You look at him. You look at him as you have never done in the past twenty years, and you cannot recognize him.
How long has your son got that stubbly beard on his chin?
How long is his hair so long?
How long does he hide his left forearm behind his back?
How long do his eyes seem to be so different?
They are grey like every Malfoy's eyes, but they are completely different.
They are no longer the eyes of a spoiled, insolent and bully child.
They are no longer the eyes of an arrogant guy, who follow your rules blindly.
They are the eyes of a man, of a father.
You look at the baby in Astoria's arms: a tuft of blond hair protrudes from the gray blanket.
You stare at you son again, while he's caressing Scorpius' cheek.
A bitter smile rises on your face: you have never caressed Draco.
You messed all up with him, and now it's too late: he's a man!
How could you not realize that your own son had grown up?
"Father, why are you smiling?" he asks you.
Your smile increases: he has never asked something so directly, so clearly, so curiously, so sincerely.
It's not a son who speaks to his father. Now they are at the same level. No, he's better than you.
Because Draco is an adult. Now, Draco is a husband and a father.
You leave Narcissa's hand and slowly, you stand up from you armchair. Under the look of the woman that you have loved unconditionally but that you've put in danger so many times, you walk to your son.
You put a hand on his shoulder and you squeeze it.
You have ever been good with words, but you hope he can understand. You hope he can understand the confession of your mistakes, the feelings stuck in your throat, your apologies.
It's a smart boy, extremely intelligent, and he doesn't let you down.
In his eyes, you can read a big, huge, happy thankfulness.