novelraw Chapter 1: The Reborn Platinum Boy
Chapter 1: The Reborn Platinum Boy
A/N:
The first chapter is a bit short. This is a fanfic, so some things will be different from the original canon—if you want all the exact facts, please read the books. This story won't be everyone's cup of tea, so if it's not for you, feel free to move on to something else.
That said, if you do enjoy the fanfic, comments, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
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Chapter One: The Reborn Platinum Boy
Draco Malfoy, the sole heir of the Malfoy family, has been reborn.
One second ago, he was struggling to climb atop that damned pile of junk amidst the raging flames of the Room of Requirement, awkwardly reaching out his hand to the foolish Potter—yes, he grabbed Potter's hand, flipped himself onto the flying broom, and was saved.
The next second, he awoke in his four-poster bed at Malfoy Manor.
The quiet pressed around him. Only the soft chirping of insects broke the silence. Through the window, midsummer dawn air carried the scent of roses—not the desolate midnight of late spring he'd just escaped.
Wrong timing. Wrong season.
He jumped from bed and nearly lost his balance. His hands—small, childish hands—caught his fall. Child's feet. Child's legs. Child's arms.
Shock flooded through him, but he forced himself to remain calm. That skill, at least, he'd honed through countless terrifying experiences. He strode toward the full-length mirror.
An 11-year-old boy stared back at him.
*Merlin's stinky socks.*
For a moment, he couldn't tell whether everything before waking had been a dream, an illusion, or reality.
But the memories of seven years at Hogwarts remained vivid, flowing through his mind in excruciating detail. The pain. The fear. The despair. Each memory pierced his heart again and again.
This couldn't be just a dream.
In the dim morning light, Draco studied his reflection—the platinum-haired boy who frowned with unnatural maturity. He pinched his cheeks hard, bringing a blush to his pale face.
The pain confirmed it. This was real. He was truly an 11-year-old boy again.
He paced in the dawn light, trying to calm his turbulent emotions. *Wake up. You must have encountered some dark magic item. This is a nightmare.*
But as time passed and his mind fully awoke, the memories didn't fade—they intensified. A torrent of terrifying recollections poured through him like water from a broken faucet, turning his mental palace into chaos.
Worse, he remembered complex spells, potion-making methods, the entire history of magic. Ancient magical scripts. Alchemy knowledge he'd used to repair a Vanishing Cabinet that even Borgin couldn't fix.
No dark magic item or nightmare could imprint such specific, detailed knowledge overnight.
*Could those things be true?* His thoughts spun. *But how am I 11 again?*
Through the window, he gazed at the manor courtyard bathed in soft light. Mother Narcissa's roses—white, red, yellow, and pink—bloomed in full splendor. Peaceful. Beautiful. So beautiful it brought tears to his eyes.
This was nothing like the Malfoy Manor he knew at 17, when the Dark Lord's filthy henchmen had turned it into a chaotic, degrading prison.
The most humiliating memory for a proud Malfoy.
*Never again.* Anger surged through him. Those disgusting creatures would never again trample on the pride, dignity, and honor of the Malfoy family.
His hand trembled against the window as he thought of what his parents had endured. Father, stripped of his wand—that sacred extension of a wizard's soul—left defenseless like an eagle with broken wings. Any Death Eater could curse and humiliate him at will.
Mother, the proud noblewoman, reduced to a servant in her own home. Her elegant composure shattered, replaced by distress and unease. The Dark Lord could torment her on a whim.
And the Dark Lord himself—a usurper who'd transformed the Malfoy estate into Azkaban, a murder scene. He'd let brutal werewolves swagger through halls that prided themselves on pure bloodlines. A slap in the face to everything the Malfoys stood for.
Draco's face went deathly pale.
*Father must never lose his wand again. Mother must never grovel before those lowly creatures in the manor she loves.*
And he—he would never be forced to kill Dumbledore again.
Sixteen. That devastating year flooded back. The age that should have been filled with light, flowers, applause, perhaps even romance. Instead, he'd been forced to plot the murder of the most powerful wizard of the century.
A suicide mission. Fail, and the Malfoy family would be destroyed. Succeed, and his soul would die along with Dumbledore—if a Death Eater could still possess a soul.
He'd never wanted to be a murderer. How could a proud Malfoy stain his noble hands with blood? He should have been roaming freely in the sunlight, clean and untainted.
But when Father entered Azkaban, the Dark Lord had blackmailed a panicked 16-year-old boy with his mother's life and his family's future.
Cruel. Evil. Ruthless. That was what the Dark Lord truly was.
Draco had nowhere to turn. The Malfoy family's "old friends" bared their fangs, their grandfather's death crumbling old alliances. Money bought no help—only greedy covetousness. They expressed feigned sympathy while their eyes betrayed undisguised anticipation, all vying for scraps of the Malfoy downfall.
As for their "enemies"—the Malfoys had long opposed Dumbledore's faction. What help could he expect from them?
Bow down to "Saint Potter"? Seek help from Dumbledore, his assassination target? Those he'd been taught to hate from childhood would only mock him.
Yet now, Draco had to admit the truth: he should have asked them for help. Potter. Dumbledore. They might have aided him. Different ideologies, different beliefs, different factions—but they shared a common enemy. That alone made cooperation possible.
The Dark Lord was not the figure Draco had once respected. During that year at Malfoy Manor, he'd discovered the truth: this was no elegant, noble, powerful leader hoping to restore pure-blood glory. This was a capricious, hideous, violent creature who slaughtered all wizards—even pure-bloods.
Perhaps Draco Malfoy had always been a coward. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy was simply too fanatical, too deeply invested in the Dark Lord's inevitable success to accept the possibility of failure.
But Draco's illusions had shattered. The Dark Lord was a heartless madman.
He remembered how the Death Eaters looked at their master: not with worship or love, but with fear. Most had already realized something was wrong, but they couldn't bear the consequences of their choice. So they continued down that path, gambling on a future or embracing death.
Draco refused to walk that path again.
Siding with Dumbledore and Potter was the only chance the Malfoys had to escape the Dark Lord's oppression and turn their lives around.
Potter. Foolish Potter. At this moment, Draco desperately hoped he truly was the legendary savior who would achieve victory. After all, he'd escaped the Dark Lord multiple times—as an infant, in the cemetery, in mid-air combat. Each time, Potter survived when he shouldn't have.
If there was a fourth time, would the Dark Lord succeed so easily?
Potter possessed some mysterious ability to resist him, though Draco had never understood what made him special. He'd carefully observed Potter as Father instructed and found him disappointingly mediocre. Apart from the scar, he was just an ordinary boy—neither hopeless nor outstanding. Someone who would live decently in peacetime but never possess the talent to rival the Dark Lord.
That was why the Malfoys immediately sided with the returned Dark Lord. They saw no chance of Potter winning.
If only they'd known that ordinary Potter possessed extraordinary power—the power to survive the unsurvivable.
Draco looked up at the fading moon, his expression troubled. Their judgment had been catastrophically flawed. They'd chosen the wrong path, the wrong side.
Joining the Dark Lord brought no benefits. Instead, they'd lost everything—dignity, status, wealth. They lived like homeless dogs, fearful and without hope.
Once the Malfoys ceased being useful, death would come with a flick of the Dark Lord's wand. He wouldn't bat an eye. The Dark Lord cared only for himself.
Draco sighed and slumped onto the Persian carpet, his fingers clutching and tearing at the fine wool, mirroring the tearing of his own heart. He'd cried alone, regretted, fallen into despair more than once.
He'd never wanted to be a pathetic Death Eater, living in shame and precariousness.
Suddenly, he remembered. Trembling, he lifted his sleeve.
His wrist was clean. New. Unmarked.
The menacing Death Eater brand had never existed. Draco exhaled, a delighted smile spreading across his face. He stroked his wrist repeatedly, muttering, "That's great."
The pain, suffocation, and pressure from the Dark Mark in his memory—all of it had vanished.
He wasn't branded with that disgusting mark. Father hadn't stolen the prophecy orb. Malfoy Manor remained peaceful and beautiful, a symbol of glory.
Draco stood abruptly, dizzy from the sudden movement. He steadied himself against the antique table.
*Were those memories dreams or reality?*
He still couldn't believe it. Then his eyes fell on the Hogwarts acceptance letter sitting on the table—thick yellow parchment with his name in emerald green ink. Beside it, the letter from Durmstrang.
Going back to the beginning.
This morning, after breakfast, the Malfoys would discuss his school choice. They chose Hogwarts—he remembered.
This was his chance to prove whether his memories were real. If his parents' discussion matched his recollection, then he would know: he was reliving days already lived, walking paths already walked.
Perhaps he truly experienced those seven years. Perhaps it wasn't just a nightmare.
He would wait. Wait for breakfast. See how things unfolded.
Draco walked back to his bed and lay down. The emotional turmoil had exhausted his 11-year-old body. He gazed up at the intricately patterned bed curtains, watching silver dragon decorations shimmer among the folds.
His eyelids grew heavy. He drifted off to sleep once more.