Notes: here's the thing, I've got ideas for future chapters, but they're going to be sporadic to say the least. That said, I think this stands pretty well on its own, so future chapters will be more like a collection of shorts than one flowing story. As always, enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Based on post/117777839247/ooooh-take-me-back-to-the-start-sigh on apitnobaka's tumblr

Warnings: elder Malfoys being mean to Dobby (off-screen) by use of ableist insults. Some language.

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The thing was, Draco didn't lose well. Grace in defeat was not one of his strong points, especially when said defeat was accompanied by a sick, sinking sensation in his stomach that felt an awful lot like guilt. So his first thought, when he saw the headline in the morning paper, was,

Bloody Potter. Bloody Weasley. Bloody perfect fucking secret wedding of the bloody century.

He was also not naturally talented in self-reflection, but he had gotten a lot of practice in the past few years, so his second thought was,

Not their fault you spent the first seventeen years of your life with your head up your arse.

"Yes, well," he muttered aloud into the empty shop he was tending. He glared at the wedding photo some more. Bloody perfect Potter with his perfect robes and his perfect grin and his charmingly imperfect hair. If only he hadn't been such a bloody good judge of character. If only Draco hadn't been such a bloody prick. If only . . .

Huh. There was a thought. There was an exceptionally dangerous, daring thought. And not a little bit slippery and selfish, too.

So he had lost the game. It wasn't exactly fair, was it? He'd had all the wrong information going in. So why not call for a rematch?

Why not, indeed.

He looked down at Potter's photographic image, beaming at his bride, and thought,

You're one selfish fuck, Draco.

No. Well, yes. But it didn't need to be about him. Not entirely, anyway. He could do better. He could be better. Stand up to his parents. Fight his own battles. Be his own person.

His hands were shaking against the counter. He could do this. He'd have to live through it all again – or maybe not live through it at all – or, or –

Things could change. He could change things. Save people. Be the hero for once in his sorry life. He had always been clever, but his could be brave, too, then maybe, just maybe –

"Thaddeus!" he called back to the shop owner, trying to keep the waver out his voice. "We have a client looking for something specialized. Do we have any products that work with Time?"

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Draco woke up. He felt . . . odd. Somehow bigger and smaller at the same time. He had had a very peculiar dream. He hadn't much liked it. It had made him feel old.

"Draco, love, time to get up!"

"Yes, Mother," he called back, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. Surely it hadn't always been that high? But yes, of course it had, which was perfectly respectable. He was only eleven, after all.

How strange he felt. He wondered if this was what puberty was like.

"Quickly, dear, we're going to get your school things today," Mother said from outside his door.

"I'm coming!" Draco snapped, and immediately regretted his tone. "Sorry, Mother. Coming."

He jumped out of bed and threw on his favorite robes, the soft grey ones which Mother said brought out his eyes. He still felt wrong, awkward, but it was beginning to subside. Probably just a side effect of that dream, whatever it had been about. He could hardly remember now.

When he got down to the table, breakfast was already prepared. Dobby's doing, of course. And why did that thought send a jolt through his stomach?

". . . late with the toast again, stupid creature," Father was saying. "Sent him off for punishment, of course."

Mother was nodding in approval, but Draco had a thought that was slipping off his tongue before he really understood it.

"Why do we treat him so vilely, Father?"

Father frowned at him over the morning Prophet.

"He's a servant, Draco. He must obey us in all things, or be disciplined. Besides, it's not as if he's a wizard – or a witch," he added, with a nod to Mother. "He's not even human."

"Yes, but – " Draco stopped. He didn't know where he was going with this, only that he suddenly felt a horrible sort of empathy for the pitiful creature that cleaned and cooked and even punished itself for them.

"Don't worry," Mother said, getting up to steer him to his seat. "It will be quite some time before you're responsible for controlling him, dear. Would you like some toast?"

Draco ate in silence, without really tasting it. He didn't know what was happening, but he didn't like it. If this was what puberty was like it could sod off, he thought sulkily, spearing a whole sausage.

"Manners, Draco," Father corrected mildly, and Draco reluctantly picked up a knife.

Well. At least they were getting his school things today.

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He was left alone in Madame Malkin's. This was, of course, the plan, so as to avoid him getting dragged around purchasing dull things like books, but it felt significant to him. He couldn't place why. This was becoming a pattern today.

The bell above the door jingled.

"Back in a moment, dear," Madame Malkin said cheerily, before bustling off to the front of the shop and leaving him to stand stock still in a robe full of pins.

She returned a moment later with a boy. He was short and skinny and his hair was messy and he was wearing Muggle clothes. Not much to look at, really, but his bright green eyes met Draco's and Draco felt his stomach swoop in a way which was not entirely unpleasant.

Huh. Maybe that was what puberty felt like. He could live with that.

"My name's Draco Malfoy," he said, completely forgetting about the pins and holding out his hand. For the second time that day, he felt words spilling from his mouth before he really knew what he was saying. "Would you be my friend?"

The boy blinked at his outstretched hand. Then he grinned.

"Sure," he agreed, his handshake swift and certain. "I'm Harry."