(Disclaimer, clearly anything HP related is owned by JK Rolwing.)
When I look back on my actions, I cringe, physically. Although it took me many years to learn that it takes more than a deep voice and turning eighteen to make me a man, I finally learned it from the most astonishing of people. In school, I had always hated him. I had grown up hating him, my earliest memory being one of my father pacing and ranting about "that Potter boy". It seemed "that Potter boy" earned more of my father's attention then I did as I was always just under foot and in the way.
After the final showdown between "that Potter boy" and Voldermort, my family was afraid of what to expect. It was no surprise when the ministry came to get my family, trying us on war crimes and holding us accountable for the many crimes committed. I was astonished though, as "that Potter boy" looked upset at the trial when they sentenced my father to death.
It was the first time that I realized that compassion doesn't have to make sense. Like a rolodex in my mind, all the times he was always there to lend me a hand and not leave me to perish persisted in my thoughts. I viewed this same compassion when "that Potter boy" showed up at my trial, not to speak against me, but to speak for me. He fought for my freedom and won it and never once did he look at me like I now owed him one.
A similar scene happened at my mother's trial and I nearly cried when I was reunited with her again. It was after that when I first contacted "that Potter boy", or Harry, as I called him for the first time without a sneer gracing my face. It was only a month after the final showdown and the wizarding community was still trying to rebuild itself.
"What can I do?" I asked him simply, early one morning as I stood on the doorstep of his flat.
Harry looked at me, met my eyes with his own and I knew he was searching me for sincerity. With a simple nod, he shared with me what was needed and how I could help.
It took a solid year for the tarnish from Voldermort and the Death Eaters to be erased from the most obvious of places. I worked by the side of people I had grown up resenting. Not everyone was happy to see me there, but when they saw I was serious about wanting to help, they came around.
I saw firsthand, the destruction that had been caused. I watched people mourn over the loved ones they would never get back. I saw them try to reassemble the shatters of their lives. I watched Harry give hope to those who had none, give the shirt of his back to the homeless and work day in and day out to put homes back together.
It was a couple of Christmases after the final showdown when I finally broke down. I had gone outside to cool down from the toasty inside. The house was full of people I now considered family, including Harry- "that Potter boy". It was actually snowing on Christmas Eve and I realized that this was the first Christmas that I actually felt truly happy about. And then, without warning, every single pain I had ever caused anyone or helped to cause flashed through my mind and I staggered under the weight of it.
My breath couldn't come fast enough and my tears froze before they hit the ground as I sobbed over my actions. Who was I to be so happy when I broke apart so many families? When I supported the worst monster our world has ever known? But, as always, and I say this sincerely, Harry was there, showing me once again what compassion meant.
It's been many years since that point, I have a wife and children, a modest house outside England and I own a pet or two. It's "Uncle Harry" I tell my children to look up to when they turn their adoring faces to me and it's Harry and my wife, who remind me that I have one of the best stories of all. Because, I had to learn how to change the name Malfoy, from one of villainy to one that upholds the values of compassion, courage and trust. Lucius Malfoy might have wanted to rule over those he saw beneath them, but I, Draco, want to carve a new path and with a little compassion, I will.