In 1987, an ancient manor stood on the outskirts of Wiltshire, England. Vast and brooding, it exuded an austere, timeworn presence. The manor's ivy-clad walls and shadowed corridors seemed to whisper of secrets better left undisturbed. Any ordinary soul venturing too near might have sensed the faint hum of otherworldly power and turned back before discovering the truth—that this was no ordinary estate. It was protected by spells that repelled Muggles, for it belonged to one of the most notorious wizarding families in Britain: the Malfoys.
The head of the household, Lucius Malfoy, had once been a Death Eater.
Inside the grand study, an eight-year-old boy closed the heavy tome resting on his lap and let out a weary sigh. "Finally done," he murmured, rubbing his temples. For a child his age, hours of nonstop reading would have exhausted anyone. On the book's cover gleamed the title One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore.
Draco Malfoy leaned back in his chair and gazed absently at his reflection in the tall mirror across the room. Silver-blond hair, pale skin, sharp gray eyes—an aristocratic face that even at eight already hinted at the beauty and arrogance for which his family was famous.
"Eight years," he whispered. "It's already been eight years since I came to this world."
The thought still filled him with disbelief. He, an ordinary man from another life, had died saving a schoolchild from a speeding car. And when he opened his eyes again, he had been reborn in the world of Harry Potter—as Draco Malfoy himself.
In his previous life, he had been a devoted fan of novels and films, including this very series. He had often pitied the original Draco: blessed with good looks, wealth, and status, yet forever trapped in the role of a petty villain. "He wasn't even truly evil," he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Just foolish—always provoking Harry Potter for no reason. And Lucius? A fence-sitter who flattered the powerful but lacked conviction."
But those had been the thoughts of a reader. Now, standing in Draco's shoes, he had no intention of repeating that pitiful fate. Since he'd been given a second life in this world, he would live it on his own terms.
"It's not every day you get a chance like this," he murmured, glancing at the mountain of books stacked neatly around him. "If there's one benefit to transmigration, this must be it."
He smiled to himself, eyes gleaming. "A photographic memory and enhanced comprehension… that's my golden finger, then. Not bad."
If he wanted to change his destiny, power would be essential. Not just wealth or family influence—real magical power. "If I could match Voldemort's strength but avoid his madness," he mused, "with my background and appearance, I'd be unstoppable. A true winner in life."
Unlike an ordinary child, the soul inside Draco's small body belonged to an adult. He had long since learned the truth of a simple principle: Knowledge is power.
Without a solid foundation of theory, even the greatest spells were castles in the air. If Tom Riddle hadn't been taken to Hogwarts by Dumbledore, he would have become no more than a gifted but feral wizard. Understanding that, Draco dedicated his days to study. At his age, wand control was still unstable, so he devoted himself to the fundamentals—herbology, spell theory, magical history, and the structure of incantations.
He chuckled softly. "I never managed to be a top student in my last life, but it seems I'll get the chance in this one."
Once he'd set his goal, Draco applied himself with near-obsessive focus. Soon he discovered something startling—his memory and comprehension had skyrocketed far beyond his former abilities. He could recall every paragraph, every diagram, every wand motion with perfect clarity. "A cheat ability straight from heaven," he thought wryly.
A knock at the door broke his concentration.
"Knock, knock, knock."
"Young master," came the butler's polite voice from outside, "the master requests your presence."
"I understand," Draco replied. He rose, replaced the book carefully on the shelf, and left the study. After several turns through the manor's long corridors, he reached Lucius Malfoy's office.
"Father, you wished to see me?" he asked, stepping inside.
Having accepted his new reality, Draco had decided to play the role of a dutiful son. After all, Lucius was not someone he could—or should—avoid. For all his flaws, he was loyal to his family and genuinely cared for his wife and child.
"Perhaps," Draco thought wryly, "I can even teach him a lesson or two about choosing sides. Following Voldemort didn't end well the first time around. If Mother hadn't saved Harry in the end, they'd have all rotted in Azkaban."
Lucius stood by the tall window, bathed in pale sunlight. His already fair skin appeared almost translucent, his sharp features giving him a perpetually cold elegance. Yet when he spoke, his voice held unmistakable warmth.
"How is your studying progressing?"
Lucius's tone was calm, but beneath it lay genuine curiosity—and pride.
In Draco's early years, his quietness had unsettled both his parents and the household staff. Unlike most infants, he had rarely cried or played. As he grew older, he spoke even less. The servants had begun to whisper: "Perhaps the young master is mute. If he can't use magic, he might be a Squib."
The gossip enraged Lucius, whose pride in his bloodline tolerated no such insult. He dismissed several servants on the spot. But deep down, he had worried. Could his only son truly be… ordinary?
Those doubts vanished the day Lucius began teaching him himself. To his astonishment, his son absorbed knowledge with preternatural speed. The boy's passion for magic eclipsed even his father's. When Lucius finally handed over his own wand to let the child attempt a basic charm, Draco had succeeded on his very first try.
From that day forward, Lucius no longer saw silence as a flaw. It was the mark of genius.
"Everything is normal, Father," Draco said smoothly. "By my estimation, I've already reached the level of a third-year Hogwarts student."
Lucius's lips curved faintly—his equivalent of a broad grin. "Excellent. As expected of the Malfoy heir."
For a man as reserved as Lucius, the praise was high indeed.
After a pause, he added, "Tomorrow, the Parkinson family will be visiting. I hear they have a daughter about your age. Tell me, are you interested?"
There was a rare trace of humor in his tone—perhaps Draco's progress had softened his usually stern demeanor. Pure-blood families often arranged introductions between their children, and Lucius was nothing if not traditional.
Draco blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then he smiled politely. "You're joking, Father."
But inwardly, his thoughts stirred. Parkinson… Pansy Parkinson? He remembered her from the original story—a spoiled girl who had adored Draco and sneered at anyone who crossed him. "How should I handle her, I wonder?"
Lucius watched his son for a moment, satisfied. The boy's poise and intelligence promised a bright future for the Malfoy name.
When Draco left the study, the sun had begun to dip behind the distant trees, painting the manor in shades of gold and shadow. He walked through the quiet halls, his mind turning over plans and possibilities.
The world around him was rich with hidden dangers—Voldemort, Dumbledore, the coming war—but also opportunity. If he played his cards right, he could alter everything.
"Power, knowledge, and foresight," he whispered. "That's all I need."
He returned to his room, where shelves of magical texts lined the walls. Taking another book, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, he settled into his chair once more. The golden afternoon light spilled across the pages, illuminating neat rows of curling script.
Each word burned itself into his memory.
Each spell diagram unfolded before his eyes like a living thing.
He felt the faint thrum of magic in his veins—restless, waiting.
"This world won't recognize me as the villain it once did," he said softly. "Draco Malfoy will not be anyone's stepping stone. Not Potter's, not Dumbledore's, not even the Dark Lord's."
He smiled, eyes glinting with quiet determination. "From now on, I write my own story."
The candlelight flickered, catching on the polished silver of his family crest, and the boy who had once been another man bent once again over his books.
Somewhere beyond the walls of the manor, the wizarding world slept, unaware that its future had just been rewritten.