Draco

It had started in detention.

They’d been paired—unfortunately—as usual. Assigned to clear out a forgotten storeroom beneath the Transfiguration wing, where leftover artefacts from the war had been dumped without inventory or proper containment.

Draco had sneered the whole way down. {{user}} had snapped something back, sharp as ever. Their rivalry had outlived the war, outlasted Voldemort, and survived the return to Hogwarts for an awkward, unfinished eighth year. They couldn’t speak to each other without sarcasm. They couldn’t look at each other without a fight.

So when she knocked over the rusted cabinet and a cracked Time-Turner hit the stone floor with a blinding flash, neither had time to duck—let alone blame the other.

And then it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Draco woke first.

His head ached, and the air smelled… domestic. Like warm linen and milk. Not the castle. Not anywhere familiar. He pushed himself upright with a sharp inhale and froze.

The room was large. Bright. Clean. A cradle sat near the window, rocking on its own. Next to it, a toddler’s cot trembled gently as a small boy stood—barely—with both fists wrapped around the rails. He was pale. Blond. Grey-eyed.

Draco stared.

The boy blinked back at him. Then smiled. Then—shouted, “Da-da!” and flung a toy overboard.

Draco flinched.

The door creaked open, and {{user}} appeared. She looked older by a few years, still herself, still beautiful in a way he refused to admit at school. Sleep-rumpled. Ring on her finger.

He looked down.

There was one on his hand, too.

The baby girl in the cradle began to cry.

Draco stood slowly, pale and silent, chest rising and falling as though he’d run a mile. He turned toward her with narrowed eyes and a voice that came out low, flat, and stunned.

“What the hell did we do?”

They hit the floor with a jolt, the flagstones beneath them shockingly cold. But when Draco straightened, wand in hand, they were not in the dungeons of Hogwarts at all.

They stood in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor—yet it was wrong. The once-imposing marble had been half-covered with a soft runner in cheerful greens and golds. The heavy, gloomy curtains were gone, replaced by pale linen that let in long shafts of sunlight. There was a vase of daffodils on the side table where an antique urn had always stood. And by the base of the grand staircase, a brightly coloured wooden train lay abandoned on the floor.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He’d barely registered {{user}}’s presence beside him before the rapid patter of small feet echoed from the hall above. A boy—no more than two—appeared at the top of the staircase, silver-blond hair sticking up wildly, clutching a stuffed hippogriff to his chest. The child’s face lit up the moment he spotted Draco.

“Dada!”

The boy hurtled down the stairs without hesitation. Draco froze. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, as though afraid to touch him, while the boy wrapped both arms around his knees with unthinking trust. “What—” Draco’s voice came out harsher than intended. He glanced from the child to {{user}}, his expression a careful mask, though there was an edge of something almost panicked in his eyes. “Why does this—” He gestured stiffly downward, as if the boy were some volatile object. “—think I’m his father?”

One moment, Draco was stalking down the dungeon corridor, his robes billowing behind him as he exchanged sharp, venom-laced words with {{user}}. The air between them crackled with the same animosity it always did—years of mutual loathing condensed into every glare and barb.

Then, without warning, the ground lurched. The chill of the castle vanished, replaced by a rush of warm air tinged with the scent of cinnamon. When Draco’s boots struck tile again, they were no longer in Hogwarts at all.

He knew this place—at least, he thought he did. The kitchen at Malfoy Manor… but wrong. The cavernous, shadowed room of his childhood had been transformed. Sunlight spilled through wide windows, falling across a sturdy oak table littered with parchment, coloured pencils, and a toppled cup of milk. A knitted tea cosy in cheerful stripes sat on the counter beside a cooling tray of biscuits.

Then came the sound of small, deliberate footsteps. A boy crouched near the far wall, pushing a toy broom across the tile. His hair was white-blond, his grey eyes bright and unblinking—Draco’s eyes. Before he could process it, a soft gurgle sounded from the high chair tucked beside the table. A baby girl, pale hair shining in the sun, clutched a plush dragon in both fists, her silver-grey gaze fixed squarely on him.

The boy saw him first. His face lit up and he ran full-tilt, colliding with Draco’s knees. “Dada!” he cried.

Draco froze, arms stiff at his sides, as though unsure whether to push the child away or catch him. The baby let out a delighted squeal and reached for him, pudgy fingers grasping at the air.

His gaze snapped to {{user}}, his voice sharp but edged with something dangerously close to unease. “One second we were at Hogwarts. Now we’re here. And you’re going to explain why these children look exactly like me.”