To Be a Hero

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and am making no money off of any of this.

Summary: What it says on the tin. A desperate Draco Malfoy sends his soul back in time so he can keep Voldemort from taking over the world. It's like one of those entertaining Harry Potter redo fics, except with a petty, cunning, much more ambitious Draco in possession of the foreknowledge.

For all ye who dislike Draco (although I'm not sure why you'd be reading a Draco story if that were the case), I ask you to give this a shot. I'm trying to keep him in character, but he won't be an evil bastard-not because cannon Draco wasn't a (arguably evil) bastard, but because he's already gone through that phase. Also: No Ron The Death Eater, no Dumbledore bashing, no Snape with daisies coming out of his backside, no evil-Harry, and no Draco-is-a-sex-god.

Questions, comments, and responses are all welcome.

...

Ch. 1: Setting the Stage

It started as little more than a bit of speculation, just a stray thought that'd passed through his head during one of his long days in hiding. The notion was a desperate sort of ridiculous, although he considered it with perfect seriousness, lips pursing in thought as he lowered the book he'd been reading and chewed over the idea that'd come to him out of the blue.

Time travel.

"It's impossible," said Draco to himself. He leaned back in his chair, feet perched on the worn wood of the coffee table in front of him, the dim electric light of the Muggle cabin starkly illuminating the small, cluttered space. Papers covered nearly every surface, along with partially translated sets of runes, notebooks and scrolls and journals full of theories and spells. Nothing had come of any of it, but he hadn't expected anything would. From what he'd heard, the last of the Order had disbanded months ago. There were stragglers, but Voldemort was hunting them like rats.

Draco was, for all he knew, one of the last people who wasn't either vocally supportive of Voldemort or imprisoned. Even if he weren't too scared to actively fight back, doing so wasn't feasible. Not anymore.

"But this wouldn't be fighting back; it'd be… circumventing the issue," he went on, speaking aloud out of habit. He'd taken to talking to himself whenever he could, reading passages from books, vocally bouncing around ideas. Everything was too quiet in his hiding place. For the sake of his sanity, he needed there to be some sound. "Obviously time travel has been done before," he added. "Not on a large scale, but time-turners are proof that the concept isn't far-fetched."

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, absently picking at the fabric as he tried to force sensible thoughts from his brain. "I don't have a time-turner, and I don't have any way to get one. That makes things more complicated."

He did, however, have half a library worth of books at his disposal. Hermione Granger had been carrying most of them in her magically enlarged beaded bag when she'd been captured. Draco had volunteered to look through it while the other Death Eaters 'saw to her.' He hadn't been brave enough to defy Voldemort openly then, but his father had been bragging about the numerous ways in which he was personally going to defile the girl, and that was something Draco hadn't had the stomach to watch. He'd retreated to his room and sorted through the bag's contents, nearly kissing the spine of every book in her possession when he discovered them; Voldemort had banned everything that could be considered propaganda against him or the Dark Arts, so many of Granger's volumes were rare or nonexistent.

When asked, Draco told the Death Eaters she hadn't had anything of importance, and they hadn't pursued the matter.

Now he was grateful that he'd been too appreciative of the books to let them be destroyed. "There have to be references to time-travel," he said. "Arithimancy charts as well. And then the books I stole from the Muggle library when I was searching for non-magical weapons. I'd grabbed a bit of anything that looked helpful—I'm sure I remember nicking something on dimensional theory."

His fingers paused in their tapping. "Dimensional theory. I can work off that. Combine it with advanced magical theory, and see if I can't develop something. Break down spells. Find one that'll send me back in time." He sat up straighter, hope surging through him. "I can stop this. If I can go back—in any form, in any way—I'll be able to stop this. There's a solution. Of course there is. A nearly impossible one, but I'll force it to work."

He shook his head, chuckling to himself in amusement. "Merlin, I sound like a Gryffindor. Going back in time to stop Voldemort. Saving lives." His expression darkened. "Probably more pleasant than taking them. Maybe it'll even make up for taken them. If I go back, I won't have killed anyone."

He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, going back in time will wipe away my sins. What a positively idealistic thought." He huffed a sigh. "Merlin, I'm getting ahead of myself. Time travel in this capacity is impossible. Am I really going to bother looking into this?"

Yes. Yes he was. And since going back in time was his last hope, Draco wasn't going to give up until he figured out how to make it work.

…

It didn't take Draco as long as he thought it might to work out a solution. Only a matter of months, in fact.

Time travel, when looked at correctly, could be compared to using a portkey. He was going from one place to another, except he was moving temporally instead of spatially. Of course, time wasn't as concrete of a concept as space, which was where the problem came in.

Space existed. It was a thing. A person could walk from one place to another, could travel between places because they were literal and tangible and there.

Time was a concept. Not something that could be held or seen or visited. It wasn't real, not technically. A second was an abstract term for a certain passing of time, but seconds didn't exist in the strictest sense of the term. They were also transitory, having the unfortunate characteristic of being lost once they had passed. Draco likened the concept to that of a man standing on the edge of a cliff with a pile of sand in his hands. Once the sand seeped through his fingers, it was gone; in the bottom of the chasm. Lost forever.

Add to that the thing about time not being real, which would mean that there was never any actual sand in the first place, and the notion of working with time, let alone traveling through it, grew to seem impossible more than far-fetched.

That was where his Muggle books came in handy. Muggles, because they knew nothing about time-travel in the first place (unlike wizards and their time turners) had not only looked into all sorts of ideas on how to make it come about, but also had numerous theories on how time and dimensions and reality functioned.

It was in a Muggle book where Draco found the theory that reality was like a line. Everything that the universe had been since its beginning could be likened to a string that extended to the present, and continually unraveled from that point. He'd come up with an even simpler metaphor, comparing the history of everything to a book that was continually being added onto. The past was already written. The future consisted of blank pages. Draco wanted to change the last few written pages of the story. He couldn't go back to a certain point and start from there, because simply returning to an earlier spot in the book didn't erase the words that'd already been put down. If he wanted to redo everything without writing over words that were already in existence, he'd have to tear out or erase the pages back until the point he wanted to start editing.

If he did that on a literal scale, he wouldn't be changing time. He'd be changing reality. It wasn't going back in time. It was tearing through the fabric of the universe, destroying what he didn't like, and finding a spot to start from again.

It was a mess of theories and facts, and a lot of conjecture, but Draco eventually gained enough certain to narrow his findings down to a few simple facts.

1. Portkey was the primary mode of long-distance travel for wizards

2. He could not portkey through time because time did not technically exist

3. Reality, obviously, did exist. It was not a concept. While a somewhat abstract thing, it was still a thing.

4. If he'd find a way to reverse reality, being very careful to unravel it as he went, he should be able to traverse it without causing universal collapse

5. Portkey was used for traversing things. Reality could be traversed. Therefore, he could travel through reality using a portkey.

Oh, it wasn't that simple. In fact, it was terribly complicated. But Draco was smart and desperate, and he knew more dark magic than nearly anyone besides Voldemort himself. If there was one benefit of the Dark Arts, it was that they could take the impossible and make it possible. Not always by the most moral of methods, but considering that Draco was intending to shred roughly twelve years of reality, he didn't think moral methods would work anyway.

He wound up dissecting several destructive dark spells, including fiendfyre, as well as a handful of the charms that allowed time-turners to affect the fabric of existence, altered and blended components of those, then wrote out several versions of the final product, altering and tweaking for days before he was satisfied. With Voldemort's men no doubt keeping an eye out for his magical signature, Draco knew better than to try testing the spell; he'd have one chance to charm the portkey, so he'd have to make sure everything was worked out before he could begin.

When the main charm was as good as it would get, Draco worked out the more theoretical pieces of his plan. There were a handful of potential problems, the most concerning being that while an inanimate portkey would likely hold up to the journey he intended to put it through, the same couldn't be said about Draco himself; not with the powerful, reality-shredding spells he was using. He spent weeks thinking on the matter, but eventually concluded that nothing he did could protect his body well enough to survive being transported by that much dark magic.

His essence, or soul, was a different story. Since there was already a Draco Malfoy in the time period he was shooting for, as long as he charmed the necklace not to retain the soul after reaching its destination, it would combine with the other Draco's as soon as it was able. There was the minor issue of the other Draco already having an soul, but that hardly registered as a concern. While he hadn't the foggiest idea whether his past or present self would take precedence—his essence would be stronger, but the other Draco belonged there—he was positive that his memories would come through, and no matter how much of a coward he'd been in the past, he wasn't a bastard enough to let things happen the same way twice. He did feel slightly leery about the whole thing, but as nothing he did could make things any worse than they currently were, he didn't see a reason not to at least try to make them better.

The plan was hardly foolproof. It was stupid and dangerous, and highly illegal. But he had no choice.

Draco prepared the necklace, double-checked that his calculations were correct, and using the exact incantation that would've been needed to create a Horcrux—minus the murder that would split his soul—Draco waved his wand, casting a spell the tore his entire soul from his body and directed it immediately into the necklace.

Draco Malfoy's inert body collapsed to the floor of the cabin just as the necklace—a diamond pendant that had once belonged to his mother—disappeared in a torrent of black flames.

...

And then Draco Malfoy woke up screaming.

He thought he'd had terrible nightmares at first and stayed huddled in bed, telling himself over and over that it wasn't real, that it wouldn't happen, that everything would be okay. Then the rest of it sank in, about the time-traveling portkey and the soul, and he realized that no, it wasn't a nightmare. It was something that'd happened in the future to a different Draco Malfoy. A Draco Malfoy who he could feel inside him, who was a part of him.

Draco ran to the bathroom and threw up. He couldn't help but get physically sick at some of the memories that were suddenly lodged inside his head.

He registered, just barely, that a part of him—the part of him that wasn't really him—was irritated about how things had turned out. It would have been easier if the older Draco had taken precedence, instead of his own soul staying where it was. He was also irritated that the dark, dreadful, reality-shredding spell hadn't worked as precisely as planned, having sent him into an eleven-year-old version of himself rather than a slightly older Draco who could have handled it better. Now he had to deal with the awful feeling of a twenty-eight-year-old soul burning away in his chest, making him feel infinitely older than he actually was. Or maybe he did feel eleven, but twenty-eight also. Both at once. Or maybe neither one nor the other. It was a difficult sensation to describe, but he thought maybe it was something like what a potion would feel like if it were sentient. The younger Draco was the base, and the older Draco the additional ingredients. While the former was most prevalent in the final product, the ingredients did alter the base significantly.

The feeling was disconcerting.

"I want it to go away," said Draco, and he realized he'd retained the habit of speaking out loud, which could be disastrous now that there were people around to hear him. He sighed, then frowned. Malfoys weren't supposed to sigh.

Then again, he didn't think he cared much anymore what Malfoys were and weren't supposed to do. Lucius (he couldn't think of him as his father at the moment, not with the other Draco's knowledge spinning through his head) had tried killing him after he defied the Dark Lord, but Draco had lost his respect for the man a long time before that, from the moment he realized that his father treated his Death Eater activities like a sport. He took pleasure in the pain he caused, unable to comprehend why Draco didn't see his duty as anything more than a burden. His mother had been better, had genuinely loved him, but she'd been too weak to support him when it counted, and deep down, that felt like as big a betrayal as the killing curse Lucius fired at his back.

"This is ridiculous," he insisted. "They haven't done those things yet. I shouldn't hold it against them. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't know this-" He cut himself off as more mature logic took over. "But they have the capacity to betray me awfully, and obviously I'm going to be defying them—I can't do what I did before, I refuse to do what I did before—so they'll surely hurt me again either way, and- and-"

He shut his mouth before the words could come out in a sob.

What sort of idiot was he? Sending emotions and thoughts and memories like this back into a child's body? He couldn't handle it. His psyche wasn't equipped for this sort of thing, he was going to go mad-

Occlude your mind, his subconscious told him. Draco was confused at first, but after a moment, he remembered what to do. He took a deep, shaky breath and distanced himself from the shock of everything that'd happened, putting his feelings in one half of his brain and facts in another. When his panic started to lessen, he slowly let his emotions seep through little by little. Without the force of so many new thoughts and feelings hitting him at once, he was able to handle them more efficiently, pinpointing things that belonged to the newly mature parts of his consciousness and letting them have just enough precedence to help him deal with his situation.

When he was satisfied, Draco collapsed onto his bed and took several deep, gasping breaths.

Okay. His brain was under some semblance of control. Now, he needed a plan. A course of action. Something to keep Voldemort from returning and to keep himself from doing so many horrific things. Seeing as so much happened even before Voldemort came back, Draco had a lot to sort through—little things he needed to make sure played out like it did the first time, stuff that couldn't happen the same way, and details that he could take care of later. Mostly, however, he needed a broad, general goal. He could go to Dumbledore and tell him everything, but besides probably dooming himself to Azkaban for the dark magic used in the portkey, he didn't have enough trust in the older wizard to share something of such magnitude. The only other people Draco could think of to confide in were either too young to handle it (although that hadn't stopped his older self from putting it on his shoulders), unlikely to believe him, or unable to help.

That meant handling things on his own, at least for the time being. And he could do that. Certainly he could. He had a lot of foreknowledge, and future Draco had been very smart and powerful. There'd be a risk, of course, but surely he could keep Voldemort from coming back, or could at least help the Order destroy him if he did.

"Right," said Draco to himself. "And I'll be able to stand against Voldemort from Malfoy Manor."

The fact was that, no. He really couldn't. Not when his father would be watching him so closely, doing everything he could to morph Draco into the exact person he now knew he didn't want to be. There had to be somewhere else he could go, away from his father's prying eyes and the expectations of being a Malfoy, where he wouldn't have to worry about letting his true intentions show.

Draco frowned, thinking it over for a moment, scanning his brain for anything that'd help-

His eyes lit up as something came to him—someone who could take him in, and who also might be willing to help him do what was necessary, even without Draco having to tell him the whole story.

"Really?" said Draco to himself. "I'm not going to go off and live with him."

He sneered.

"Right, because staying at the manor with my 'loving parents' is preferable. It's the best place I can think of, and it's safe. Plus, he's… competent, and for how hard Aunt Bella claims Potter took his death, apparently a decent enough guardian… And I've got a way to get him in my debt, to make sure he'll give me a hand."

It was a good idea, but a scary one. He was thinking of leaving his parents, and he actually wanted to. He couldn't comprehend it.

Draco raked a hand through his hair. His head was starting to hurt, and he wasn't sure whether it was from being so torn in half about everything—because that's literally what it felt like—or if it was simply from the stress of it all. Either way, he knew he couldn't afford to have a breakdown. He had to work through this.

Sighing (his older self had apparently had a habit of that too), Draco headed for his closet and dug up the journal he'd received from his parents on his last birthday. It'd been one of his less exciting gifts so he hadn't touched it, but it'd be helpful for sorting out his thoughts now, and for writing down all of his plans for the future.

He spent the rest of the afternoon writing, scribbling ideas and memories and outlining what he planned to do with himself.

It didn't help, not really, but at least it gave him a place to start. He thought maybe, sometime in the next few years, he might even figure out how to make everything turn out okay.

…

Draco had taken to carrying the journal with him everywhere he went. He'd already 'borrowed' his father's wand and placed a handful of charms on it so his parents wouldn't be able to see what was inside; to them, it looked like what a normal eleven-year-old would write. In reality, he spent much of his time scribbling plans and making up a timeline of what he remembered happening the first time around. For the things that he hadn't directly been a part of or heard much about, he wrote reminders to do extra research and pay close attention to what was going on around him. He also copied a lot of information he'd picked up from a journal Hermione Granger had left in her beaded bag. It was filled with information about Voldemort and his Horcruxes, and while the data was incomplete, it was enough that he could get a good general sketch of where the artifacts were and how to destroy them.

When he got tired of thinking about the problems that future Draco's soul had brought him, Draco spent a lot of his time in the Malfoy family library, reading whatever books caught his interest and taking notes on what he found; he already knew everything that the other Draco knew, so he gravitated towards the more obscure texts that his other self had never gotten around to.

His parents approved heartily of both the journal and his research. They thought his sudden interest in academics was a sign that he was a budding prodigy, and his father practically preened when he caught Draco reading about the Dark Arts. It almost made him sick, how Lucius had pulled him aside and said that Draco couldn't tell anyone what he was learning, but that he was proud of him for taking an interest in 'higher areas of study' nonetheless. Narcissa wasn't as openly supportive, but she was clearly impressed by his dedication.

For his part, Draco cringed away from their approval; he didn't want them proud of him for learning the Dark Arts, especially not when he was more interested in countering them than using them—at least in this life he was, no matter what sort of terrible things the other Draco had done. It tore at him, the satisfaction of finally making them proud at the cost of knowing what, exactly, they were proud of.

He really wanted to get out of the Manor, to escape his contradictory feelings more than anything; trying to balance his eleven-year-old self's love for them with his older self's knowledge and ingrained feelings of hatred and betrayal was almost physically painful. But he knew better than to attempt to leave yet, so he did his best to lose himself in his journal. When he became too tired of being cooped up inside, he snuck out and flew his broom, testing moves he'd picked up through his four and a half years on the Slytherin Quidditch team. He was better now than he'd been his sixth year; even though his body wasn't quite as used to the complicated flying, he was much lighter, and the combination of a small build and an adult's knowledge made flying a delight. He knew he'd grow bigger over time, but if he kept practicing, his form would be good enough by then that he'd likely still be able to get a lot better.

Really, being so advanced at everything was nice. He thought it might make Hogwarts boring, and he knew he'd have to be careful not to make his professors too overly suspicious, but if anyone asked (not that they would, since no one else knew about his circumstances), he'd certainly say that having innate talent at so many things was the only good part of the whole situation. He didn't think it was quite worth the nightmares or guilt or the heavy weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders, but sometimes it was awfully close.

All in all, nerve-wracking as he found living with people he now both loved and hated, Draco had to admit that the summer could have gone much worse. It passed by much more quickly than he would have liked either way, something that hit him hard when his Hogwarts letter showed up. His father barely blinked, never having doubted it would come in the first place, but his mother gave his shoulder a brief squeeze and told him good job. Draco could only stare at the reminder that soon, his time for preparation would be over, and he'd have to actively start trying to prevent that other awful future from ever happening.

This was his chance to do things better than his other self had, and he knew exactly how he planned to start: If there was one thing Draco desperately needed to go differently, it was his first meeting with Harry Potter.

…

Draco was careful not to let his trip to Diagon Alley vary from what his first self remembered of it, down to making the same suggestion that he get robes by himself while his mother looked at wands and his father picked up books. While Draco desperately wanted to go to Flourish and Blotts, he resigned himself to waiting to access the Hogwarts library. He had plans for his meeting with Harry Potter, and he didn't want bad timing to ruin them. After all, if Draco was going to be trying to stop Voldemort, he might as well have an actual hero with him to do all the risky grunt work.

For all his careful maneuvering, Draco was still relieved when Harry Potter entered the shop a few minutes after Madam Malkin had started in on him. Or at least his other self's memories told him it was Harry Potter; Draco wouldn't have ever recognized him as he was. Far from the strong and confident hope of the Light who fought in the other Draco's war, this boy was small and thin, looking closer to eight or nine than eleven. His clothes were also too big, and obviously second hand. He isn't what I expected, thought Draco, which was absurd since he'd already known what to expect.

"Hello," said Draco when Harry led to the stool next to his. "Hogwarts too?"

Harry nodded, looking strangely shy. "Yes."

"I'm Draco Malfoy." He maneuvered around Madam Malkin so that he could extend a hand to the other boy. Draco remembered that Harry had rejected his other self's hand the last time around and tried to hide his nervousness; he'd kept his voice polite and hadn't gone off on any tangents, so surely Harry wouldn't have any reason to snub him already… Would he?

Harry clasped Draco's hand in his own, and Draco sagged in relief.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

He pushed back the giddy excitement at his small success and casually raised his brows, ignoring Madam Malkin's gasp at Harry's name. "Are you? I suppose a lot of people around here find that interesting, but I honestly don't see what the fuss is about. I mean, you defeated the Dark Lord as a baby, so I'd assume you don't even remember it."

Harry looked pleased. "Not really, no; I just recall a lot of green light. It seems like everyone else thinks I'm some sort of hero, though. It's really embarrassing."

How had the other Draco thought this boy was arrogant?

"Oh, you'll get used to it," Draco told Harry. "I'm sure people won't be so pushy forever; it's just that you haven't been seen for… well, ten years, it'd be. So they're all very surprised that you're here." He frowned. "Where've you been, anyway?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I was living with Muggles. I didn't even know magic existed until just a few days ago."

Draco winced. "That's awful. My dad says Muggles are savages. I wouldn't go that far, but-" He looked Harry over, taking in his over-sized clothes and stick-thin arms for a second time. His other self had never cared enough to notice, but now that he really looked, it was obvious that the boy was neglected. He'd always sort of assumed that Harry would've been all but worshipped growing up. That clearly wasn't the case. "The ones who raised you were savages, weren't they?" asked Draco slowly. "That's why your clothes don't fit."

Harry blushed. "They're my cousin's."

"He must be a hog," said Draco. "If that's the sort of casual clothing you've got, you ought to buy some new stuff. Wizards don't wear robes all the time, after all; we have some stuff that's a bit more… Muggle, I suppose you could call it. Just don't let my father hear you say that. He'd have kittens."

"Does your father not like Muggles?" asked Harry.

"My whole family doesn't like Muggles. Well, except for me—I find them tolerable enough," said Draco. It was the truth, although he wasn't sure whether the other Draco's tolerance had rubbed off, or if the years' worth of memories that'd lead to that tolerance had caused his drastic change in sentiment; he thought, probably, that it was a little of both. "It's hard sometimes, understand. I was raised to hate them. But I've heard that some Muggleborns are very smart, and I know some purebloods who're very stupid, so I thought I best not put too much stock in what my family thinks."

Harry smiled at him. "That's very fair."

"I try to be. I wasn't when I was younger, and bad things came of it." He shivered as he thought of the things the other Draco had gone through—the things the other Draco had done. Playing nice with the Mudbloods was definitely a better alternative than living like that again.

Madam Malkin patted him on the arm and said, "You're done, dear."

She was smiling at him oddly, and Draco realized she'd been listening in on their conversation. Draco flushed at the approval in her eyes, recalling how she'd always been a bit wary of the other Draco. He tried to ignore the way her changed attitude made pleasure bubble in his chest.

"Thank you," he told her, trying not to smile too big. He hopped off the stool and turned to Harry one last time. "I ought to go meet my parents, but I'll see you at the Hogwarts Express. Maybe we could share a compartment."

He ducked his head, more anxious than he'd admit over the other boy's response. It wasn't until Draco caught a glimpse of Harry's sparkling eyes and enormous grin that he realized he'd done well. He hadn't screwed up, not yet. Not like he'd done the last go around.

"Yeah, Draco," he said. "I think I'd like that."

Draco mirrored Harry's grin. Even though it wasn't the sort of thing a 'proper' Malfoy would admit, he imagined that he was every bit as eager to see Harry again as it looked like Harry was eager to see him.

...

Author's Note:

Yes, I'm back from behind the Veil (or whatever cheesy reference you want to use). I explained things on my profile so I'll be brief here:

I'm writing again, or at least trying to get back into it. This is a story I've wanted to do for a while and just got around to drafting up. Any feedback is much appreciated.