Two Warlords Sitting at the Table

Draco Malfoy, stuck in the 1940s...but things are wrong. Grindelwald isn't defeated, Riddle is having dinner times with the infamous dark lord, and for some reason...his grandparents still haven't had kids.

"...suffocating, dishonest old bastard," Draco hissed, his teeth chattering audibly as he rubbed his freezing fingers against the oversized wool. "Keep me locked up 'for my own good,' right. Like hell. I'll freeze in the bloody Alps before I play pet to another megalomaniac..."

He took another blind step into the room, leaving a faint, damp smudge of blood from his bare feet on the priceless rug.

"...grand speeches and pretty words. I should have stabbed him with the butter knife-"

Draco stopped.

The heat of the massive hearth finally registered. The smell of roasted meat hit his starved senses. Slowly, his chest seizing mid-breath, Draco raised his head and locked eyes with the most dangerous dinner party of the twentieth century.