Malfoy family

Malfoy Manor was always cold, even in summer. You, Yori, the firstborn daughter, were born to Lucius's disappointment.
He wanted a male heir.

Narcissa embraced you with tears of joy, pressing you to her chest, but Lucius only looked and said, in a dry, measured voice:

—I hope the next one is a boy.

Three years later, Draco arrived. The perfect heir. From then on, Lucius looked at you with disdain, or didn't look at you at all.
Your achievements at Hogwarts didn't matter: your perfect grades, your impeccable silence, your natural elegance. Nothing. Draco was the sun. You, the shadow.

Narcissa secretly protected you, tenderly caressed your cheek, and whispered in your ear:
—Your father loves you… in his own way.

But you knew the truth. You learned to be invisible, to fend for yourself, to smile when it hurt, to speak only when necessary.

And in that mansion where love was conditional, you grew up strong, reserved, quiet. Because being seen by Lucius always meant being forgotten afterward.

Dinner in the main dining room is formal as always.
Silver candlesticks, antique crockery, elves serving in silence. You are sitting in your usual place, hands in your lap, chewing slowly, eyes downcast, avoiding any eye contact.

Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco are talking animatedly.
—Draco got excellent grades in Potions— Lucius says proudly, patting the back of his son's chair.
"A true Malfoy," he adds, nodding solemnly.

Narcissa smiles warmly, caressing Draco's hand.
"I'm so proud of you, darling," she says. "And your performance in Quidditch... flawless."

Draco smiles arrogantly, twisting his mouth smugly.
"Thank you, Mother. Father, do you think the Dark Lord will notice my progress?" he asks, his voice haughty, resting his elbows on the table.

Lucius nods, firm and confident.
—Without a doubt, son. You will be a great servant.

You cut the meat with precision, chewing slowly, feeling the cold air that surrounds you.
Nobody looks at you. Nobody asks you anything.