Inspired by the prompt, "too much." Enjoy, and please review!

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, if you tug on those drapes one more time, your little half-meter-tall behind will be on a one-way train to London! It'll be the psych ward at St. Mungo's for you, young man! Do you hear me!?"

Draco Malfoy marched deliberately toward the tow-headed toddler who stood by the wall, hand frozen in mid-air just below the hem of the curtains, and scooped him up by the armpits. "How many times must I tell you that Daddy's drapery was passed down from Grand-Mere Druella, and you are not permitted to touch it, ever!?" Draco sighed heavily as tears glazed over his son's eyes, bunching up at the corners and threatening to fall. He ran a hand through his own disheveled platinum hair, not quite achieving his customary perfected slicked-back look, and carried Scorpius to his bedroom.

He opened the door with one hand, balancing his son on his hip with the help of his other arm, and instead of placing Scorpius in his mahogany crib, he sat on the plush armchair in the corner of the room, and allowed his son to sit on his lap. "I don't know, Scorpius." He spoke to his son softly, pushing him up and down gently with his knee to keep the young boy somewhat entertained. "I don't know if I'm cut out for this. This dad thing."

He glanced hesitantly down at his son, who looked up at his father with wide, interested, steely-gray eyes. This miracle, this troublemaker, this little tiny person who had changed his life forever, had been a mistake. A mistake only considered so at the moment of conception until birth, but a mistake nonetheless. Draco had been dating Astoria on and off for several months, and before they both knew it, they were graced with the miracle of a baby. Astoria, he had later realized after Scorpius was born, was not a motherly type. She was the kind of girl that smiled at the young nephews and nieces and cousins in her family, but dared not risk holding them in her own bare hands. She didn't trust herself with children, especially her own, for a child's life was so precious and so fragile that she wanted nothing less in the world to be the one to ruin it. The idea of raising another human being frightened her more than almost anything, and consequentially, the parenting duties were left primarily to Draco. He would frequently find himself home alone, with a note on the table saying that his now-wife had left for a Quidditch match with her friends, and wouldn't be back until late. Similar occurrences had often appeared throughout Scorpius' childhood, and Draco, who is not what one would call the parenting type either, was bound to the responsibility of raising the young one on his own.

There were days when everything went well. The days when Scorpius was entertained by the simplest wonders of the world, when he sat on the ground and watched his toy broomstick zoom around the parlor before taking a long nap in the middle of the day, giving Draco ample time to rest his eyelids, were the perfect days. But they were few and far between, and the majority of the time Draco was just about ready to grab hold of his beautiful locks and tear them from his scalp in frustration. Scorpius was not what a normal person would call a calm child. He had a tendency to experience intense spurts of energy, where he would take to running around the house and yelling at the top of his lungs, or else riding around on his broomstick (once he got old enough) and knocking over precious heirlooms as he went along. At these times, Draco simply watched his son in horror, too absorbed in the shock of the entire situation to react or discipline his son. But as anyone adapted to an inescapable task that was forced upon them, Draco soon grew into the art of threatening and punishment.

But how could he have created such a destructive monster? After all, when Draco himself was a child, he was perfectly content with watching his father perform charms before his very eyes, entranced by the power his father had over what seemed like every object in the house, or twirl his mother's long blonde hair as he sat in her lap in the evenings. And now, the young boy that came from his own flesh and blood, who carried the Malfoy name and was expected to uphold it in the most respectable possible way, has taken to pulling down drapery from the poles that held them. What would Draco's parents think? After all, he had taken special care to always invite them over at the precise time Scorpius was biologically scheduled to take a nap, so they were always ushered in with shushes and a finger held to the lips. They always tip-toed over the threshold to their grandson's bedroom with the greatest care, and were always shown either a dreary-eyed Scorpius, half-asleep, blinking up at them lazily with the ghost of a smile gracing his features, or else a toddler who appeared completely dead to the word, curled up in his crib, clutching his blanket in his tiny hands. They had never witnesses the true, energetic Scorpius, and Draco didn't plan on letting them do so anytime in the near future. But he couldn't help but reflecting on why this was really necessary.

Was he a bad father? This question crossed Draco's mind every time Scorpius wailed after he took a bad fall, or cried after being reprimanded for a bad deed. Maybe his son only wept out of hatred, loathing to even be in the presence of this horrible man who seemed to do nothing but yell and groan. He would probably hate himself too, if he were in his son's shoes (or lack thereof). His heart seemed to swell as he looked down at his son. He saw a mess of wavy white-gold hair. He saw pale, soft, almost translucent skin that reflected the soft light of the lamp that glowed from across the room. He saw tiny hands, tiny feet, and a tiny nose. He saw eyes that he barely recognized, although he saw a similar pair every day as he looked in the mirror. Eyes that criticized his premature wrinkles and his hairline that seemed to move farther and farther away from his eyebrows every day, although the extreme was more than likely just his imagination. When he looked in his son's eyes whenever he threw a fit, he recognized the anger in them, the fire behind them, and the loathing. It was how he looked at himself. But he observed them carefully now, and the only similarity he noted was the color. Scorpius' eyes were full of curiosity, wonder. Acceptance. Something that Draco himself had very rarely experienced, in his childhood or in his adult life. He had a rush of pride for his son as he thought of the war. He pictured himself, playing both sides of the fence, bouncing back and forth between two groups of people that he was never truly accepted as a part of. He pictured his family after the battle was over, huddled together in the Great Hall, utterly alone. Outcasts of a society that was simply greater than them. And then an image entered his mind that he embraced: an image of his son, fighting the Death Eaters, passionately fighting for his life and the lives of his friends.

"You know Scorpius. . ." he started heavily, committing himself to honesty as he confessed his soul to the two-year-old, "sometimes I think this is all too much for me. And. . . I understand when you get angry with me, because, well, I'm not exactly the best father in the world. I don't know, it all just seems too much for me sometimes, and I'm really. . . I'm really sorry that I take it all out on you." He brushed Scorpius' shoulder with his thumb repetitively, determinedly staring at a ridge in the wallpaper. "I just want you to know that, even though I yell at you sometimes, and I get angry sometimes. . . I don't hate you. I could never, ever hate you."

He propped Scorpius up on his lap so that he faced him, and tore his eyes away from the wall and forced himself to look his son in the eyes. "Do you hate me?" he choked out, fear clutching at the backs of his eyes as he waited for the answer that he didn't really want to hear. Scorpius blinked back up at him, and Draco witnessed him absorb the magnitude of the situation; Daddy was very close to crying. Scorpius reached out a hand and touched Draco's cheek gently, giving him a look of selfless concern. Draco closed his eyes and leaned into his son's touch, letting a dry sob escape his throat before folding him into an embrace.

"S'okay, daddy," Scorpius crooned gently into his father's ear, patting a caring hand on the back of Draco's head. An exultant smile broke out over Draco's face, and he sighed. That, that touch, that embrace, those words, was all he ever really needed.