Before he was Draco Malfoy, he had been an ordinary young man with an unfortunate habit of walking while watching films on his phone.
His latest obsession had been the Harry Potter series. He had watched it repeatedly—studying the spells, the castle, the politics of the wizarding world. He had even found himself analysing characters far more closely than was sensible.
That distraction cost him dearly.
One careless step.
An uncovered manhole.
A sharp plunge into darkness.
His last coherent thought had been indignant outrage at whoever had failed to replace the cover.
Then silence.
—
He awoke to green silk hangings and the faint scent of polished wood.
For several long seconds, he lay still, staring at the canopy above him. The bed was vast, luxurious—far too refined for any hospital ward. Sunlight filtered through tall windows framed by heavy curtains.
He pushed himself upright.
His hands were small.
Too small.
He slipped from the bed and crossed the room on unsteady feet, stopping before a tall mirror framed in dark, ornate wood.
The boy reflected there was pale and finely featured, with sleek platinum-blond hair combed neatly back from a sharp brow. Grey eyes—cool, assessing—met his own.
Recognition struck at once.
Draco Malfoy.
Not an older version. Not some alternate future.
Eleven years old.
The heir to the Malfoy family.
The son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
He stared at his reflection in silence, thoughts racing. This was not a dream. The details were too vivid—the faint chill of the marble floor, the weight of the curtains, the distant echo of voices somewhere within the manor.
He had not merely survived.
He had crossed into the wizarding world itself.
His mind moved quickly.
If this were indeed the summer before the first year, then the Hogwarts letter would have arrived. The wizarding war had not yet reignited. Voldemort had fallen years ago. The political landscape was fragile but calm.
And he—Draco Malfoy—stood at the very centre of a family deeply entangled in it.
This was no trivial position. Lucius Malfoy was influential within the Ministry. The Malfoy name carried prestige among pure-blood circles. But it also carried expectations—alliances, obligations, and shadows that had not fully faded.
Draco exhaled slowly.
Panicking would achieve nothing.
If he were to live as Draco Malfoy, then he would do so properly.
He straightened his posture before the mirror, studying the faint stiffness in his expression. Pride came naturally to this face. So did the calculation.
Good.
He would need both.
A movement on the bedside table drew his attention.
There it was.
A thick envelope of yellowed parchment, sealed with deep red wax and stamped with the Hogwarts crest—lion, serpent, badger, and eagle encircling a large, ornate "H."
He broke the seal carefully.
The letter inside was written in emerald ink, addressed to:
Mr Draco Malfoy
The Manor House
Wiltshire
It bore the signature of Professor Minerva McGonagall and included the standard list of first-year supplies.
There was no second letter. No dramatic alternative.
Of course, there would not be. In canon, Draco attended Hogwarts.
He allowed himself a faint, thoughtful smile.
Hogwarts it would be.
The sound of footsteps approached the door.
"Draco, darling," came a soft, refined voice. "Dinner is ready."
Narcissa Malfoy.
He felt an unexpected steadiness at the sound.
"Coming, Mother," he replied, testing the word. It fit.
He slipped on polished shoes and opened the door.
Narcissa stood waiting—tall, elegant, her pale hair gleaming in the corridor's light. Her gaze softened as it settled on him.
"You've been quiet today," she observed gently.
"Just thinking," he answered, careful to keep his tone measured.
She smiled faintly and placed a light hand upon his shoulder as they walked together to the dining room.
Lucius Malfoy was already seated at the long, gleaming table. His posture was impeccable; his presence, commanding without effort.
He glanced up as Draco entered.
"You are nearly a Hogwarts student," Lucius said coolly. "It would be advisable to cultivate punctuality."
Before Draco could respond, Narcissa intervened softly. "He is eleven, Lucius."
Draco took his seat opposite his father, folding his hands neatly.
"I shall endeavour to improve," he said calmly.
Lucius studied him for a moment, as though reassessing something subtle.
After a brief silence, Lucius resumed his meal. "Your letter has arrived."
"Yes, Father."
"And?"
Draco met his gaze evenly.
"I will attend Hogwarts."
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