A true Malfoy never revealed his emotions. He observed carefully, made calculated decisions, and kept all weakness hidden behind an impenetrable mask.
Draco had learned this lesson well. The arrogant, willful boy he had been at eleven no longer existed. Seven years of war and survival had transformed him into someone far more cautious, far more controlled.
Yet there was a problem.
His parents still saw him as their eleven-year-old son. They had no idea of the drastic changes occurring within his mind. If they discovered that their proud, headstrong boy had suddenly become withdrawn and distant overnight, they would grow suspicious. Questions would follow—questions Draco could not answer. He had not even fully comprehended what had happened to him, let alone formulated an explanation that would satisfy his father's demands.
So Draco made a choice. When he arrived at the breakfast table, he forced himself to smile. He animated his face with enthusiasm. He drew upon his memories of childhood and channeled boyish excitement into his words and gestures.
It worked. His parents suspected nothing.
Lucius sat at the head of the table dressed in his preferred black robes, reading the Daily Prophet with casual authority. Narcissa moved with practiced elegance, her every gesture refined and composed. They looked impossibly young to Draco's eyes—unmarked by the darkness that would come, unburdened by the years of fear and humiliation ahead.
Draco found himself studying them repeatedly throughout the meal.
There were no lines of exhaustion on his father's face. No hollow desperation in his eyes. His platinum hair gleamed with care and pride. His expression held the confidence of a man still respected in society, still secure in his position.
His mother was equally striking. Her beauty remained untouched, her composure unshaken. She smiled with genuine warmth when she looked at her husband and son—a smile that would become rarer and more forced as the years progressed. She did not yet know what was coming.
As Draco listened to their conversation, his certainty grew. They discussed the same matters he remembered—Ministry politics, business dealings, the careful cultivation of useful connections. Lucius spoke with contempt about Cornelius Fudge's recent self-awarded Order of Merlin.
"His vanity is remarkable," Lucius said with a thin smile. "The man truly believes his own importance."
Narcissa sipped her tea thoughtfully. "He is precisely the sort of man we can work with. Vain, weak, easily manipulated. A man obsessed with power and money is predictable."
Lucius nodded in approval at his wife's assessment.
Draco recognized the moment. They were already plotting, already positioning themselves. The same conversations that had led them down a dangerous path in his previous life were unfolding again. He wondered if they understood the consequences of their choices, or if they simply could not imagine how far they might fall.
As the meal progressed toward dessert, Draco braced himself for the conversation he knew was coming. He had lived through this moment once before. His younger self had given an impulsive answer—something about observing Potter, about gaining strategic advantage. His father had called him a reckless fool for not thinking carefully enough.
This time would be different.
Draco had no desire to be ridiculed again.
Lucius picked up his small silver dessert spoon with deliberate slowness, seemingly admiring the pudding before him. "So," he said, his voice carrying the weight of paternal authority, "which school have you decided upon? Durmstrang or Hogwarts?"
Draco did not answer immediately. He took a measured sip of pumpkin juice, considering his response with care. His first instinct was to provide a calculated, strategic answer. But that felt too adult, too considered. Instead, he looked toward his mother with an expression of youthful sentiment.
"Hogwarts," he said. "I want to be closer to Mother so I can return home for Christmas."
He saw his father's expression darken—Lucius had always been territorial about his time with Narcissa. But before the man could object, Draco added quickly, "And Professor Snape teaches there. He is Head of Slytherin and teaches Potions. I would very much like to learn from him, especially in the Dark Arts. He is quite skilled."
The mention of Snape seemed to satisfy Lucius's concerns. The man nodded slowly, as if this reasoning made sense to him. Narcissa looked pleased with the outcome.
"Then Hogwarts it shall be," his mother said softly. "I will send our response to Dumbledore this afternoon."
Draco felt relief wash through him. The conversation had unfolded much as he remembered, yet the outcome had been secured through careful calculation rather than childish impulsiveness. He had learned something from his seven years away.
After the meal, Narcissa departed toward the study, presumably to compose her letter of acceptance. Lucius remained at the table, his expression stern as he regarded his young son.
"Do not always appeal to your mother's sentiment like that," Lucius said sharply. "It is unbecoming of a Malfoy. You are not a child who needs constant maternal comfort." He leaned closer, his tall frame towering over Draco's small one. "A true Malfoy upholds the family honor. You will study hard at Hogwarts. You will excel. If I hear that you are not applying yourself adequately, do not even bother returning home for Christmas."
Draco met his father's gaze steadily. He did not flinch. He did not cower. Instead of responding with fear, he simply nodded and said, "Yes, Father. I understand."
Something flickered across Lucius's face—surprise, perhaps, at the absence of the usual childhood fear in his son's eyes. The man cleared his throat awkwardly. "Tomorrow, your mother and I will take you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. Think carefully about what you require. We can acquire everything together."
With that, Lucius stood and departed, his snake-headed cane clicking rhythmically against the marble floor.
Draco sat alone at the table, looking down at the extra chocolate pudding that remained in the serving dish. His father had deliberately left it—a gesture Draco now understood was an attempt at affection.
He remembered how different his reaction had been as a younger self. He had wept at his father's harsh words, convinced that Lucius did not love him. He had run to his mother for comfort, certain that only she cared for him. He had never understood the hidden language of his father's concern—the extra pudding left behind, the expectations that masked a desire for his son to become someone strong.
Now, at seventeen in an eleven-year-old's body, Draco understood.
He ate the pudding thoughtfully, slowly digesting the reality of his decision. He would attend Hogwarts. That much was confirmed. But more importantly, he had proven something to himself: he could control situations through careful thought rather than impulsive action. He was not the same boy he had been.
His seven years at Hogwarts in his previous life had been wasted on meaningless rivalry. He had spent countless hours competing with Potter, mocking Weasley, taunting Granger. The memory of Granger's fist connecting with his face remained vivid—a moment of humiliation that had haunted him for years.
He had despised her for it. For being brilliant, for being Muggle-born, for earning his father's grudging respect through superior grades. Lucius had often compared his son's academic performance to hers, always to Draco's detriment. As a child desperate for his father's approval, those comparisons had burned like acid.
But looking back now, Draco could see how foolish he had been. Granger was not stupid. She was exceptionally intelligent. And his rivalry with her, with Potter, with Weasley—it had all been a waste of his most valuable years.