Draco Malfoy, the sole heir of the Malfoy family, is reborn.
The previous second, he was still in the blazing fire of the Room of Requirement, struggling to climb atop that accursed pile of debris, stretching out his hand toward the foolish Potter in a panic—yes, he grasped Potter's hand, he pulled himself onto the broomstick, he was saved.
The next second, he suddenly woke from the thrill and euphoria of escaping death, and found himself lying peacefully on the familiar, ornate and comfortable four-poster bed in Malfoy Manor.
Silence surrounded him, with only the insects in the manor gardens humming softly.
Draco immediately realized that it was the dawn of a midsummer day, filled with the scent of roses, rather than the late spring midnight that carried a somewhat desolate and melancholy feeling in his dream moments before.
This is not the right time. This is not the right season! He bolted upright and leaped from the bed, nearly losing his balance.
He raised his hands in astonishment, then stared at everything about his body: a child's feet, a child's legs, a child's hands and arms.
Shocked. Yet he tried his best to remain calm—a skill acquired only after experiencing countless real horrors. Drawing a breath, he hurried toward the full-length ornate mirror at the side of the room—and found himself completely transformed into a young boy.
He vaguely resembled himself at age eleven.
Merlin's stinking socks!
For a moment, he did not know whether everything he had experienced before waking was a dream, an illusion, or reality.
However, the memories of the seven years he spent at Hogwarts remained vivid and flowing through his mind...
The details of pain, fear, despair and struggle were dense and real, piercing his heart one by one.
This could not be merely a long dream.
What was happening? Could it be that this boy's body was real, and what he saw before was the dream?
The first faint light appeared in the sky outside the window. In this light, Draco examined himself in the full-length mirror, his eyes full of doubt and anxiety.
He saw the platinum-haired boy frowning with unnatural maturity and pinching his face hard with small hands, which quickly caused a flush to spread across his pale face.
The pain made him grasp the reality of this world and confirmed that he was now truly a young boy.
Merlin! He looked away from the blasted mirror, unwilling to see the child's expression any longer.
Draco paced in the dim light of dawn, attempting to calm his startled heart.
Wake up. This must be some Dark magic or nightmare.
Wake up immediately! He rubbed his aching temple, forcing himself toward consciousness.
The memory of a dream often fades and blurs as one awakens. But what terrified him was that as the seconds passed and his mind fully awakened, the torrent of horrifying memories not only showed no sign of dissipating, but instead gushed forth like water from a broken tap, turbulently transforming his once orderly mind into a vast, chaotic mess.
The torrent surged, boundless, and every fragment of memory floated hazily through his consciousness.
In fact, as his memory flooded his mind, a vast amount of magical knowledge appeared—powerful evidence that he had studied at Hogwarts for seven years.
There was absolutely no Dark magic artifact or nightmare in this world that could hammer so many complicated spells, potion-brewing methods, and the lengthy History of Magic into his head overnight.
He even recalled knowledge of Ancient Runes and Alchemy—in his dream, he had used this knowledge to repair a Vanishing Cabinet that even Mr Burke found troublesome.
It was too real. The knowledge was so specific and detailed that the memories were flawless and unnervingly authentic.
Draco's thoughts tangled, and he did not know how to react.
Could those things truly have happened? But now he is eleven years old again—what is happening?
The boy felt deeply unsettled. Through the window, he could see the manor courtyard in the dim light.
The garden presented a scene of prosperity. The roses planted by his mother, Narcissa, were in full bloom. White, red, yellow, and even pink roses flourished. It was peaceful and beautiful, exuding a captivating fragrance.
So beautiful it made him want to weep.
It was vastly different from the Malfoy Manor he had inhabited at seventeen, when the Dark Lord's vile followers had shamelessly occupied his home and left it in a filthy state.
That was the most humiliating memory for the proud Malfoys.
No noble pure-blood wizard family should endure such treatment!
A sudden surge of fury erupted in his chest. Those disgusting creatures must never appear in Malfoy Manor again to trample upon the pride, dignity, and honor of the Malfoy family!
Never!
His hands trembled as he gripped the windowsill, remembering the unbearable ordeals his father and mother had endured.
Lucius, his father, had his wand—as precious to wizards as life itself—confiscated by the Dark Lord. He became like an eagle with broken wings, defenseless and a target for slaughter. Any wretched Death Eater, even a common Ministry official, could cast a curse upon him and humiliate him at will.
His mother, Narcissa, who should have been the most pampered lady, became like a house-elf in her own manor. She lost her elegant and composed demeanor, and her once proud and serene face became etched with anxiety. The Dark Lord could cast the Cruciatus Curse to torture her whenever he was displeased...
As for the Dark Lord himself—he was a usurper who had invaded their home and treated the Malfoy residence as though it were Azkaban, even as a murder scene. He allowed lowly and brutal werewolves to revel openly in the Malfoy manor, which took such pride in its bloodline—this was nothing less than a slap to the Malfoy name!
Thinking of this, Draco's face turned ashen.
His father must never have his wand taken from him again, nor could he return to a terrible place like Azkaban. And he must not allow his always noble mother to suffer such humiliation again, to grovel before those beneath her in the manor she held so dear.
He did not want to be forced to kill Dumbledore again. Draco crouched down slowly, his hands unconsciously gripping his platinum hair.
Sixteen years old—a devastating age.
At sixteen, he harbored as much resentment toward that year as the world had ever known.
That should have been the finest age for a boy, an age filled with light, flowers, applause and perhaps even love, but he had been forced to plan a murder against the most powerful wizard of the century—Albus Dumbledore!
A suicide mission. If Dumbledore could not be killed, the Malfoy family would be destroyed. If by chance Dumbledore died, his soul would perish with him—if a pathetic Death Eater could still retain a soul.
He never wanted to be a murderer. Never! How could a proud Malfoy stain his noble hands with blood? He should be pristine and triumphant in the sunlight.
But his father was sent to Azkaban, and the Dark Lord threatened him with his mother's safety and the future of the Malfoy family.
It was absurd that someone without compassion would threaten a sixteen-year-old boy panicking from sudden family upheaval.
This was what a cruel, evil, unscrupulous Dark Lord did.
Draco had nowhere to turn, no one to help him.
The Malfoys' "old friends" bared their fangs: with the death of his grandfather, Abraxas, the old alliances had crumbled. Galleons could not buy support, but instead attracted greedy covetousness. These "old friends" offered hypocritical sympathy, but their eyes clearly revealed expectations—hoping to profit from the Malfoys' downfall.
As for those "enemies," the Malfoy family had long stood opposed to Dumbledore. What unrealistic fantasies could he harbor about them?
Should he bow to "Saint Potter"? Ask Dumbledore—his intended target—for help? How could those he had been taught to hate, who never ceased mocking him, possibly help?
The Malfoys had always maintained this way of thinking and remained deeply wary of Dumbledore and his allies.
Draco had never considered, nor dared to consider, that Dumbledore at the end of his life would still attempt to redeem his pathetic soul, just as he had never imagined that the foolish Potter would turn back on the brink of life and death, flying toward him on his broomstick to offer a hand.
It was a kindness he had not encountered in ages, a type of care he had never experienced from the Dark Lord or the Death Eaters. It stirred something within him, causing unexpected moisture to gather in his eyes.
A feeling of regret gradually overwhelmed him.
Draco had to acknowledge one truth: he should have asked them for help. Asked Potter for help, asked Dumbledore for help.
They might have helped him. They held different ideologies, beliefs, and belonged to opposing factions, but they shared a common enemy—the Dark Lord. This alone made cooperation possible.
The Dark Lord had long ceased to be someone Draco respected. During the year the Dark Lord resided at Malfoy Manor, Draco gradually discovered that he was not the elegant, noble, powerful leader hoping to restore the glory of pure-blood wizards that his father had described.
He was temperamental, spiteful, violent and cruel, and he murdered all wizards—even pure-bloods. This often filled Draco with an inexplicable sorrow for his own kind—even though his father Lucius claimed that such sorrow was shameful and a cowardly emotion.
Perhaps Draco Malfoy had always been a coward. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy was too fanatical about the Dark Lord. He was too deeply involved and had invested too much, so obsessed with the inevitability of the Dark Lord's triumph that he could not accept a losing return on his investment.
But Draco had awakened from that delusion. When he stepped back from the madness and observed the Dark Lord calmly, he recognized him for what he was—an inhuman lunatic.
He recalled how the Death Eaters regarded the Dark Lord: without worship, how could there be devotion?
Most of the Death Eaters—except for Bellatrix—were terrified.
Many had noticed something was wrong, but they could no longer bear the consequences of their chosen path, so they pressed onward, either toward destruction or toward an elusive better future.