A/N:
The first chapter is a bit short. This is a fanfic, so some things will be different from the original canon—if you want all the exact facts, please read the books. This story won't be everyone's cup of tea, so if it's not for you, feel free to move on to something else.
That said, if you do enjoy the fanfic, comments, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
Chapter One: The Reborn Platinum Boy
Draco Malfoy, heir to the proud Malfoy name, awoke reborn.
One heartbeat ago he had been clawing his way through the flames of the Room of Requirement, Potter's hand dragging him onto a broom, salvation snatched from fire. The next, he opened his eyes to the silken canopy of his bed in Malfoy Manor, the air heavy with roses and dawn.
The silence was uncanny. No roar of fire, no cries of battle—only the faint hum of insects beyond the window. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, the carved bedposts gleamed in the dim light. For a moment, he wondered if he had dreamed the inferno.
But something was wrong. This was summer's first light, not spring's midnight. He stumbled from the bed, only to find the body of a boy staring back at him in the mirror—his own eleven‑year‑old self.
Merlin's beard.
The memories of Hogwarts surged through him, sharp and relentless: seven years of terror, humiliation, and despair. They did not fade like dreams. They flooded him, carrying with them spells, potions, histories, even the runes and alchemy he had once mastered. Too detailed, too real to be illusion.
He pressed his temples, pacing the floor. Could it be true? Had he lived those years, only to be hurled back to the beginning?
Through the window, the manor gardens glowed with roses in full bloom. The sight nearly broke him. At seventeen, this house had been defiled—Death Eaters prowling its halls, his mother reduced to servitude, his father stripped of his wand. Voldemort had turned their sanctuary into a prison.
Not again. Never again.
Draco's breath shook as memories of his sixteenth year clawed at him: the impossible task, the order to kill Dumbledore, the crushing weight of failure. He had never wanted blood on his hands. A Malfoy should walk in sunlight, not in shame. Yet Voldemort had cornered him, threatened his family, and left him no choice.
And still—Dumbledore had tried to save him. Potter had turned back in the fire to offer his hand. That kindness, so alien among Death Eaters, had pierced him deeper than any curse.
Regret burned. He should have sought their help. Potter, Dumbledore—his enemies, yet the only ones who might have stood against the Dark Lord.
Voldemort was no leader, no savior of pure‑bloods. He was a tyrant, feared even by his own followers. Only Bellatrix adored him; the rest cowered. Draco saw now what his father had refused to admit: Voldemort was a madman.
Perhaps Potter truly was the boy destined to defeat him. He had survived again and again—at birth, in the graveyard, in the skies. Ordinary though he seemed, there was something about him that Voldemort could not destroy.
The Malfoys had chosen wrong. Their loyalty had bought them only ruin.
Draco's gaze fell to his wrist. Smooth, unmarked skin. No Dark Mark. Relief surged through him, so fierce it made him smile. His father was not yet disgraced, his mother not yet broken, the manor still pure and proud.
He touched the emerald ink of his Hogwarts letter, heart pounding. Tomorrow his parents would debate his future. If their words matched his memories, then this was no dream.
Draco lay back against the pillows, staring at the silver dragons embroidered on the canopy. His mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps fate had given him a second chance. Perhaps this time he could protect his family, guard their legacy, and choose differently.
The roses outside swayed in the dawn breeze, their fragrance drifting through the open window. He closed his eyes, not in peace but in anticipation.
Tomorrow would bring answers. Tomorrow would decide everything.