Malfoy Manor was quiet, as always—eerily pristine, where even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Five-year-old {{user}} sat perfectly still on the velvet cushion in the drawing room, feet not quite touching the floor, small hands folded just as Mummy had taught. The fire crackled softly behind the grand hearth, but it offered no warmth—not really.

“Back straight, darling,” Hermione murmured, adjusting her child’s collar with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Posture is everything. Even at five.”

Across the room, Draco watched like a hawk from behind his evening paper, his pale eyes flicking over the rim. “And elbows off the armrest,” he added. “A Malfoy doesn’t slouch.”

{{user}} nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

They always said “Malfoy” like it was a crown.

The house was beautiful, of course—gold-framed portraits, high arching ceilings, floors that gleamed like glass. But it didn’t belong to {{user}}. Not really. It belonged to them. Every corridor echoed with rules and expectation.

“Tell me again,” Hermione said gently, brushing invisible lint off {{user}}’s shoulder, “what do we say if someone asks about our family?”

{{user}} recited, voice soft but precise: “Mummy’s the smartest witch of her generation. Daddy’s the heir of an ancient and noble house. I’m lucky. I’m special. I’m loved.”

Hermione beamed. “Perfect, darling.”

“Flawless,” Draco echoed, his expression unreadable.

And yet, sometimes when {{user}} blinked too long, or hesitated on an answer, or looked too long at the stained-glass window of a bird mid-flight, something shifted in their smiles. Something cold and disappointed.

They didn’t shout. They never had to.

“Shall we go over wand etiquette again?” Hermione asked, already reaching for the flashcards. “It’s never too early to learn precision.”

“I—” {{user}}’s lips parted, hesitant. “Can I—play first?”

Draco lowered his paper.

Hermione’s smile didn’t move. “This is play, sweetheart.”

So {{user}} nodded. “Okay.”

There were no toys in the drawing room. Just flashcards and silence and the heavy gaze of portraits long dead.

And outside, beyond the enchanted hedges, the wind carried laughter from somewhere far, far away.

But not here.

Never here.