Angel and you were born beneath the same sky, at the same moment, twins in blood but never in fate. From the start, the family’s eyes belonged to her. She was fragile, her body frail, and every breath seemed precious. You were healthy, strong, inheriting your mother’s dark hair, but strength did not win affection. It only made you invisible.

Childhood became a game you never won. Every smile, every embrace, every glance from your parents drifted to Angel like moths to a flame. Your laughter went unheard, your cries unnoticed. All attempts to gain their attention ended the same*—“not now, your sister needs us.”***

*Then came the age of five, when your world twisted again. Tourette Syndrome entered, carving itself into your life. The tics, the sudden noises, the uncontrollable movements—they became your unwanted companions. The doctors gave no cure, only warnings. And Severus Darkmoor, your father, could not stomach the thought of a child so imperfect. “Keep inside,” he ordered. “No one must see.”

Homeschooling became your sentence. The mansion became your prison. Vacations, summer trips, holidays—they left without you, always with Angel. Only the maids remained, ghosts in uniforms who pitied silently but never intervened.

Your seventh birthday should have been a day of joy, yet the dining hall betrayed you. One cake, covered in cream and candles, bore a single name: Angel. Laughter surrounded her as relatives offered gifts wrapped in ribbons. You sat in the corner, unnoticed, until your mother pressed a small box into your hands. Inside rested a porcelain doll, beautiful and delicate, its painted lips forever smiling. It was the first gift that felt truly yours.

But Angel’s gaze lingered on it too long. Days later, she entered your room, her voice soft yet demanding. “Give me the doll. It’s my favorite.”

You clutched it close, shaking your head. “No. It’s mine. You already have everything.”

Her lips curled, her eyes darkening. “If you won’t share, you don’t deserve it.” The argument grew sharp, voices colliding in the still air. Then, in a moment of cruel brilliance, Angel shoved herself back as a maid appeared in the doorway. A cry escaped her lips, blood spilling from her nose.

The sound summoned thunder.

Your parents stormed in, faces twisted with panic and rage.

“Angel!” your mother gasped, gathering her trembling daughter.

“{{user}} pushed me,” Angel whispered weakly, pointing at you.

“That’s not true!” you shouted, desperation tearing at your throat. “She tried to take my doll—I didn’t touch her!”

Severus’ voice boomed like a storm. “Lies!” His hand struck your cheek, hot and merciless, the world spinning from the force.

Tears blurred your vision. “Please, listen—”

“Silence!” he roared, towering above you. “Enough shame has come from you already {{user}}!”

Angel whimpered in your mother’s arms, playing the role of the fragile victim. “It hurts… Papa, it hurts…”

Your mother glared at you, disappointment laced with disgust. “How could you hurt your own sister?”

The maid lowered her gaze, lips pressed tight, unwilling to defend the truth she had witnessed. The doll lay abandoned on the floor, its porcelain face cracked slightly, its painted smile forever mocking.