This is my first fanfic in English! So let me know if there are some mistakes!

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize.

As I previously said, this is my first baby conceived away from the safe lands of my mother tongue. Consider the reviews like presents for the newborn! Be generous! I love you!

She was just a little girl. Innocent. Naive. Five years old.

Her father was an impressive man. He was strong, rich, influential, self-confident. For her, he was like a God. He was more than God. She didn't understand why people were always searching for a taller, stronger, all-powerful entity. For her, there was no God. She didn't accept to bend under the will of something far away, higher than the clouds and waiting in every church. She accepted to bend under the will of people who were strong, who were right, whom she respected. She bent under her father's will.

He would have loved her more than anyone if she were a boy, a son, a heir for his name, for his blood. He had always suffered to be the second born, the less important. He wanted boys. He had girls.

He accepted that as God's will. He decided that he was important, he was powerful. Three beautiful and perfect daughters: it would be enough for him.

He was proud of his youngest. She was pretty, quiet, obedient. She knew her place. She was only three, and she already knew that she wanted to be a perfect woman like her mother. Beautiful, clever, expensively dressed, with shining jewels and a calm smile, an influential husband and a few well-mannered children. She wanted to be the pureblood wife. She was born in the right family for that. Her parents enjoyed to buy her new dresses and to wave her around like their lovely baby doll.

The middle daughter was very calm. She just followed that her parents asked of her. She was a decent girl, well-mannered and pretty enough, if not as much as her sisters. Enough to get a husband without any trouble, at least. She was the plain one in fact, always silent, always distant. The others members of the family barely noticed her.

People noticed the eldest, the five-year-old. She was stunningly beautiful for a girl so young, and always moving, always talking, laughing, running. She was a little breath-taking thing. So alive.

Her eyes were as black as her hair, as black as India ink, but it was an ink of dark fire, silently burning with fierce feelings. She has elegant, delicate features, thin eyebrows, long lashes, heavy lids, red lips. She was designed to have the entire world at her feet when she came of age.

But she wasn't the perfect pureblood daughter. She wasn't the daughter her parents wanted. She was the intruder, the fiery one among the calm and cold, who claimed her loves and hates without the slightest thought for the proprieties. And she wasn't only such an impulsive and obscene girl; she was the first one, the first and greatest disappointment, the one who dared look like her father as if they were two peas in a pod, and wasn't a male heir. That's why he didn't manage to love her like his middle child, let alone his brilliant little blonde princess. She wasn't the son he wanted, and unconscious of the gravity of her crime, she still dared to be just herself, and not a nice and well-mannered child.

So she lived, she was herself, and she was punished and told that she was a shame, but she stood again every time, a bit less pure and less confident, less open and less generous, she walked her little way in life, unloved and loving, and then she began to close on herself, to talk less, to feel more hate, more bitterness. She became a teenager and a woman, but within her soul she stayed the fierce little girl, and she still couldn't lie about that she truly loved and hated, and she still loved too much the wrong people, who didn't love her, however hard she fought to deserve that love she needed so badly.