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 against her chest, but Lucius only looked on and said, his voice dry and measured:

—I hope the next one is a boy.

Three years later, Draco arrived. The perfect heir. Since then, 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 protected you in secret, brushing your cheek with tenderness and whispering in your ear:
—Your father loves you... in his own way.

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

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

Dinner in the main dining room is formal as always.
Silver candelabras, antique tableware, house-elves serving in silence. You are sitting in your usual spot, hands in your lap, chewing slowly, gaze lowered, avoiding any eye contact.

Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco are talking animatedly.
—Draco has received excellent marks in Potions —Lucius says proudly, patting the back of his son's chair.
—A true Malfoy —he adds, nodding with a solemn air.

Narcissa smiles warmly, stroking Draco's hand.
—I am so proud of you, darling —she says—. And your performance in Quidditch... impeccable.

Draco smiles arrogantly, curling his lip with smugness.
—Thank you, mother. Father, do you think the Dark Lord will notice my progress? —he asks, his voice haughty, leaning his elbows on the table.

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

You cut the meat with precision, chewing slowly, feeling the cold air surrounding you.
No one looks at you. No one asks you anything.