If there is one thing you hate more the Aurors butting into things that don't concern them, it's those damnable Ministry reports you are constantly having to write up. They irritate and wear you out, particularly when you are behind schedule, due to the fact that your odious child is forever pestering you about one thing or another until you simply want to strangle him. And now, the stack of papers is looming threateningly over your head in a totally unfriendly way that makes you feel no better about the task at hand whatsoever…damn the people who invented paper work to the deepest depths of muggle suburbia!
Sighing, you remove the first report from the pile and place it before you. Your glasses are perched on the very tip of your nose and your silver-grey eyes are scanning the parchment with the utmost concentration. You pick up a quill also, the blood red goose feather- the one that you favour the most, and dip it lightly into the inkwell, set into your desk. You remove it with a delicate precision, careful not to spill any as that would ruin the entire report and you would have to start all over again…
"Papa?" This sudden interruption, as quiet as it is, causes you to jump slightly and a droplet of ink falls right in to the centre of the parchment, spreading out dark tendrils across the spidery writing, making it immediately incomprehensible.
Your instinctive reaction is to whirl around and give the little pest a sharp smack across the head and push him from your study. But this time, you control yourself.
Sighing heavily to show that he has annoyed you and that he'd better behave himself, you turn to your son,
"What do you want, Draco?"
"I am bored, Papa." The child declares, raising his chin obstinately. The sapphire blue eyes that he has so clearly inherited from his mother, glare up at you accusingly as though it is your fault, "I have nobody to play with." You cannot help but raise an incredulous eyebrow,
"Surely you are suggesting that you are incapable of entertaining yourself?" You snap, patience waning gradually. The inky smudge is slowly getting larger and it is disturbing you greatly, "You have toys, picture book and games to occupy yourself with."
"What's the use of games when there is no one to play them with me?" Draco demanded. folding his arms sulkily across his chest, "I always have to play by myself,"
"Don't you take that tone with me." You admonish. The boy winces and lowers his gaze quickly, looking, quite rightly too in your opinion, abashed and degraded. Usually, that would give you a jolt of satisfaction and pride, knowing that you could control your son's attitude in such a way, but this time you feel a stab of compassion towards the pathetic little creature standing dejectedly before you,
"Go and find your mother," You suggest hopefully, "Perhaps she will play with you." But that wasn't going to happen. You know that and so, it appears, does Draco, as he simply shakes his head,
"I already did." He tells you, shuffling his feet awkwardly, "but…but she don't like me Papa. She hates me." The kid sniffs hard and wipes his sleeve across his face. You watch with a mixture of disgust and pity as your little boy fights hard to keep his tears under control. Of course, you can understand why he is upset, and yet you can't help but think he ought to have become accustomed to rejection by now. Merlin knows you were by Draco's age. It is a terrible thing to say but Draco is weak. You know that he cannot help it, it comes from his mother's side, but one day his emotions will get him into trouble…
Finally, you can stand the incessant sniffling no more and you pull the boy onto your lap, cuddling him close to you,
"I'm sure that's not true, Draco." You murmur, running one hand soothingly through his baby-fine hair, "She doesn't hate you-."
"She does!" Draco mumbles, head pressed against your shoulder, "She never plays with me or talks to me or anything! And you're always too busy for me." He leaves the end of the sentence hanging in the hope that it will make you feel guilty.
But it doesn't.
You never fell guilty.
"I have work that I need to finish." You tell him. He deflates slightly with obvious disappointment. You reach down and gently use two fingers to tilt the boy's head up, forcing him to look at you, "When you are older, you will understand. "Draco's bottom lip trembles,
"But you never play with me, Papa." He whispers, "Even when you're not working, you still don't…" you sigh heavily and obviously, a bit of your previous irritation starting to reappear,
"I am working Draco." You reply sharply, "I don't have time-."
"Exactly! You never have time!" Your son shouts, pushing himself off of you and glaring at you through silver eyes; full of anger and resentment. Something inside you snaps and your hand shoots out. Grabbing Draco's thin wrist, you jerk the little boy roughly forward,
"you would do well to remember your place when addressing me, Boy." You snarl. Draco's eyes widen and his anger is immediately replaced by fear, "I have been tolerant of you, have I not? But I can change, as well you know." The boy cringes and recoils back.
This is how you like him best; wary and frightened like a reprimanded puppy-dog who's expecting a kick.
"Sorry Papa." He whimpers, "I'm sorry." You smirk, turn him around and give him a shove in the direction of the door, no longer willing to cater for his childish needs,
"Good." You say, "Now leave me in peace." But instead of being the readily obedient little boy you expected, he turns back to you and opens his mouth to protest. You fix him with your best 'He-who-must-be-obeyed-or-suffer-the-consequences' look, but he ignores it,
"Please can I stay here, Papa?" He begs, "I promise to be good an' I won't any trouble or anything. But I don't want to be on my own…please Papa." He reaches up to the pile of reports on your desk, "I could help you-."
"I said no and I mean no!" You slap his hand away and he withdraws, face starting to crumple, "What does it take to get the fact that I don't want you here into your thick skull?"
"But I want to help you!" Draco persisted, "Please let me! Please!" You turn away from the little pest, now thoroughly irritated, and look down at the paper you were working on before.
The spidery inkblot is still there; bigger and more threatening than ever. That makes you very depressed. The thought that you will have to start that report again from the very beginning depresses you even more and makes you feel sick.
A small hand reaches up and touches you on the arm,
"Papa," Draco whispers, "You're sad. Why are you sad?" You shake him off,
"Because there is a little pest that refuses to go away and seems intent upon disrupting my work!" You slam your hand down onto the desk, causing Draco to flinch and jump back, "That is why I am 'sad'. Because I have a lot to do and you are putting me off." You fix the child with a 'look', "If you want to help you will go away and pester your mother and not me." The boy frowned,
"But Papa, she-."
"Yes I know she hates you and I am beginning to see why. Now get out!" you stand up and grab Draco by the arm, literally dragging him from the room. He struggles against you, but his six-year-old strength is no match against yours and you shove him out, slamming the door behind him.
Without him there, you feel slightly calmer and can just about get your head around the task at hand. Settling down, you pick up a clean sheet of parchment; unmarked, unscathed, uninfluenced. You remove your quill from the inkwell once more and begin all over again.