A true Malfoy would not display his emotions openly. He would observe carefully before drawing conclusions, rather than allowing anyone to perceive his inner turmoil.
Draco was such a Malfoy. Or rather, the man shaped by his lengthy dark memories was no longer the arrogant and willful boy he once was, but had gradually become cautious and composed.
However, this state of mind might not apply to his interactions with his parents. They were completely oblivious to the drastic changes occurring within Draco's heart, still perceiving him as an eleven-year-old boy. If they discovered their proud and headstrong son had suddenly become silent and withdrawn overnight, they would keenly sense that something was wrong.
How would he explain all this? Draco himself had not sorted it out, and he did not wish to rashly say anything extraordinary at this point.
Draco was accustomed to trusting no one, and he no longer harbored any pathetic illusions that anyone could understand him.
Even his parents, who loved him, never fully understood him.
So when Draco appeared at the breakfast table, he attempted to project the liveliest attitude of an eleven-year-old boy—traits he could summon from his extensive memories.
Apparently he succeeded, as Lucius and Narcissa continued enjoying the breakfast served by the house-elves as usual, noticing nothing peculiar about him.
During the meal, Draco could not help but observe them secretly, again and again.
They looked remarkably young, far younger than he remembered.
There were no lines on his father's face, nor did he appear weary or haggard. He wore his favored serpent-print robes, and his platinum-blond hair was impeccably groomed, flowing and lustrous.
His mother remained beautiful and graceful, her every movement revealing elegant breeding. That proud and imperious face would generously reveal a smile only when facing her husband and son.
Draco grew increasingly certain of the authenticity of his past-life memories, because Lucius and Narcissa were discussing the exact same manor affairs and Ministry secrets as they had in his recollections.
"Cornelius Fudge actually applied for the Order of Merlin, First Class, and awarded it to himself..." A trace of contempt crossed Lucius's features.
"It seems he is obsessed with power and status." Narcissa took a sip of tea and remarked leisurely, "We adore this sort of Minister—vain and weak, short-sighted and easily manipulated. I do hope that besides power, he is also fond of Galleons..."
Lucius gave his wife a slight nod of approval.
Precisely—his parents were scheming, just as in his previous life, about how to ingratiate themselves with the Minister who directed all Ministry affairs and loved rewarding himself with accolades.
Draco could even boldly predict that when the house-elves respectfully served the final dessert to their masters, the topic would inevitably turn to him.
"So..." Lucius slowly lifted the small silver spoon used for dessert, seemingly admiring the pudding. "Durmstrang or Hogwarts—which shall we choose?"
Draco did not answer.
He recalled that he had once given an impulsive response, which his father had harshly dismissed.
Lucius had scorned his thoughtless answer and called him a "reckless little fool" who did not know how to think carefully.
Naturally he did not wish to be ridiculed thus again.
Lucius was always exacting with his son, in everything.
He habitually criticized Draco with words whenever he grew too proud, forcing him back into humility. His intentions were good, but he did not understand what devastating impact his disapproval had on his son—under relentless and cutting criticism day after day, Draco transformed into a sensitive boy harboring both arrogance and inferiority.
No one could claim Lucius did not love his son. During the war, he finally revealed a rare paternal tenderness he had never shown in peacetime.
That sort of fatherly love, perhaps, could only emerge in extreme circumstances—like stars that shine only in the dark night sky and are rarely visible by day, Draco thought.
After all, his father probably did not concern himself with his son's pathetic and ridiculous self-esteem, Draco mused as he sipped his tea.
During most bright daylight hours, Lucius reserved what little tenderness he possessed for Narcissa. Only toward his mother could his father display something resembling genuine care.
In his previous life, Draco had never properly observed this "care." In his memories, his parents always enthusiastically discussed some intrigue, profit-seeking scheme, or tediously boring social connections before him. In short, none of it seemed romantic.
They rarely expressed their affection for each other directly in his presence.
He had never even heard his father say "love" to his mother before him.
Therefore, in his previous life, he had assumed that the occasional intimacy between his parents was merely a calculated alliance of family interests.
What else did they share besides their belief in pure-blood supremacy?
Consider their attitudes toward him: his father was stern, cold and direct, while his mother was gentle, warm and indirect.
Their fundamental personalities were entirely different. Rather than being devoted spouses, they seemed more like strategic allies.
This was how Draco had always understood it in his previous life.
It was not until everything was collapsing that he realized the relationship between his father and mother might not be as superficial as he had believed.
His mother never abandoned his father, even when he was imprisoned. All social circles excluded her—the once noble Black—because of her father's disgrace. His autocratic father relinquished his authority and chose to trust his mother, showing unprecedented faith—he trusted only her.
Could there be "love" between them, beyond interests? Draco wondered curiously, glancing at his parents from the corner of his eye.
"I want Draco to attend Hogwarts." Narcissa looked up at her husband, a faint smile gracing her well-maintained features, speaking the words from Draco's memory: "I believe it would not be disadvantageous for the son of a school governor to enroll at Hogwarts, would it?"
"Of course..." Lucius set down his spoon and leaned back comfortably in his chair, regarding his wife fondly. "Naturally, Draco will be treated exceptionally well at Hogwarts. But you also know Dumbledore's attitude toward certain branches of magic. I am concerned our son will not receive the finest education..."
Narcissa frowned slightly at this. "But Durmstrang's campus is not in England. Who knows in which corner of Europe it is located? I believe I have heard it is dreadfully cold there..."
"I have some acquaintance with the Headmaster there, Igor Karkaroff. Draco will not suffer any hardship if he goes there." Lucius remarked casually, stroking his serpent-head cane.
Acquaintance—Death Eater acquaintance, Draco thought.
Karkaroff, a cowardly Death Eater who abandoned his duties as Headmaster and fled upon learning of Voldemort's return.
Clearly he would never amount to anything.
He is not even comparable to Dumbledore, Draco muttered internally as he spooned some pudding.
Thinking of Dumbledore, Draco could not help recalling one of his greatest nightmares: the tragedy atop the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore had died in that manner... at the tip of Professor Snape's wand... It was absurd!
He still could not believe it, yet he remembered the details so vividly that he dared not dwell on them for even a moment, lest he scream involuntarily.
He could not help but sigh, quickly reciting Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and the seven hundred Quidditch fouls in his mind.
Is there any better method to distract oneself than by reciting knowledge? The girl in his memory had said to him, chin raised. Yes, you are correct, Granger—it does work, Draco thought.
Narcissa keenly caught her son's sigh.
"Draco, darling, let me hear your thoughts. Which school do you prefer?" she asked gently. She assumed Draco's melancholy stemmed from his parents' oversight.
What was certain was that his mother had always demonstrated her love and care for him transparently—never as subtly as his father—Draco reflected.
Regarding the school selection, Draco had already finished weighing the advantages and disadvantages while eating his pudding.
Judging from his parents' typical behavior, the additional memories that surfaced in his mind last night were most likely genuine.
He would call it his "previous life" for now. As for the present, it resembled "rebirth"—considering he had existed within those memories for so long, he felt as weathered as though he had already lived an entire lifetime and witnessed its conclusion.
If everything in his "previous life" was real, and turmoil lay ahead, he must consider the future carefully.
Years remained to plan and prepare. He had contemplated leaving Britain, avoiding the bloodshed, perhaps attending Durmstrang.
But Draco also clearly recognized that although Durmstrang might avoid immediate conflict, it would become unsafe after the Dark Lord returned—had not Karkaroff fled?
Hogwarts appeared fraught with dangers, but at least he possessed years of memories and could learn from his past failures.
He could ensure he would navigate the situation more skillfully and maintain better control than he remembered.
Moreover, the Malfoy family's business foundations were in England. They had stood upon this land for centuries without falling. How could they rashly abandon the legacy inherited from their ancestors?
The Malfoy family could relinquish many things, but abandoning their heritage was not one of them. Fleeing was not something he would consider—it was not the optimal solution.
There was another reason.
That faint, beautiful remnant in his memory... that wish he could neither articulate nor ignore... that shattered hope that filled him with bewilderment and loss.
"Hogwarts. I wish to remain closer to Mother so I may return home for Christmas holidays."