Chapter One The Heir of Malfoy Manor
1987.
On the outskirts of Wiltshire stood an ancient manor, its sprawling grounds wrapped in a chill that never seemed to lift. The place felt old in a way that sank into the bones. Anyone bold enough might be tempted to push open the iron gates and explore its shadowed halls, wondering what secrets hid inside. But ordinary people never got the chance. Wards shimmered invisibly across the property, nudging Muggles away before they ever reached the door.
This was Malfoy Manor, home to Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater.
"It's finally over." Draco Malfoy closed the heavy book in his hands and let out a long breath. Hours of focused reading were a stretch for an eight year old body. On the cover, in gold-embossed letters, read A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, by Phyllida Spore.
"Eight years… just like that." He glanced at the tall mirror in the study. The pale blond hair, the small frame, the aristocratic face still felt surreal. He had really crossed into another world. One moment he was shoving a primary schooler out of the path of a speeding car, the next he was waking up as Draco Malfoy.
In his past life he had devoured books and films. He knew the plot of the Harry Potter series almost too well and had always felt Draco Malfoy was a waste of potential. Great family, striking looks, and yet he spent most of his time being petty. "Not even a proper villain. Always doing silly things just to oppose Harry. And his father? A schemer who switches sides whenever it suits him."
That had been his opinion back when everything was fiction. Now he was living it. And if he didn't use this chance to change things, wasn't that the real waste?
"At least transmigration came with something useful." He looked at the towering stacks of books around him and smiled.
"Perfect memory and sharper comprehension… what kind of cheat is that?" he thought with a mix of awe and amusement.
If he wanted a life that didn't end the way Draco's had in the original timeline, then power was the most important thing. If he could someday stand at Voldemort's level without sinking into darkness, then with his face and family background, he would be set for life.
With the mind of an adult lodged in a child's body, he had no desire to act childish. His previous education had taught him a simple truth: knowledge is power.
Without theory, magic was nothing more than air. If Dumbledore hadn't taken Tom Riddle to Hogwarts, Riddle would have grown into a wild, dangerous wizard with no real foundation. Draco wasn't going to make that mistake. He was too young to properly control a wand, so every spare moment went into studying Herbology, basic spell theory, magical history, and anything else he could find.
"I never managed to be a top student in my last life. Looks like I'll get to enjoy it this time." Once he set his goal, he pursued it relentlessly, soon discovering that his memory and reasoning were far beyond what he used to have. The only explanation he could find was transmigration itself.
A knock interrupted him.
"Young Master, the Master requests your presence," the butler called through the door.
"All right. Thank you." Draco put the books back in place, left the study, and made his way through several hallways to Lucius Malfoy's private study.
"Father, you asked for me?" He had long accepted his situation and decided to play the role of a dutiful son. Whatever Lucius was in the original story, he did genuinely care for his family.
I need to find a way to warn him about choosing sides, Draco thought. Following Voldemort is a dead end. If Mother hadn't saved Harry later on, and if the Dark Lord had still fallen, this family would've been thrown into Azkaban. Hardly a pleasant thought, but true all the same.
"How are your studies progressing?" Lucius stood by the window, sunlight sharpening the angles of his already pale face. The concern in his voice was real.
Draco had been oddly quiet since infancy. He rarely cried, rarely fussed, and once he learned to walk he hardly spoke at all. Whispers began circulating among the more talkative servants. "The young master must be mute. He can't even repeat spells. Maybe he's a Squib." Lucius, proud of his bloodline, had been furious and dismissed them. Still, doubt had taken root. What if my son truly is a Squib?
Those fears vanished once he taught Draco himself. The boy grasped everything with alarming ease. After he learned to read, his learning pace doubled. He even showed early signs of deliberate magical control. One day Lucius handed him his wand and demonstrated a simple spell. Draco cast it perfectly on the first try. Silence, it turned out, wasn't a sign of weakness but of talent.
And what parent didn't hope for a gifted child? Draco's enthusiasm for magic even surpassed Lucius's, so naturally Lucius placed great hopes in him.
"Everything is going well, Father. Theoretically, I should be at about a third year level," Draco replied.
"Excellent. As expected of the Malfoy heir." Satisfaction softened Lucius's expression into a rare smile.
"Tomorrow the Parkinson family will be visiting. I hear they have a daughter your age. Interested?" Lucius's tone carried a hint of teasing. Perhaps Draco's brilliance had put him in unusually good spirits. Pure blood families often arranged matches early, so it wasn't entirely a joke.
"Father is teasing me," Draco said quietly. But his mind was already racing.
Parkinson? Pansy? How exactly am I supposed to handle that?
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