Draco did not answer immediately.
He remembered his previous response—hasty, thoughtless, immediately dismissed by his father as the babbling of a "reckless little fool who does not engage his brain before opening his mouth."
He had no desire to be humiliated like that again.
Lucius had always been exacting.
Demanding. He wielded criticism like a blade, cutting down any hint of arrogance in his son, forcing him back into what he considered proper humility. The intent was good—in theory. But the execution was poisonous. Day after day of that withering disapproval had twisted Draco into something contradictory: simultaneously arrogant and insecure, desperate for approval yet convinced he would never receive it.
Not that Lucius did not love his son. During the war, he had finally revealed a tenderness usually reserved for Narcissa alone—a paternal devotion that only surfaced in extremity.
That kind of love, Draco supposed, was like stars. Only visible in darkness. Never seen in daylight.
His father simply did not concern himself with his son's fragile ego. Draco took another sip of tea, the bitter truth settling on his tongue like the dregs at the bottom of the cup.
In the bright hours, Lucius saved what little tenderness he possessed for Narcissa. Only toward her did he display anything resembling genuine affection.
In his previous life, Draco had been oblivious to it. His parents had seemed to discuss nothing but schemes, profit margins, and tedious social maneuvering in his presence. Nothing remotely romantic.
They rarely expressed love directly. Not once had Draco heard his father say that word aloud.
He had always assumed their marriage was a cold arrangement—pure-blood alliances dressed up as partnership. What else did they share besides blood supremacy ideology?
Their parenting styles were polar opposites: Lucius stern, distant, brutally direct; Narcissa gentle, warm, maddeningly indirect.
They seemed more like business associates than lovers.
That was how Draco had always understood it.
Until everything collapsed. Until he watched his mother refuse to abandon his father, even when Lucius was imprisoned and their social circle turned its back on the "stained" House of Black. Until he saw his autocratic father actually listen to Narcissa, displaying unprecedented trust—believing only in her when the world crumbled around them.
Could there actually be love between them? Beyond ambition and alliances? Draco glanced at his parents from beneath his lashes, genuinely curious for the first time.
"I want Draco to attend Hogwarts." Narcissa looked up at her husband, a subtle smile gracing her features. The exact words from his memory. "Surely the son of a school governor will not be disadvantaged there?"
"Of course not." Lucius leaned back in his chair, regarding his wife with something almost soft in his expression. "Draco will be treated exceptionally well at Hogwarts. But you know Dumbledore's... views on certain branches of magic. I worry our son will not receive the best education."
Narcissa's brow furrowed delicately. "But Durmstrang is not even in England. Somewhere in the frozen wasteland of northern Europe, I believe? I hear it is wretchedly cold."
"I have a relationship with the headmaster there. Igor Karkaroff. Draco would want for nothing."
Relationship. What a sanitized word for "fellow Death Eater," Draco thought sourly.
Karkaroff.
That spineless coward had abandoned his post and fled the moment he caught wind of Voldemort's return. Pathetic. He would not even amount to a footnote in history.
Not remotely comparable to Dumbledore, Draco acknowledged grudgingly, mechanically spooning pudding into his mouth.
Thinking of Dumbledore summoned one of his worst memories unbidden: the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore's death at Snape's wand—absolutely mad, completely impossible, and yet Draco remembered every horrifying detail with crystal clarity.
He could not afford to think about it. Not now. Not when the phantom sound of that tower's stones clattering could still make him—
He caught himself, sighing almost inaudibly, and began reciting Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration in his head. Then the twelve uses of dragon's blood. Then all seven hundred Quidditch fouls.
Is there any better method for distraction than memorizing?
Granger's voice echoed from memory, chin tilted up in that insufferable know-it-all manner of hers.
Yes, Granger. You were right. It does work.
"Little dragon." Narcissa's voice was gentle, concerned. She had caught his sigh. "What are you thinking, darling? Which school would you prefer?"
His mother had always been open with her affection—never as emotionally constipated as his father—Draco thought with a flicker of dark humor.
As for the school question, Draco had already analyzed every angle while eating his pudding.
If his parents were following the script exactly, then the memories were real. He was living his life again.
"Rebirth" seemed as good a word as any for this impossibility.
If everything from his previous life was real, and the war was coming, he needed to plan.
He had years to prepare this time. He had considered fleeing—going to Durmstrang, escaping England entirely, avoiding the bloodshed.
But Durmstrang would become unsafe the moment the Dark Lord returned. Karkaroff's cowardly flight proved that.
Hogwarts would be dangerous, yes. But he had memories. He knew what was coming. He could learn from past mistakes.
He could control the situation this time.
Besides, the Malfoys had roots in England stretching back centuries. Their fortune, their power, their legacy—all tied to this land. Abandoning it would be abandoning everything their ancestors built.
The Malfoys could sacrifice many things. But never their heritage. Running was not the answer.
And then there was that other reason. That faint, beautiful, impossible thing lingering in his memories. That wish he could not name. That shattered hope that filled him with confusion and loss whenever he tried to examine it too closely.
"Hogwarts," he said, looking at his mother with manufactured innocence. "I want to be close enough to come home for Christmas."
Success. Narcissa smiled. And from the corner of his eye, Draco caught his father's minute frown of disapproval.
Lucius was displeased by his son's apparent homesickness—or more likely, annoyed at the prospect of Draco interrupting his time alone with Narcissa.
Father, your stern expression does not frighten me anymore. I know you love me, even if it is just a tiny, sesame-seed-sized amount.
Draco kept his face innocent while his mind remained detached, analytical.
"Besides," he added, "Professor Snape will look after me. He is Head of Slytherin, a Potions Master, and highly skilled in the Dark Arts. I should like him to teach me."
Lucius found himself without counterargument.
After breakfast, Narcissa swept from the dining room, clearly pleased with the outcome. Draco assumed she was heading to the study to send their acceptance to Hogwarts.
Lucius remained, his expression cooling as he loomed over his son.
"Do not make a habit of manipulating your mother," he said coldly. "It is unbecoming. You are not a child anymore. And since you will be studying from home until term begins, you will show me proper respect—"
He leaned down, his imposing frame dwarfing Draco's small body. "A proper Malfoy upholds this family's honor. You will excel at school. If I do not receive glowing reports of your progress, you can forget about coming home for Christmas. Or any other holiday. Am I understood?"
Draco met his father's gaze steadily. No fear. No panic. Just quiet understanding.
"Yes, Father."
Lucius stared into his son's grey eyes, finding something unexpected there. Not the usual anxiety. Something almost like... satisfaction?
Puzzling.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Tomorrow, your mother and I will take you to Diagon Alley for your school supplies. Consider what else you might need. We will purchase everything at once." With that, he strode away, snake-headed cane clicking against marble.
Draco remained at the table, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he eyed the extra helping of chocolate pudding his father had left behind.
Still so bloody awkward, Father.
He remembered this conversation. He remembered his previous reaction—bursting into tears, running to his mother, convinced his father hated him, believing only Narcissa loved him.
Back then, he had been too young to recognize the expectation hidden behind Lucius's harshness. Too naive to notice the concern demonstrated by that extra pudding.
If Draco wanted, he could summon house-elves and demand mountains of dessert. The Malfoys certainly had the gold. But Lucius had deliberately left his portion for his son.
This ridiculous, awkward gesture of affection might be obvious to an adult. But to an ignorant child? Imperceptible.