When I was young, my father would wave goodnight to me. When I was young, he would sit across from me at the dinner table, leaving me next to my mother. Everytime I ask to sit beside him, he would reject me, because that's just not how things worked. He would read stories with me, but not in the way you'd think. He would be at one end of the couch while I was at the other (I couldn't get too close or I would distract him), he would have his book and I would have mine. Occasionally, he would read me an excerpt from the novel he found humorous or ingenious. I would copy his expression as he read it, and nod my head as if my five year old self could understand what he was saying. For the most part, when I didn't know how to read, I would pretend like mother had taught me over the days he was gone at work. I knew I could get away with it because it's not like he would have known anyway. My first lie was to my father at age four, acting as if I was the exceptionally gifted child he'd always wanted, while I pointed my finger and 'read aloud the words on the page', but was merely reciting them from my memory of the night before. He would smile, and stroke my hair before going back to his book. I would let my eyes linger on him, hoping he would say something like good job, son or that's my boy; he never did. That's just not the way he was. I thought all dads were like that too, but then I went to Diagon Alley, and I saw the enthusiasm bubbling over in fathers as their children got their first wands or their first broomsticks. I wrinkled my nose at them at first. Who would want to have such an obnoxious father? I thought. It wasn't until that day was over did I realize I was the child who was abnormal. As I grew older, the relationship became do this, Draco. Do this, and everything we ever wanted will be reality. We will be safe. He had his flaws. He was prejudiced, just as I was, and he was relentless, and cold. But he was my dad. He might not have been the best, but he was my dad, my family, and I loved him. My father loved me too, I knew; he would do anything for me, use any means to protect me, but that's not what it means to be a father. It's a part of it, yes, but not all; there is so much more.

I didn't know this until I had my own son. I cried myself to sleep the night Scorpius was born, all because I didn't know what to do next. When your wife is pregnant, it's mystified. You see her stomach growing, you see the effects it has on her body and mind, you know know it's happening, but it doesn't seem real. You know you're having a baby. You know it's only a matter of time until that child is out, helpless in the world, and you are the one responsible for making sure they're happy, healthy, and good, but there is a fog covering your eyes. That fog remains there until the cry of a newborn cuts through the blurriness, and you suddenly have an infant in your arms. It's not just any infant though; that child is yours. It's half you, and though you don't even know it, you love it already. It doesn't make sense really; it's a phenomenon you can't explain. My mother once told me that it was impossible to know a parent's love until you're a parent yourself. At the time, I brushed it off; she was wrong, I'll love my kid as I love anything else. For the first time, I have no problem admitting I was wrong, because I so clearly was so. When I held Scorpius for the first time I wanted to smile, but I also wanted to weep. I was overjoyed, astounded, and I was proud. I was astounded with Astoria for having the capability to withstand such pain and discomfort for nine months, and I was proud of her in the delivery room that night-even though she was yelling at me. I was proud of myself for helping to make this little bundle I cared for so much, and I was proud of him for just existing. I was beaming as I was granted with the honors of changing his first diaper. After staying with Astoria, I left for a little while to see our son with the rest of the babies in the nursery. There he was, all wrapped in blue. I peered down at him through the glass, and he looked up at me too. That was when I swore to him that I would be the best father I could ever be. Then it hit me; I made him a promise, and I had no idea how to fulfill it.

There aren't many books for men when it comes to father-ing. There aren't even really any for women; it's all kind of a guessing game. I assume that's why traditions carry down; seeing nothing harmful within themselves, people raise their children how they were raised. We came to a silent agreement that we were not going to do that. We both grew up in families who were so consumed with some warped idealistic reality that they could never be happy. We didn't want our son in that environment, we didn't want him to end up like us.

It took me years to get over my prejudice. I still struggle with it today, but that's the difference between my father and I; I know the wrongs in my ways, and I am working so hard to fix them. I had no intentions of doing so after the war, but Astoria was my inspiration. She was in her sixth year at Hogwarts at the time of the war, and she'd started a Slytherin rebellious group against the Death Eaters. She kept it very secret of course, and given they never expected anything from her, she got away with it. After it ended, she went on her own. She was still underage, but somehow she made herself untraceable; that was when she met me. She knew exactly who I was, she knew what I'd done. That was when I told her the answer to the question people had been asking me from the start; why? It was because I had no other choice. If I didn't, I would have been a disgrace to my name, and Voldemort would have most likely done something horrific to my parents. I explained how people didn't know what it was like, having the Dark Lord, a mass murderer, sit with you at your dinner table. If you were raised outside of your home, or if your parents were a neutral party, would you have done the Dark Lord's bidding? She asked me. My answer was sharp and quick. No. She didn't judge me, or she didn't appear to anyway, instead she forgave me. Forgiveness was not something I was used to. My father, he did not forgive. He pretended to forget until the moment was right so he could use it against you. Both my parents held grudges, they were forever bitter. After so many years, I became like that too. Astoria wasn't, she used to be but she'd somehow 'fixed herself'. I wanted to be like her, but I couldn't reprogram myself. No matter how much I tried, I could not do it. If I couldn't be like her, I wanted my son to be.

If I couldn't stop holding grudges, I was going to stop everything else. I was going to stop being miserable, and start paving my own road to happiness. This included reprimanding my initial thoughts upon hearing my co-workers discuss their muggle parents, and being welcoming to anyone who had the bravery to be my friend, regardless of what Hogwarts house they were sorted into. I felt defeated after awhile; I couldn't get that initial voice to stop, but then I realized that what you think first is who you're conditioned to be, but what you think next is who you are. I was aware of the demon inside my skull, I just chose to ignore him.

Scorpius didn't have much contact with his grandparents to start. Astoria's parents came around sometimes, but only after a strict and grueling sit-down conversation about how they would treat, talk, and act around our then toddler. Though they didn't like it, they obeyed by our boundaries, and formed an alright relationship with him. My parents however, I can't say the same. My father's never even met him. I sent him a photograph while he was in Azkaban, but I can't say he still has it. Mother will come occasionally, every few years or so. The visits stopped when Scorpius went to Hogwarts. I got a horrible visit from my father, because though Scorpius had never met him, he sent him a letter about his sorting and how happy he was to finally be in school. My father blew open our front door, relished in rage about how could you let the only descendant of our line be sorted into Hufflepuff? It wasn't even the house he was sorted into, it was the fact that he wasn't in Slytherin.

It was somewhat amusing because when I got Scorpius' letter, I beamed at the thought of him in a yellow and black tie, so did Astoria. We knew our son, he would do well there. He would be happy, and that was what mattered. That wasn't what mattered to my father though; he cared about purity and bloodline first. With Astoria pleading us to stop, we screamed at eachother. How dare he insult my son, his grandson, that way? My love for my father was dissolved by the love and respect for my son and wife. I grabbed him by the collar and threw him out of our house, threatening him to never return, and to never contact Scorpius again. Lucius Malfoy then became a name of my past; he mattered to me no more. I hated him; it was the one circumstance where I was thankful I was never able to forgive.

That was my first inkling that I was doing it right. I smiled in my sleep that night. My son, knowing my line of heritage, was confident enough in my love for him to know that I would be proud of him no matter what. It made my chest bubble with warmth. I was not like that at his age. I was terrified; I knew I could not end up in anywhere but Slytherin, or else the wrath that came down on me as a man would have done so on an eleven year old. After his first year, when they told him all about the Battle of Hogwarts, I feared he'd come back hating me. After hearing my name, my loyalties, and my actions, I thought he would despise me. I couldn't have that. I couldn't even handle the thought of my son hating, let alone being ashamed of me. I was embarrassed, and I was guilty. I thought other kids would bully him for what I did, just because I passed down the name. He would blame me for that surely. He didn't. I took calming medication before he came home for Christmas, just to find there was no use for it. Everything was normal. He shouted for me before running up to hug me with his bookbag bouncing as he moved. I talked to him about it later, as the stress that maybe he was just faking it ate me away. He told me that people change, and that I wasn't the same person as in those books. He said that he forgave me. I had to excuse myself to retire to the bathroom, my eyes welled with tears of both pride in my son and relief. He was everything I wanted to be, and more.

A year later, I received a letter about a friend he wanted to have spend the summer. I laughed as soon as I read it out of pure irony. He'd made best friends with Albus Potter, who'd been sorted into Slytherin. I thought that there was no way Potter would allow his child in my house, but then he did, and I wondered if he'd been working on his outlook on life just as I had. The exchange wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be. Harry and I even agreed to write each other every couple weeks with how things were going. I didn't make a friend like Scorpius had per say, but it was more progression than I ever expected.

Rose was a different story. Granger, well, Weasley now I suppose, had to hold Ron back from punching me. Turns out, Ron had actually met and really liked Scorpius before he knew he was mine. So, when Scorpius asked to officially date his daughter, he said yes without question. Then came the family dinner the kids had put together, and my son, as great as he is, didn't tell me the other family didn't expect us. Hermione tried to make up for it by being really friendly with Astoria, which worked out because they're great friends now, but I had to cut my steak and pretend I didn't notice Ron glaring at me the entire time. It was the only time a dinner like that ever happened.

I was shocked with myself; him dating a Weasley wasn't as horrifying to me as I thought it would have been. I went into it with an open mind. I was happy. I listened to the way Scorpius would talk about her; she was the only thing he would talk about since fifth year. It began with letters describing Albus' cousin and how she went with them to Hogsmead and how she was really funny. He went on to discover her intelligence level, and how daring she was. The young Gryffindor made him wonder about things, and I liked that. She made him laugh, she brought him joy, and she took care of him. From the first time I met her, I could see by the way Scorpius would look at her that my son was in a lot of trouble. However, throughout the course of that day, I saw that the only people in trouble were Ron, Hermione, Astoria, and I, because they were equally infatuated with one another. Rose would give him the same smile Astoria gave me daily, and Scorpius had the same expression looking at her as Ron did at Hermione when I used to tease him about it. I rooted for them. I still root for them. I stopped caring about who people were, or who they were related to, or what blood purity they had; all I cared about was the effect they had on my son.

I know that I'll never be perfect. I'll be wrong in areas and I'll be right in areas, I just have to be open to which areas are which. Scorpius and Astoria are the only real family I have; they are the lights of my existence. Astoria turned me from a boy to a man, and Scorpius then made me a father. I am a pureblood, I am a Slytherin, but most importantly I am a father to the greatest boy I could've asked for, and I think that reflects on me a little. Scorpius is a beautiful soul, I can't help but think Astoria and I guided him to that. We did it right. I did it right; I conquered my fear of doing it wrong. I hope he won't have to play the guessing game we did, and that he will feel comfortable enough to raise his children the same way we raised him. I hope he is proud of us, and I hope he thinks I am a good father. That's all I've wanted to be since the night he was born. If he is, then I have to say that I've come to a conclusion; in order to be a great father, you don't have to have an example; you just have to try.