Sharp, insistent prodding between my ribs. I jerked upright—too fast—and the world tilted. The ceiling spun in a blur of gold leaf and dark wood beams. A wrinkled green face swam into focus, bulbous eyes blinking at me. "Young Master is late," the creature croaked, wringing its hands. Its voice scraped like rusted hinges. My throat burned like I'd swallowed glass. Not my voice when I rasped, "What—" and stopped. Those weren't my hands clutching the emerald silk sheets. Too small. Too pale.
The house-elf yanked back the curtains. Morning light stabbed my eyes, glinting off silver-framed portraits of sneering blond men. Malfoy Manor. My stomach dropped. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and something metallic, like blood long dried. I knew these walls, this room, from movies I shouldn't remember watching. The elf tugged my sleeve. "Master Lucius expects you." Its fingers were dry and papery against my skin. My reflection in the dresser mirror froze me—pointed chin, grey eyes, hair like bleached bone. Eight years old. Impossible.
Fragments tore through my skull—Tokyo rain, screeching tires, the truck's grill filling my vision. Ryo Matsuoka, thirty-two, dead. Then... this. I pressed shaking hands to my face. My palms were clammy, the skin too smooth. The elf gasped. "Master Draco is ill?" I choked out a laugh. Understatement. The Malfoy crest on my pajamas mocked me, the embroidery rough under my fingertips. I'd woken up inside a children's book. A villain's origin story.
I sat there, staring at my hands—small, delicate, utterly foreign. My mind raced, scrambling for some logical explanation, but there was none. This wasn't a dream. The textures were too sharp, the smells too vivid. The weight of the silk sheets, the chill of the morning air, the faint metallic tang lingering in the room—it was all real. I was real. And yet, I wasn't. Not anymore.
The house-elf's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "Master Draco must hurry. Breakfast is served."
Breakfast. The word felt absurd. How could I eat when my entire existence had been upended? But the elf was insistent, tugging at my sleeve again. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet touching the cold stone floor. The sensation grounded me, if only for a moment. I stood, my legs unsteady, and followed the elf out of the room.
The dining room was a cavern of polished marble and gleaming silver. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, but beneath it was something darker, heavier—the scent of dread. Lucius sat at the head of the table, his cane resting against his chair. His gaze flicked to me as I entered, sharp and calculating.
"Dreams?" he inquired, tapping his cane against the floor. The sound was deliberate, each tap a punctuation mark in the silence.
I forced myself to sit, my hands trembling as I reached for the pumpkin juice. The glass felt heavy, too large for my small hands. I took a sip, the sweetness cloying on my tongue.
"Just Quidditch," I said, my voice high and petulant, the way I imagined an eight-year-old Draco would sound.
Lucius's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he nodded, satisfied. Narcissa reached over, her fingers brushing my forehead. Her touch was warm, almost maternal, but it made my chest ache. These weren't my parents. This wasn't my life.
The clink of silverware against china echoed sharply in the cavernous room, each sound a reminder of how out of place I felt. I forced myself to eat, each bite like ash in my mouth. The Manor's halls fit into muscle memory—third left to the library. My feet moved automatically, the cool stone floor chilling my bare soles. The library doors loomed ahead, carved with twisting serpents. Dust motes danced in slanting light. The smell of old parchment—university libraries, all-nighters, coffee stains—hit me like a punch. I ran a finger along leather spines until I found it: Botanica Arcana. The pressed aconite leaf crumbled between my fingers. Not much. Just enough to slip into Lucius's tea tomorrow.
The leaf's edges bit my palm. First betrayal. First step off the script. Somewhere, Fate's gears groaned.
I turned to leave, but a sound stopped me—a faint whisper, like paper sliding against paper. My pulse jumped. The library was silent except for my breathing. Then it came again, louder this time.
"Draco."
The voice was low, almost familiar. I spun toward the source, my heart hammering. The shelves stretched endlessly, the shadows between them deepening. The air grew colder, thickening with an unspoken threat. My breath fogged faintly in the sudden chill. The whispers coiled around me, insistent, probing.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Just the whisper again, closer now.
"Draco."
I backed toward the door, my hand brushing against something cold and smooth. A snake carved into the doorframe. Its scales felt almost alive under my fingertips, shifting subtly as if responding to my touch. My skin prickled, the sensation crawling up my arm like a warning.
"You don't belong here."
The voice was right behind me. I whirled around, but there was nothing. Just the empty library, the dust motes swirling in the sunlight. My chest tightened. The air felt heavier, pressing down on me. The whispers lingered, a faint echo that seemed to seep into the walls.
"Master Draco?"
The house-elf's voice broke the spell. I blinked, and the library was normal again. The whispers gone.
"Yes?"
"Master Lucius requests your presence in the study."
The elf's eyes were wide, almost cautious.
"I'll be there."
The study was colder than the rest of the Manor, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the room. Lucius stood by the window, his cane tapping impatiently against the floor. The rhythm matched the pounding in my temples. The room smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper, almost acrid. The scent clawed at the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe.
"Draco," he said without turning.
"Yes, Father?"
"You've been... distracted."
The words hung in the air like a threat. My fingers twitched involuntarily, brushing against the aconite leaf in my pocket. Its edges seemed sharper now, as if it knew its purpose.
"Just adjusting," I said, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach.
"Adjusting?"
He turned, his gaze piercing.
"Yes."
"Good."
He walked towards me, each step measured. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed in the silence. His shadow loomed over me, blocking the weak light from the window.
"You will not disappoint me."
The words weren't a question.
"No, Father."
He nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the window.
I left the study, my hands clenched into fists. The aconite leaf burned in my pocket.
Tomorrow.
The whispers echoed in my mind as I walked away.