For Ye Old Icelandic Sayings Challenge, on HPFC Forum

Quote: "None can be more unkind than kin"

Disclaimer: I own nothing

"Foolish boy," Lucius Malfoy snarled at his son following his words with a swift cutting hex to his cheek, adding to the myriad of cuts and bruises there already.

"Incompetent child," he spat, throwing a curse that broke one of his son's ribs.

"Spineless brat," he growled at the younger, throwing him violently across the room, where he landed in a crushed heap on the floor.

Lucius paused, considering his actions, should he help his son? He was lying in an unmoving pile on the floor. But that was be counterproductive, he would never learn then. Although that feeling of protectiveness towards his own child was there, screaming at him to help, to be some sort of the father figure the boy longed for.

Draco Malfoy, who was seven and a half as he was very proud to tell everyone, was slumped on the floor, clutching his chest, trying his hardest not to cry. The only thing that would achieve would be more punishment for showing weakness, something a Malfoy never did. Malfoy's were always dignified, they never displayed much outward emotion and they most certainly did not cry. Slowly he began to pick himself up off the ground with as much superiority as he could manage under the circumstances. Being careful not to move his ribs too much, he stood up straight, held his head high and made to walk out of the room. But the moment he took one step, the whole room spun, clearly he had hit his head harder than he first realised after his father had flung him across the room, for no reason that was obvious to Draco. His father had hurt him, his own flesh and blood, he was the reason every step for Draco was now agony. He wanted to stop, to collapse on the floor again and call for his mother and cry in her arms, enjoying the feeling of being protected and cared for. However he couldn't stop now, he couldn't show any weakness, not when he could feel his fathers eyes burning holes into his back.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the door and steadying himself on it, he turned his head slightly and wished his father a pleasant night. As Draco was so busy attempting to mask his expression of pain, he failed to notice the flash of regret that flicked in his father's eyes before he made his half dignified exit through the door.

Draco limped down the corridor, dragging himself through the long, cold halls of the place he called home. He just had to reach his mother's sitting room, the seventh door on the left, she would take care of him like a mother should. She would never hurt him like his father does. But why did his father do it? His young mind couldn't think of a reason. Why did the man who raised him, who introduced him to the wonders of Quiditch and then the magic of flying, occasionally want to harm him?

Was it that he wasn't good enough to be a Malfoy, he was never good enough, always a failure according to his father. What had he done to make his father hate him so much?

Coming back to the present, he let out a pain-filled sigh of relief. He had made it to his mother's living space, a space larger than most people's entire houses and one that she had all for her own private use. He pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it with a click behind him.

"Good evening, Draco darling, I trust you are doing well?" She spoke, not even turning around, still engrossed in her book. Muggles, whilst they were no way near as sophisticated as her, did write some excellent literature. The book she was currently reading, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen was so wonderful, and a certain Mr Darcy reminded her very much of her own husband back when they were at Hogwarts.

"Good evening mother, I..." Narcissa's head snapped up upon hearing his laboured breathing. She quickly took his his battered and bleeding appearance, immediately knowing who was responsible.

"Draco darling! Come her this instant, come lie down on the couch. Yes just like that. Oh my precious boy whatever did he do to you?" In that moment no one could have called Narcissa cold as she fussed over her only child, just like a mother should. She flapped her hands around and waved her wand, healing all the cuts and bruises on his small body. She spoke soothing words to him whilst she held him in her arms and stroked his head, very calmly.

Draco smiled despite the less than desirable circumstances. It was moments like this he treasured above all else. The only time when the facade she constantly showed the world slipped. Here she was not Narcissa Malfoy, Ice Queen, cold and elegant, regal and ruthless, one of the most influential women in Wizarding Britain. Instead she was just Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy and mother of Draco Malfoy.

"Drink this darling, it's a pain relief potion. Now go to sleep, I promise you will be completely better when you wake up tomorrow."

But Draco couldn't sleep now, not when he had such pressing questions to ask.

"Mum," he began, his breathing, she noted with relief, already much more even and less raspy, "can I ask you a question?" He pleaded, blinking those large grey orbs at her. Dear Merlin, how could she possibly say anything other than yes to her precious baby boy.

"Of course sweetheart, whatever you wish."

Taking a deep breath Draco voiced the questions he feared the answers to, yet still needed to know. "Why does father hate me? Why does he hurt me? What have I done wrong?" Her heart broke at his vulnerable tone.

"No, no sweetheart. It's not your fault. You're perfect, just as you always have been and always will be." She said, cradling him in her arms whilst still managing to make eye contact.

Draco looked down, "but why does he only ever punish me? What have I done wrong?"

Her heart shattered into tiny pieces. Slowly and reassuringly she began to rock him backwards and forwards. "None can be more unkind than kin, Draco. Do you know what that means?"

He shook his head.

"It means," she began softly, "it means your father will always be harder on you than anyone else, because he cares about you. He wants you to succeed and he is prepared to attempt to motivate you anyway he can, doing things no-one else would dare dream of doing to you. He only does it because he wants you to flourish in life and be a greater man than he ever was. He does it because he cares."

"If he cares about me, then why doesn't he praise me when I do things right, like Greg's father does? He never recognises my achievements, instead he focuses on my mistakes."

Narcissa pursed her lips. Oh yes, she was going to have a long overdue conversation with her husband, one he would not like in the slightest.

"He does recognise you achievements, he does. I do. You are the best son I could ever wish for. Never forget that. I am always proud of you. Now go to sleep, you will need a lot of rest if you are going to beat the Zabini's at Quidditch tomorrow. Sleep well darling."

With that Narcissa kissed her beloved son on his forehead and as his eyes drifted shut, she stopped stroking his striking platinum blond hair, she summoned a quilt and tucked him in, so he was safe and sound, bundled up on her couch in a blanket. Then her whole demeanour changed. She stood up straighter and turned sharply, before striding out of the room with a determined look on her face. Click, click, click. The foreboding sounds of her heels on the floor were the only warning to Lucius she was coming, before the door to his study was flung open aggressively and purposely.

Narcissa stopped in the entrance and observed her husband. He was sitting hunched over on one of the many couches in the room, his head in his hands.

"I've made a terrible mistake Cissa," he said, regret filling his voice.

"Yes, indeed you have Lucius," she said sternly and was almost amused at the look of fear that crossed her husbands face when he heard her tone of voice and beheld her, standing poised and elegant in the doorway. Although he knew her well enough to spot the signs that showed the molten larva that lay underneath her cool facade. "So how do you plan on fixing it then?" She continued, fixing him with a piercing glare that had him shrinking back subconsciously.

"Well I was rather hoping you could help me out there, love?" He replied, beginning to return to his self-assured persona once again. He smiled a blindingly white smile, the same seductive smile that could still get her to giggle like a schoolgirl, even after all these years of marriage.

"Yes," she smiled, "as a matter of fact I can. Here is what you are going to do."

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Thanks for reading.

Helen :)