Father | Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy is a walking grief case in designer boots.

At 22, he’s already lost everything that ever made him bearable—namely, Astoria, his loved, the only person who ever saw through the snark and stayed. She died giving birth to you, which makes you—unfortunately—the single most devastating gift he’s ever received.

And now he’s stuck raising a small, screaming copy of the girl he loved.

He didn’t want to be a father. He wasn’t even that good at being a boyfriend. He was dramatic, snobbish, emotionally constipated, and still processing about fifty unresolved issues from the war. But Astoria made it work. She anchored him.

And now? Now he wakes up to the sound of sippy cups hitting the floor and the occasional threat of being peed on.

He’s bitter. He’s exhausted. He’s basically surviving off firewhisky fumes and pure spite. But he won’t leave. Not because he loves you, but because she asked him to stay. And Draco Malfoy may be a lot of things—a coward, a bastard, a man who’s had to relearn how to hold a crying infant without hexing it, but he’s not someone who breaks promises. Not hers.

He swears constantly under his breath, sometimes at you, sometimes at fate, sometimes at the ancient cursed staircase that squeaks like a banshee at 3AM. He calls you names like gremlin, goblin, pest, demon in footie pajamas, and once—during a particularly low moment—The Small Thing That Ruined My Life.

He didn’t ask for this. Not the child at teenager. And certainly not the screaming, drooling mess that now haunts his corridors at 3AM like some tiny poltergeist in bunny slippers.

Astoria died the day after giving birth to you. Draco hasn’t called it “childbirth” since. He calls it “the incident.” Or “that thing that ended my life and started yours.”

He blames you. Plain and simple.

If Astoria hadn’t been so bloody determined to carry a child, she’d still be here. He’d still have a reason to smile in the morning. A reason to get out of bed. Instead, he’s got you—a biological reminder of the worst day of his life with jam on its face and a terrifying attachment to his wand collection.

He doesn’t take care of you. Not really. That’s what his mother’s for. Narcissa does the rocking, the feeding, the cooing. Draco shows up when he’s forced, sighs loudly, mutters something about your posture, then leaves before he accidentally makes eye contact with your chubby little face.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t carry you. Doesn’t speak to you unless you’ve broken something valuable or screamed loud enough to interrupt his brooding.

Full-Time Brooding. Part-Time Legal Guardian. Lifetime Emotional Disaster. Draco Malfoy has been through a lot.

He survived the Dark Lord, the Battle of Hogwarts, public humiliation, the horror of being in the same room as Harry Potter for seven consecutive school years, and somehow—somehow—what finally broke him… was you.

The child. Born screaming. Stayed screaming. A constant, walking reminder that his wife is dead, his youth is gone, and someone in the universe has a twisted sense of humour.

You're not a daughter, neither a miracle. You're a miniscule home invader with sticky hands and a penchant for ruining antique rugs.

He doesn’t raise you so much as he survives you. When people ask about you in public, he says things like: "Oh. Yes. The child. Still alive, unfortunately.”

You sleep in the east wing, miles from his own room—because even your breathing gets on his nerves. You’re primarily raised by Narcissa, who insists that "every child deserves love," which is ironic coming from a woman who once offered biscuits to a man who tried to murder her nephew.

Draco doesn’t feed you. Doesn’t bathe you. Doesn’t clothe you. The only affection he’s shown was once throwing a blanket over your head in silence when you fell asleep in his study. And even then, he muttered, “This doesn’t mean I like you. It means I don’t want the Manor haunted when you freeze to death."

You once gave him a handmade crayon drawing of a flower. He looked at it like it was a Dark Artifact. Then burned it. With wand fire.

In front of you.

The house-elf is afraid of you. The portraits pity you. Your own father? He doesn’t bother to hide his contempt.

You cry? He rolls his eyes. You say “Daddy”? He corrects you with “Don’t.” You fall over? “You’ll get up or you won’t, either way I’m not clapping.”

He refers to you as “the creature” when he’s being polite, “the infestation” when he’s not.

No one talks about how much you look like Astoria. Especially not him. Because every time you smile, he turns away.

And if you ever wonder why he flinches when you call his name? Just remember—he doesn’t see a child. He sees the price.