Once his parents departed, Draco finally dropped the childish act. He ate his second pudding slowly, thoughtfully, digesting not just the dessert but the weight of his decision.
He was returning to Hogwarts.
His seven years there had been nothing like he had imagined. Especially having to face Potter's arrogance, Weasley's mockery, and Granger's insufferable know-it-all routine every single day.
Draco snorted at the memory—then flinched involuntarily. Even years later, the punch Granger had thrown still stung his pride.
If she had not been Potter's friend. If he had not been such an arse. If he had shown the Muggle-born girl even a shred of respect...
She was not stupid. She was brilliant, actually.
Lucius had constantly compared her grades to Draco's, which had humiliated him endlessly—You cannot even outperform a Muggle-born girl.
Young Draco had worshipped his father, treated his every word as gospel truth. He had desperately wanted Lucius's full approval, would have done anything to be the son his father respected.
That desperate need for validation had made him blind. He had ignored his own instincts, deepened his hatred for Potter and his friends simply because it seemed to be what his father expected.
He had been the center of his own universe then. Craved the spotlight, the admiration, the awe of his peers. Every eleven-year-old boy did.
But Potter had stolen that light. Or rather, Potter's light had been too brilliant—like the sun itself—making Draco's star seem dim by comparison.
The contrast had driven him mad. He had taken perverse pleasure in antagonizing the Golden Trio, attacking them from every angle, expending massive amounts of energy on petty rivalry.
He had not even understood why he was so angry. He had simply competed with them blindly, obsessively.
Merlin. Looking back, he had wasted seven years on that ridiculous vendetta.
He did not have that luxury anymore. He had genuine enemies to face now. Real threats.
The Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. That monstrous bastard had not returned yet, but somewhere he was stirring, gathering strength, preparing to tear the wizarding world apart again.
The Malfoy family motto: A man's greatness is not measured by never falling, but by rising every time he falls.
If those memories represented his Waterloo, then this was his chance to rise. To fight back. To win.
There was still time.
Time to escape the filth and degradation.
Time to preserve the Malfoy name.
Time to make different choices. Better choices. To seize opportunities instead of letting them slip through his fingers like water.
Those Death Eaters and werewolves would never defile Malfoy Manor again. They would never terrorize his parents again.
Never.
How he had acquired these memories, how he had been thrust back into his eleven-year-old body—none of that mattered anymore.
What mattered was here. Now. This moment.
In his previous life, Dumbledore had told him on the Astronomy Tower that he had choices.
But Draco had hesitated. And Dumbledore had fallen beneath the Dark Mark's sickly green light before Draco could make his decision.
He had lost that crucial opportunity. And then more opportunities had slipped away through hesitation after hesitation, until it was far too late for regrets.
But now? Now he was "reborn." Safe. Whole. With choices spread before him like cards in a deck.
Was this Merlin's warning? Or a second chance?
Draco did not want much. He had no grandiose ambitions. He was not delusional enough to believe he could single-handedly destroy the Dark Lord.
But he could interfere. He could work in the shadows—the Slytherin way—and perhaps prevent Voldemort from becoming the unstoppable force he had been before.
At minimum, he could protect the Malfoy family. His world. The people who mattered to him.
The Malfoys had endured centuries of political upheaval and still stood proud on the fields of Wiltshire. With the advantage of foreknowledge, why could they not survive this coming storm unscathed?
Tomorrow, he would meet Potter. That crucial figure in resisting the Dark Lord. The foolish, noble Gryffindor who had turned back to save him when he had every reason not to.
The eleven-year-old Potter. That scrawny, badly dressed little orphan.
This would be interesting.
"Harry Potter," Draco murmured to his empty pudding dish, "let me get to know you properly this time."