A pining Draco Malfoy.
He remembers the first time he saw him. He remembers while sitting in a high-class leather black chair in his sitting room. Of which the time, he wasn't sure. He had sat there for what felt like eternity with pride staining his cheeks. And a glow in his eyes, and feeling he could only get from his perfect son. He had been so proud of Scorpius with tomorrow being his first time in Hogwarts.
He just hopes, more than ANYTHING else, that Scorpius will not be held accountable for his father's actions. Draco was aware of how cruel he was in his earlier days, but he is no fool no longer, he does believe that he has become just and able and all he wants for in the world is his son's happiness, he is a greater man now and he hopes his old classmates don't forget that.
But here he sits, he thinks. That day back in Madam Malkins where he met the great saviour of the wizarding world. He had no idea of who he spoke to, but he often wonders if his infatuation had begun there. It was no secret to anyone that even at the tender age of eleven he was prudent and snobbish, believed he was too good to mingle with the lower class. But her recalls that day, Potter was more than peasant looking with his oversized shirt and the dirt decorating his tan skin, not to mention his frantic and shaggy hair which stuck up in all ends and rat tails, meanwhile Draco was clean tall and proud, and his hair was delicately gelled back, a desperate attempt to mirror the look of his father. Young and curious he was. But he was so foolish, his greatest idle his father who he could not see what cruelty lied beneath his upturned nose or what vicious actions he hid beneath that cloak or the mistakes he covered up with those silver fastenings.
He still decided, despite his beliefs that this tattered young boy was worth his time. Maybe it was his desperation to fit in among his new classmates or perhaps he was so excited and bursting with joy that his appearance flew over his head. Or maybe, just maybe he desired him then as well, but he just couldn't place where his intentions truly lay since had no idea what to call it. It wasn't exactly in the pureblood class to be attracted to a half-blood male at age eleven. As pureblood they were believed to marry a modest lady with good connections, an honourable and wealthy family.
But Draco spurred a moment of thought to his wife, Astoria. He loved her, he truly did. She was kind and intelligent and with her he had his son, his joy of his entire life. She had not been everything he had wanted, everything he wanted was already taken, claimed by someone more deserving than him. But she had became nearly everything to him. He supposes she deserves better than to be called second best because she meant far more than that, but the hearts wants what it wants and for nine measly years of his life he wanted the great hero of the wizarding world.
He rejected his feelings, through them carelessly towards the wind and tried to hate the boy, he believed that if he said he hated him enough that maybe his feelings would fade into nothing and he would therefor be unplagued by these terrifying butterflies that attacked him whenever Potter was near, but it didn't. It had made his regretful, envious and sent him to the worst place in his life. And still as he sits in his chair with a few wrinkles beneath his eyes and his greying (although he denies it to his loving wife) hair. It was common among all those that fought in the battle of Hogwarts to have aged far faster than most other people.
Draco wasn't sure, but he believed he couldn't be the only person from the war that was still cursed with terrors and flashbacks. He still looked behind him when he walked, he still kept his hand firmly gripped around his wand in fear of someone attacking him. He still awoke at night, terrorised by memory of the night in the tower.
You're not a murderer, Draco. You're and just a man, and you're a father.
That's what Astoria told him, it took him a while to believe her. He couldn't truly believe he was a good new person until he had decided apologies were in order. When he had finally grown and wised up he chose to seek out those he tormented in his school days and do what he could to make up for it. He knew of course that no apology could repair adolescent insecurities and fears. To be honest it made him feel horrible and sick that Longbottom forgive him so readily, as well as righteous old Potter. He supposed that's how heroes worked. He was nearly thankful that Weasley was sarcastic and reluctant. In fact, he's sure the only reason Weasley forgave him was because Granger gave him a stern glare. As for Granger herself, he guessed she deserved a lot of credit for her kind heart and especially her incredibly intelligent wit. She saw what others couldn't, she knew he was mistaken, a victim of war, just like the rest of them. He just got caught up with the wrong side.
He could've reached out. He could've asked for help. He could've begged for help, but instead he followed his father, as always.
It was second year he began to question what he felt for Potter. The Weasley girl wrote her weak love poem and he felt envy overtake his entire being, he didn't want anyone else to have Potter but him. In third year he had tried to prove himself to Potter to be good enough but then the massive bloody chicken attacked him, and he winces even remembering how that turned out. Then there was fourth year, Potter in the yule ball. He was clean and groomed and perfect, Draco knew then in that moment. There Pansy was, feminine and beautiful but his eyes only followed Potter. It was fifth year he really tried to get rid of his feelings, thinking it could be chased away, he pre-occupied himself trying to get in his fathers and Voldemort's good graces, he didn't know that he was playing with fire, and that the fire would eat him alive.
But sixth year. He was desperate and depressed as it was and when he realised he was desperately in love with the boy who lived, the boy he knew would die in the end if Voldemort won. He was stressed, terrified and sickly. But no matter what he did he was going to get hurt. It was Potter or his parents. He couldn't leave his father and he most certainly could NOT abandon his mother.
He began to ponder on his mother for a while, her aging face that was once flawless, her feature that could appear cold and cruel but all she ever wanted was to protect her son, a trait Draco was glad to inherit. The one thing the Malfoys did have was strength as a family.
He was no longer a coward, when it came to his family he would face Voldemort over and over again as long as it meant they were safe.
Without even realising it, he dozed off.
We walked with Scorpius up to the doors of the Hogwarts express, Draco smiled at his dear son, he's too good, too pure to make the same mistakes. He'll be okay, that is something Draco is sure of.
He cast a glimpse to Potter, who glanced up, he gave a respectful smile an curt nod in the grown mans direction. He stood with his family. His second eldest at his side, he was to go into Scorpius' year as well, and then his oldest, James, running around with various objects darning the 'Weasleys wizard wheezes'.
As the last remaining kids ran onto the train as it rang out its last sounds, he caught a glimpse of Scorpius in the window, alone and nervous, with the Potter boy on front of him.
And in the summer, a few years after, Draco happened to glimpse at the two boys walk out of the room hand in hand and he knows that Scorpius got what he could never have. And that's more thank okay.