Draco Malfoy, sole heir of the ancient and noble House of Malfoy, was reborn.
One moment, he had been trapped in the blazing inferno of the Room of Requirement, struggling desperately to climb atop that cursed pile of debris. He had stretched out his hand toward the insufferable Potter in sheer panic—yes, he had grasped Potter's hand, hauled himself onto that flying broom, and been saved.
The next moment, he jolted awake from the thrill and euphoria of his narrow escape from death, only to find himself lying peacefully in the familiar, opulent four-poster bed of his chambers at Malfoy Manor. The bed's intricate carvings pressed into his consciousness like fragments of a forgotten dream.
Silence enveloped everything. Only the soft hum of insects in the manor gardens drifted through the stillness.
Draco immediately recognized the scent in the air—the heady perfume of roses on a midsummer dawn, utterly unlike the somewhat desolate and melancholy atmosphere of the late spring midnight from his dream moments before.
This was not the right time. This was not the right season.
He shot upright and leaped from the bed, nearly losing his balance as his feet touched the floor.
He raised his hands before his face, then stared in mounting horror at his entire body: a child's feet, a child's legs, a child's hands and arms.
Shock coursed through him.
Yet he forced himself to remain calm a skill acquired only after enduring countless real-world horrors. Drawing a steadying breath, he hurried toward the full-length antique mirror that stood beside the wardrobe and discovered he had been transformed completely into a small boy.
He looked, unmistakably, as he had at eleven years old.
Merlin's stinking socks!
For a long moment, he could not determine whether everything he had experienced before waking had been a dream, an illusion, or reality.
Yet the memories of his seven years at Hogwarts remained vivid, flowing through his mind like an endless river. The details of pain, fear, despair, and struggle were dense and devastatingly real, each one piercing his heart with surgical precision.
This could not possibly be merely a long dream.
What in the name of magic was happening? Could it be that this child's body was reality, and those seven years had been the dream?
The first pale light of dawn appeared beyond the window. In that fragile illumination, Draco stared at his reflection, his eyes brimming with doubt and anxiety.
He watched the boy in the mirror frown with unnatural maturity, then pinch his own face hard with small hands, quickly raising a flush of color on his pale cheeks.
The pain confirmed the reality of this world and verified that he was, indeed, a child again.
Merlin's beard!
He tore his gaze from that accursed mirror, unwilling to see the young boy's confused expression any longer.
Draco paced in the dim pre-dawn light, attempting to calm his racing heart.
Wake up. This must be some form of dark magic or nightmare.
Wake up at once!
He rubbed his throbbing temples and commanded himself.
The memory of a dream typically fades and blurs upon waking. But what terrified him was that as the seconds ticked past and his mind fully awakened, the torrent of horrifying memories showed no sign of dissipating. Instead, they gushed forth like water from a broken tap, turbulently transforming his once-orderly palace of thought into a vast, chaotic wasteland.
The torrent surged, boundless and relentless, and every drop of memory floated hazily through his consciousness.
Moreover, as his memories flooded his mind, a vast repository of magical knowledge materialized undeniable evidence that he had studied at Hogwarts for seven full years.
There was absolutely no possibility that any dark magic artifact or nightmare in existence could hammer so many complicated spells, potion-brewing techniques, and the extensive history of magic into his head overnight.
He even retained knowledge of ancient runes and alchemy in his previous timeline, he had used precisely this knowledge to repair a Vanishing Cabinet that had given even Borgin himself migraines.
It was too real. The knowledge was specific and detailed, the memories flawless and disturbingly authentic.
Draco's thoughts tangled into knots, and he found himself paralyzed with indecision.
Could those experiences truly have happened? But if so, why was he eleven years old again? What had caused this?
The boy felt restless. Through the window, he could see the manor courtyard materializing in the growing light.