Delyth Snape

The Flashbacks

-----I lay in bed, staring at the moonlight that filtered through the curtains, painting pale streaks across the ceiling. Sleep, once again, felt like a distant concept. No matter how many times I closed my eyes, no matter how deeply I tried to breathe, I couldn't slip into unconsciousness. My mind was too loud, filled with memories and fragments of thoughts I wished would just disappear.
I hadn't thought about that day in years, but now, as I lay here, it came back like a wave I couldn't stop. I must have been five or six the first time he came to Spinner's End. I had been sitting in the living room, building a little tower out of wooden blocks while Father was in his study. The fire was warm, crackling softly, and everything seemed peaceful.

Then came the knock.

It was so sudden, so loud, that I jumped, knocking my tower over. The sound still echoed in my ears, even now. Father went to the door, his steps calm and composed, and when he opened it, there stood Lucius Malfoy—tall, poised, and gleaming with cold authority. His robes flowed around him like he was born to wear them, every thread dripping with the wealth of the Malfoy name.

I peeked around the corner, watching from the shadows.

"Lucius," Father greeted, his voice as steady as ever, though I noticed something shift in the air. Tension, maybe. Or caution.

I had seen him before, but this was the first time I had been this close to him. His pale eyes swept over the room, scanning it with a detached elegance, lingering on me for only a second before dismissing me entirely. It was as if I didn't exist.

"Severus," he replied, his voice smooth and deliberate. "You keep your home as... quaint as ever." There was a faint smirk on his lips, a hint of something hidden beneath the surface.

"Would you care for tea?" Father asked, his tone clipped.

Lucius didn't answer right away. He merely glanced at me again, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "Fortunate, isn't it? To have such quiet company."

His words were sharp, and I didn't understand their meaning then, but they felt heavy, laden with implications I was too young to grasp.

As they stepped into Father's study, Lucius glanced back at me, an assessing look in his eyes.

"She looks just like her mother, doesn't she?" he commented, directing his attention back to Father.

"Yes," Father replied, his voice low. There was a hardness in his tone, something that made my skin prickle. "She is just like her mother."

Malfoy smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It must be quite the burden, having her remind you of a past you can't escape."

I didn't understand the implications of his words. I was just a child, watching a conversation that felt far too adult.

Another memory surfaced, unbidden, as if dredged up from the deepest part of my mind. I wasn't sure why it came to me now, but it did.

It was a summer evening, years ago. I must have been around eight, and I was sitting on the steps of Spinner's End, watching the sunset behind the rows of dingy houses. It was one of the few evenings Father had spent outside his study, and I remember the way the air had felt—thick with humidity, but cool as the sun sank lower.

A group of neighborhood children was playing in the street. They weren't much older than me, but they were loud, their laughter echoing off the brick walls. I had always watched them from a distance, never joining in, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. I didn't know how. Father always said the other children were different—"They don't understand the world you live in, Delyth," he'd say, "and they never will."

But that evening, as I sat on the steps, a boy from the group approached me. He had a shock of red hair and freckles splattered across his nose.

"Oi! You're always sitting there by yourself," he said, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Why don't you come play with us?"
"My dad doesn't like me playing with the other kids," I replied, my voice soft, feeling unsure.

The boy shrugged. "Well, I don't care what your dad likes. Come on, it's just a game."

I hesitated. Father wouldn't approve. But I wanted to play. I wanted to be a part of something that wasn't cold, or quiet, or filled with potions ingredients and books I couldn't touch. So, I stood up, glancing nervously toward the house before following the boy into the street.

He introduced himself as Fred, and for the first time in my life, I laughed with someone. We ran through the streets, dodging between buildings, playing games I didn't know the names of. His laughter was infectious, and I felt lighter, freer, like something inside me had shifted.

We played every day. That is until Father found out.

"You are not to associate with that boy," he had said, his voice low and dangerous. I had never seen him so angry, and I didn't understand why. "The Weasleys are nothing but trouble. Stay away from them."

I had cried that night, but I never played with Fred again.

I blinked, pushing the memory away. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I drifted into sleep.