A/N: A short drabble on Narcissa Malfoy.
Ice
Ice
They had always said she was ice, a block of never-melting ice. But they were wrong, for within she was thawing, breaking apart, and she was afraid soon she would turn into a shapeless form, into liquid.
Ice she desired.
The August sun peered in through the windows, bright light encasing her son as he came through the racks, green robe and all, smiling at his mother, sneering at the seamstress. "You look beautiful," she said, beaming, tearing inside, and he blushed, a faint pink line on his pale cheeks, a sight only apparent to her. Fifteen now, she thought, fifteen now but still a boy...
He needed her.
For him, ice she would be.