazed, his mother seemed to have procured a time turner and turned back her clock, except that’s not how it works. Is this what happens to everyone after they die? Turn a few years younger? He shook his head, and walked towards the table.
“Nothing, good morning mother.” He greeted mechanically.
Narcissa looked at him for a second, still worried, “If you say so, dragon.” She picked up her tea, the newspapers discarded to the side, she was still worried by the looks of a slight furrow on her brows. Draco robotically prepared his breakfast, smearing a random jam on a piece of bread, and biting into it. And the flavors exploded in his mouth, he didn’t know how, but he staggered in his seat. He put down the bread and felt as his world crumbled down again. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial, let alone something with flavors, in Azkaban considering he is a lowly death eater scum. But, he’s dead, he shouldn’t be eating, he shouldn’t even be able to taste anything. Yet, he just did. He just took a bite of the sweet fruity jam smeared messily and half-heartedly on a bread. And he just saw his dead mother, eating in front him, who seemed to have drunk a de-aging potion. He couldn’t bring himself look at her.
Then he saw the newspaper, the Daily Prophet, but more specifically the date. And once again, the world staggered to an abrupt stop.
June 5th, 1989
Impossible. This is impossible. It was pretty maddening in Azkaban, and he felt an urge to rip out every single piece of hair out of his skull and stab someone with the butterknife barbarically like a deranged muggle. But that doesn’t mean he’s gone stupid, no, rather he thought that he became wiser from his blatant acceptance of death when he received a lovely kiss. Cold, merciless, and dead…or perhaps not, since he is being mind-boggled by his current predicament.
He’s pretty sure time doesn’t rewind just because you’re dead. Draco felt sick to his stomach, he felt like puking out the one bite of bread he had a moment prior. He excused himself from breakfast, walking in strides out of the room, with his mother calling to him in the background that quickly turned into static noises. Draco’s mind was a jumble of thoughts, a million cases had flashed through his head by the time he made it back to his room. He continued to pace around.
His shrunken body. The reappearance of Dobby. His mother, younger, and not haunted by the horrors of the—no. He breathed out a shuddering breath as an idea slowly formed in his head. He paced even faster.
He should’ve been dead, and that would’ve been the end. Except now…now time has rewind, how else can you explain the things he just saw? No curses or rituals could do this, and he has been quite clear with the many times he reminded himself, he is quite very much, dead. And now he is back in the past?
What is this?
Is this how the universe decided to say “Fuck you” and tell him that all that he experienced before is meaningless, and he has to go through them again? All the suffering and the final bliss when he finally died didn’t happen, doesn’t exist, has lost all meaning and importance if there was any in the first place. No, it just simply couldn’t.
No, Draco didn’t suffer through the childish ignorance and bigotry that costed him everything, and the tantalizing punishment and hell that was his last years of his short, nearly 2 decades of miserable life. He didn’t go through all that just to come back to the start!
He sank down on his plush sofa, it was green Draco noticed, of course it was. And his mind continued with statics. He is surprisingly fast to adopt the fact that he is in the past, but dealing with the fact is a completely different matter entirely. Does this mean he is technically alive? Or is he still dead? But if he is still dead what was the point of whatever head breaking, vomit inducing train wreck a moment ago? What is the point to anything?
Once again, he looked down at his hands. Smaller, but still pale, just like he remembered. A pinkish tint to his fingertips, a telltale sign to human temperature. A sign to confirm he is alive, and breathing, he choked in a breath of air.
He let his head fall backwards, thunk, resting on the pillow Draco continued to stare at the ceiling. When an idea wormed its way to his brain.
“This is absurd.” Draco told himself.
Why would he change anything even if he’s in the past, what good would it do for him? It wouldn’t change anything even if he managed to lead Lucius into believing that perhaps, they were wrong. And their fixation on blood purity is nothing but a shell of its glory. Nothing would come out of changing his way. But…he’s changed, hasn’t he? He is no longer the naïve child he was when he is nine, and that in itself is a change from the past. Can it really happen? Can he really change everything? His fate, his family’s fate. Change the future, or rewrite his past?
It could save him; he could enjoy the life he could have had. He could have a life with his mother, his father. A life with no darkness looming over their heads, a life where there might be light at the end. A lover…
Draco’s mind was fraying in the edges. A swelling feeling was threatening to overwhelm him, he wanted to puke. Could he really do it? Could he bring himself to hope for a better life? A life where he could redo every single mistake like a tick of a box, where he could press a button and restart. A life where he can correct all the mishaps, and all the unnecessary deaths, can he really have that? He felt dizzy, he could save people, he realized. Instead of becoming the villain in people’s story he can be the hero, save one or two people from their own fate. If he has the time, why not? Not that he cared, far from it. He’s Draco Malfoy, and Malfoys do not feel guilt…
…
He scoffed softly under his breath, at the rapid thoughts that are running through his brain.
“Ha ha…ha hah.” He laughed. In delirium, in despair, he didn’t know. He laughed until his visions blurred, and tears streamed down his face dampening the pillow. He didn’t know why or how he got here, and he didn’t particularly care. All he cared about is the burning sensation in his lungs, the wet tears on his face, and the manic laughter slipping out of his lips and—He had never felt more alive.