A/N: This chapter was edited by suniwrites
March 12th, 1986
It started when she was three.
Cynthia was too young to remember, but her parents often recounted the many times she uttered things that seemed nonsensical or something out of a child's imagination, only to later prove eerily accurate. There was the time she predicted Draco's first act of accidental magic, the time she declared that one of their peacocks was pregnant and a new baby peacock would soon arrive, and the time she warned her father that something bad would happen to him, only for him to face difficulties at the Ministry that day. Initially, her parents dismissed these predictions as mere coincidences. However, as more of her statements began to come true, their scepticism turned to suspicion. They realised Cynthia's seemingly whimsical pronouncements were, in fact, manifestations of a remarkable and unsettling gift.
They brought in her great-grandmother Marielle, who was also a seer, to confirm their suspicions. However, Marielle flatly told them there was no definitive way to confirm Cynthia's abilities. "It's either she is a seer, or she isn't," Marielle explained. The only certainty she could offer was that the Inner Eye tended to skip three generations, making it possible for Cynthia to inherit the gift. Given how frequently her predictions and visions proved accurate, it became clear to everyone that Cynthia was indeed a seer.
Lucius was ecstatic that his daughter had such a special ability. In contrast, Narcissa worried constantly. She wouldn't let Cynthia out of the house or in front of people, fearing her daughter might blurt something out and reveal her abilities. She would also grow nervous every time Cynthia made a prediction, which in turn made the young girl uneasy about her gift. She was confused; wasn't seeing the future a good thing? An amazing ability?
She didn't understand her mother's paranoia until the day she overheard her talking to her father. "What if someone figures it out? Don't you realise how dangerous it is out there for seers? The thought of someone using or taking advantage of our daughter… It scares me, Lucius."
When Cynthia asked her great-grandmother about this, Marielle explained the harsh reality. People either doubted seers' authenticity or sought to exploit them. Too many times, ministries around the world had been caught experimenting on seers, trying to understand and replicate their abilities in divination. The British Ministry was no exception. There were very few seers who were both known and safe. While there could be many seers out there, not many openly revealed their abilities. That's why Marielle kept her gift a closely guarded secret, known only to the family.
So the only people that knew about Cynthia being a seer were her parents and great-grandmother.
But it was days like this when she wished that nobody knew.
"This is getting out of control. There has to be something we can do," Narcissa said, the anxiety clear in her voice. "These visions of hers— they keep giving her terrible headaches. She's in pain because of them almost every single week. And now her eating habits are out of control, and she's—"
Narcissa sighed and, from the sounds of her chair creaking, probably sat down.
Fat. She's fat, Cynthia finished her mother's words in her mind. She knew she shouldn't be listening in. This was an adult conversation, and she could get in trouble for eavesdropping. Still, she stubbornly sat down on the floor next to the barely opened door. She wanted to hear what they were saying.
"Perhaps there's something we've overlooked, Mémère," Lucius said. "Some remedy or practice that might ease her symptoms."
"I don't know why you two keep bringing me here to tell you the same things," her great-grandmother sighed. "The headaches and the anxiety are natural consequences of her abilities, and sadly there is little we can do to alleviate them directly," then she muttered quietly, "because no one bothered to look into it."
"And how did you deal with it when you were younger?" Narcissa asked.
"I wasn't burdened with many visions when I was her age. It's clear that she's going to be quite a gifted seer."
Cynthia hugged her knees tighter at her great-grandmother's words. She didn't want to be a gifted seer. She didn't want to see the future. She just wanted to be normal, like the other girls.
"But there must be something!" Narcissa said in frustration. "She's just a child, Marielle. She shouldn't have to suffer like this."
"Don't be so hopeless! It's not like we can do nothing about her headaches. A headache-clearing potion would quickly relieve the pain. And I've told you before, if you want her to stop overeating, give her something else to relieve her stress."
This ignited another round of arguments. Narcissa insisted she had tried other activities, but she always found Cynthia in the kitchen, sneaking away food. Marielle clearly believed Narcissa wasn't trying hard enough, which only fueled the fight.
Cynthia wanted to escape, to block out their arguing. But she remained on the floor, feeling trapped and unable to move, listening to their heated exchange.
She rested her head on her knees. Yeah, she really wished no one knew about her gift.
August 26th, 1994
The sound of a piano drifted through the manor, filling nearby rooms with its melancholic melody. Each note lingered, reverberating off the walls and creating a haunting serenade. Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco sat in the dining room for lunch, the music washing over them. They had grown accustomed to this ritual; whenever Cynthia was stressed, upset, or really feeling any negative emotion, she would turn to the piano. She had been playing for almost four hours now, and the relentless flow of her music was beginning to wear on them.
As the final chord hung in the air, they sighed in relief. The oppressive tension that had settled over them during her playing began to lift, and for a moment, the silence that followed was a welcome reprieve. They exchanged weary glances, silently acknowledging the brief respite from the music.
But just as they began to relax, the deep, resonant sound of a cello filled the air. The first note struck like a solemn reminder of what they had momentarily forgotten: when Cynthia grew tired of the piano, she turned to the cello. The rich, mournful tones reverberated through the halls, a fresh wave of her agitation expressed through the strings.
"This is ridiculous," Draco said. "Can't you go try talking to her, Father?"
Draco replayed the events of last night in his mind, the sharp words between Cynthia and their father still echoing vividly in his ears. It was an absolute shock seeing his usually composed sister explode with such raw emotion that had left him shaken. Cynthia had always been the one to maintain her calmness and show restraint, but last night, she had unleashed a storm. The way she spoke to their father—no, the way she challenged him—was something Draco never thought possible. He couldn't shake the image of her standing there, trembling but defiant, calling their father a monster. It made him realize just how deeply the events of the Quidditch World Cup had affected her beyond her physical wounds, more than he had anticipated. It wasn't just about fear—it was a fundamental disagreement with everything they had been taught.
His thoughts were a chaotic mess as Cynthia's words from the previous night played on a loop in his mind. Her passionate defense of muggles had struck something deep within him—something he wasn't sure how to process. It wasn't that her words were without merit; in fact, some of the things she said made sense in ways he wished they didn't. The muggles at the Quidditch World Cup had done nothing wrong, and Cynthia was right to point out the cruelty in their father's actions. But Draco couldn't shake the deeper conflict within him. He'd grown up with the stories of how muggles had persecuted their kind, hunted them, tortured them, forced them into hiding. His father had always framed it as a battle for survival, as though muggles were the threat. Cynthia's anger last night had made him question some of that—but it couldn't erase what he knew to be true about their history.
He didn't understand how his sister could so easily overlook the past, as though centuries of suffering could be forgotten with a single night of violence. Yes, what their father and his friends did was wrong, but didn't Cynthia remember what the muggles had done to them? It was because of muggles that they were forced to hide, to live in secrecy as if they were the criminals. It was because of the muggles that they had to cloak their entire existence, pretending to be something they were not just to survive in a world that despised them. Draco's confusion only deepened as he tried to reconcile his sister's passionate defense of muggles with the stories that had shaped his upbringing. How could she defend the very people who had driven their kind into the shadows? It wasn't so simple to forgive, and he wondered if Cynthia truly understood the weight of what she was asking.
Draco shifted uncomfortably in seat. He wished, not for the first time, that Cynthia had kept her thoughts to herself—that she'd let the matter drop, so things wouldn't feel so tense. He hated the discord hanging over the house now and the way their father's mood had darkened. All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were, where there were no the arguments and uneasy silence. He shook his head, glancing toward his father, who sat stiffly in his chair, visibly strained by the tension that lingered from the night before. The sound of Cynthia's cello echoed through the house, amplifying the weight of the unresolved conflict.
"I tried," Lucius sighed. "She won't even look at me."
"You have to do more than talking, Father. Do something to make her feel better. She had a nightmare because of what you did yesterday."
Narcissa and Lucius exchanged nervous glances. They knew the dream that had Cynthia waking up screaming wasn't a nightmare, but a vision, because of the accompanying headache. Still, she wouldn't tell them what it was about, nor had she said much, only asking Narcissa to sleep with her. They had tried to talk to her again that morning, but she wouldn't acknowledge them. She had even gone so far as to eat breakfast in her room. Cynthia didn't always confide in them about her visions like she had when she was younger, and normally that was fine, but this incident felt different—more ominous than usual.
Seeing that his parents weren't going to do anything, Draco got up. "I'll go talk to her."
It was easier said than done, because when he reached her room, he could only stand outside. Instead of talking to her like his original goal, he found himself observing silently as she drew the bow across the cello's strings. Looking at her, it was like all the words flew out of his mind. He didn't know what to say to her anymore.
Feeling the weight of his stare, Cynthia stopped playing. "You're not the one I'm mad at, Draco."
"I know," he said and stepped into the room. "It feels like it though. Are you… okay?"
Cynthia wondered if she should tell the truth. "I don't know. I don't want to talk about it."
"You always said that talking helps," Draco retorted.
"Not for this situation. No, what I need is… time, I suppose," Cynthia said quietly. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"
At first, Draco struggled to find a topic of conversation. Discussing their family was out of the question, and he didn't want to bring up school. Searching for a neutral topic, he asked, "Do you suppose there will be a ball this year? The list mentioned bringing dress robes. Did you go out with Mother to purchase them yet?"
"Ugh, don't remind me." Cynthia got up to join Draco on the piano bench. The two Malfoys each took a turn to pressing the piano keys randomly.
"Is it truly that bad? Shopping with Mother?"
"That's because you two have the same tastes," Cynthia said then began to imitate their mother's way of speaking. "No Cynthia, that shade of beige won't go with this sky blue. Cynthia, just because black goes with everything doesn't mean you can wear it every time. People will think you're in mourning. No, Cynthia, that earring won't go with the embroidery of this blouse. No, Cynthia, you can't wear orange with green."
The last sentence was punctured with her hands slamming down on the piano keys. Draco stayed quiet for a moment. "It's that bad?"
Cynthia sighed, her hands falling into her lap. "You have no idea. I don't hate shopping but she makes it so stressful. She makes me feel… dumb. I just want something comfortable, but she insists on the latest fashion."
"Maybe I should come along next time," Draco suggested. "Act as a buffer."
Cynthia's smile widened. "You might regret that offer. But it would be nice to have some backup."
Just then, Cynthia's stomach grumbled loudly. Draco burst into laughter. "Sounds like someone hadn't had lunch yet. How about we eat outside at the garden? The weather today is great."
Cynthia nodded, her expression lightening. "That sounds perfect."
Let it drown, please . . . let it drown. . . .
The voice was barely audible, like hushed whispers seeping into her mind. It was the exact same scene as her dream last night. The tombstones barely visible, the large black cauldron in the center, clear as ever.
A trickle of dust fell into the cauldron, igniting in poisonous blue hues that illuminated the scene. An anguished scream ripped through the air as something else was thrown into the bubbling brew. A few moments later, Cynthia felt a sharp pain, coinciding with a splash of red into the cauldron.
Let it have drowned, the voice whispered again, let it have gone wrong…
It sounded oddly familiar, but Cynthia couldn't place where she had heard it before.
It's gone wrong, the voice persisted . . . it's drowned . . . please . . . please let it be dead. . .
But just as before, diamond sparks erupted blindingly against the velvety darkness that cloaked everything else. A surge of white steam billowed from the cauldron, shrouding the surroundings in an impenetrable veil.
Through the mist and steam, he emerged. Tall and gaunt like before, he ascended slowly from the depths of the cauldron. His skeletal frame was the same, and the ghostly pale skin seemed otherworldly waxy. Once again, it was his eyes that held her captive—pure, intense malevolence represented in them. They burned with a hatred that pierced her soul.
His chilling voice broke the silence. "Robe me."
Then, he stepped out of the cauldron and stared right at her.
The early morning light filtered through the curtains as Cynthia sat in her bed, shivering from the remnants of her nightmare. The dream had taken her voice away, leaving her too terrified to scream. Dreams always come true. That's what her great-grandmother constantly said, and right now, those words terrified her. What she witnessed couldn't possibly be true— it just couldn't. Yet, the kind of terror she felt was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She didn't know he was back, but in that dream, she felt his presence so strongly it was as if the darkness itself had come to life.
A second later, she heard his voice again in her head, cold and commanding, "Hand me my wand." It echoed through her mind, sending a fresh wave of fear coursing through her veins. The words were so vivid, so real, that for a moment, she was convinced he was standing right beside her. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to shake off the lingering dread.
In a sudden burst of desperation, she threw back the covers and leaped out of bed, her feet hitting the floor with a loud thump that startled her cat, Artemis, awake. Artemis bolted upright, her fur puffed out in alarm, and darted under the bed, peeking out with wide, anxious eyes. Cynthia took a moment to calm herself and then reached out gently to reassure her pet. Artemis, still wary, eventually crept back out, rubbing against Cynthia's leg with a soft purr, sensing her distress.
Determined to find some clarity, Cynthia took out the items necessary to perform her divination rituals. She hoped that they would give her any sign that her vision was a mere figment of her imagination. She boiled water and prepared her tea leaves, her hands trembling slightly as she poured the hot liquid into the cup. As she swirled the leaves and peered into the depths, her heart raced.
Next, she laid out her tarot cards, their familiar patterns bringing a brief sense of calm. But as she turned them over, a single message emerged repeatedly: something big and dark was coming soon. The ominous images on the cards only confirmed her fears. Her heart sank, but she pressed on, seeking any glimmer of hope.
Driven by a need to uncover the identity of the man in her dreams, Cynthia pulled out her crystal ball. She gazed into its depths, willing it to reveal the answers she sought. At the first couple of tries, nothing showed. She struggled to relax her mind and focus on her Inner Eye rather than her actual eyes, like she was taught. Eventually, the swirling mists within the orb gradually cleared, presenting a vision of Death Eaters gathered in a graveyard. Her stomach dropped, and fear wrapped its icy fingers around her heart.
With a sense of urgency, Cynthia made her way through the halls of the manor to the library. She needed to know, needed to see, that it was the same person she thought he was. She ordered Cranky to let her parents know not to bother her. She then proceeded to pour over books about dark wizards and the history of dark magic, but finding a picture of Voldemort was easier said than done. Frustration mounted as page after page yielded no definitive image of the dark figure from her dreams.
Resolving that books would not provide the answers she needed, Cynthia turned to the stacks of the Daily Prophet stored in the library. Her family was a big shareholder in the newspaper, and her grandfather Abraxas had collected every edition, a tradition her father continued. She sifted through the yellowed pages, searching for the time when Voldemort was at the height of his power. Hours passed, the silence of the library broken only by the rustling of paper.
Finally, her efforts paid off. Cynthia found an old article featuring a photograph of Voldemort. The man in the picture looked less inhuman than the one in her dreams—his nose was intact, and his skin was not as pale. But his eyes were unmistakable. The same red eyes, filled with undiluted hatred. Staring into them, Cynthia felt a wave of despair crash over her. It was him. Her vision was real, and he was coming back.
She clutched the newspaper, her fingers trembling as the full weight of her discovery sank in. Cynthia broke down crying, her sobs echoing in the vastness of the library. She had hoped her dreams were wrong, that it was one of her wrong predications but now there was no denying the truth. The dark figure from her nightmares was Voldemort, and he would soon return to spread terror once more. The possibility of that reality was suffocating, crushing her under its weight.
Artemis, who had been playing nearby as Cynthia rifled through the newspapers, must've sensed her distress. The small black feline padded over, nuzzling against her and purring softly. Cynthia reached down, pulling Artemis onto her lap and hugging her close. For a moment, the warmth and comfort of her pet offered a small solace, but it wasn't enough to rid of her fear.
As if to taunt her, she was proven right the next night when the same vision played out. Only this time, she couldn't stop her screams.
Cynthia saw the same graveyard, the same chilling figure emerging from the cauldron, his red eyes locking onto hers with malevolent intensity. The fear welled up inside her, suffocating and inescapable, until she could no longer contain it. Her scream pierced the stillness of the night, a raw, desperate cry that reverberated through the manor.
Draco was the first to burst into her room, his face full of worry. "Cindy!" he called out, rushing to her side. Seeing her huddled on the bed, trembling and sobbing uncontrollably, he quickly wrapped his arms around her. "It's alright, I'm here," he murmured, his voice filled with concern. Cynthia clung to him, her sobs intensifying at the sight of her brother.
As she buried her face into Draco's shoulder, her mind spiralled into a whirlwind of dread. If Lord Voldemort was to return, he would come for her family first. He would punish her father for evading Azkaban and for being an unfaithful servant. Her father, who had once been a loyal Death Eater, would face unimaginable retribution. And it wouldn't stop there. Voldemort would try to draw her and Draco into his service, force them to become tools in his plans. They would have no choice but to obey, their lives becoming a nightmare of servitude.
Cynthia's thoughts raced as she imagined the horrors that awaited them. She pictured her family being used and discarded, their wealth, connections, and magic exploited to further Voldemort's dark ambitions. They would be stripped of everything they had, reduced to mere pawns in his ruthless conquest. The image of her father, broken and humiliated, flashed before her eyes, and she couldn't help but shudder. But it was Draco she feared for the most.
Narcissa and Lucius arrived moments later, their faces also etched with worry. Narcissa reached out to touch her daughter, but Cynthia buried herself deeper into Draco's arms, her body shaking with the force of her tears. Lucius stood by, looking stricken and helpless, guilt mingling in his eyes. "Cynthia, what happened?" he asked softly, his voice trembling. "Tell us please."
But Cynthia's mind was consumed with terror, especially for Draco. He clung to blood purist beliefs like their father and he would probably want to serve the Dark Lord, not fully understanding what that would entail, which made him vulnerable. She was so scared that he would do something foolish, and the fear tightened around her heart. She held onto him as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
She could never reveal the horrors of her dreams to her family. She knew the second her father found out about them, he would try to find Lord Voldemort and aid in his resurrection. "It's nothing," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Just a bad dream."
Her family exchanged confused and worried glances. They could see the terror in her eyes, but her refusal to explain further left them feeling helpless and more scared. Draco tightened his hold on her, his own agitation surfacing at her silence. "It's okay, Cindy," he whispered, "You're safe."
After what felt like an eternity, Cynthia's sobs began to subside. Her breathing steadied, and she pulled away, wiping her eyes. "I need to clean up," she said quietly, her voice hoarse from crying.
Draco and their parents left the room. They were unsure what to do next and so they stood outside her room, waiting for her to get cleaned up. Minutes later, they were surprised to see her emerge from her room, dressed for an outing and carrying a travel bag.
"I'm going over to Oma," she said quietly. "Don't worry, I will return a day or two before we're set to Hogwarts."
"That's not about what we're worried about," Narcissa stepped forward and tried to touch her but Cynthia stepped back. "Please, darling. Tell us what's wrong."
"It's nothing for you to stress over," Cynthia insisted. "I'm fine, I'm going to be fine. Just let me go to Oma."
"Alright," Lucius sighed. He knew that if this had to do with her visions, there was no one better to help his daughter than his grandmother. "Let me get dressed and—"
"No," Cynthia cut him. "You don't need to do that. I know the way, and I don't need you."
It was clear to everyone Cynthia was still vexed at him. Lucius went to speak but Narcissa shook her head. Their daughter was nearly of age, and they had to trust her to make her own decisions.
"At least stay and eat breakfast," Narcissa said. "It's too early for the Department of Transportation to be open."
Cynthia wanted to say that the Portkey Office of the Department of Magical Transportation was open all day every day, specifically for international travels. But her mother was right, she needed to eat something. She barely touched her dinner last night, and hunger was starting to gnaw at her insides. Reluctantly, she nodded.
Breakfast that morning passed in tense silence. No one knew how to behave around Cynthia. She ate hurriedly, leaving her family disappointed by her lack of engagement with them. Before leaving, she hugged her mother tightly and planted a kiss on Draco's cheek. "I'm sorry for causing you concern earlier," she murmured softly.
Her father knew she was still angry at him so he kept his distance, only giving her a nod as a goodbye.
"I'll write a letter when I arrive," she said then stepped into the fireplace and threw Floo powder into the flames, calling out "Ministry of Magic!" Soon, her surroundings blurred as the green flames engulfed her and whisked her away to the heart of wizarding bureaucracy.
Instead of heading to the Portkey Office like she told her parents, Cynthia went to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Since it was still early in the morning, it has been her hope to drop a gift basket to thank the twins for their help at Mr. Weasley's office without being noticed. She couldn't give it to the Weasleys by owls or have a house elf delivering it without her parents potentially finding out. The last thing she wanted was a lecture about consorting with blood traitors.
However, it slipped her mind that after the fiasco during the World Cup, the Ministry was in disarray. People bustled about, busy with their work, and owls flew in every direction. Much to her dismay, Arthur Weasley was already in his office, hunched over his desk and engrossed in a stack of papers. The cluttered office was a stark contrast to the pristine halls of the Ministry, with enchanted Muggle trinkets scattered around haphazardly. Cynthia paused at the doorway and clutched the gift basket she took out of her bag nervously. She had hoped to avoid any interaction, to simply leave the basket and slip away unnoticed.
For a minute, she contemplated leaving and giving it to the twins discreetly in the school, but she wanted to get this over with. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and knocked on the door.
Mr. Weasley looked up, startled. For a moment, they stared at each other in awkward silence. Both of them didn't know how to talk to the other.
"Miss Malfoy?" He rose from his chair. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Oh, um… I, uh, wanted to give you this basket"—she thrusted it in front of her as if it was a shield—"to give to George, a-and Fred, as a thank you for helping me for, you know, the other night."
"Thank you." He gently took the basket from her. "That's very thoughtful of you."
"Not really," Cynthia answered quickly and looked away from Mr. Weasley. "I hope this isn't an inconvenience for you. I don't mean to treat you like an owl, but um—"
"I understand," Mr. Weasley replied kindly.
"Oh, alright, great. Have a, uh, great… life?"
Cynthia never wanted the ground to swallow her this fast before.
Mr. Weasley seemed to find amusement at her statement, as a small smile appeared on his lips. Cynthia turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Miss Malfoy?"
"Yes?" She faced him and was surprised at the worried look on his face.
"Are you okay?"
She blinked. "Yes, I'm… as fine as I can be, Mr. Weasley."
On her way to the Portkey Office, Cynthia wondered if something in her face had alerted Mr. Weasley to her distress. She had washed her face several times, ensuring no trace of tears remained. So what had made him ask about her well-being?
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew her hat off her head. She was about to chase after it, when it landed in front of a group of people.
"Pardon me, I'm so sorry about this."
"Miss Malfoy?"
"Minister Fudge," she responded, surprised. He was accompanied by Mr. Crouch and a woman in an awful pink ensemble. Cynthia couldn't help but find it hypocritical to fault the woman for wearing pink, given her own attire. However, while Cynthia wore a soft pink dress that complemented her complexion, the woman was dressed in an overwhelming shade of hot pink that did nothing to improve her toad-like appearance.
Cynthia could practically hear her mother's voice in her head, sharp and cutting as always when it came to matters of appearance. "Honestly, it's one thing to wear pink, but that shade? It's garish, vulgar even. One must know how to flatter their own features, not drown in them. There's a fine line between elegance and excess, and that—" Narcissa would pause for dramatic effect, her gaze sweeping over the imagined scene with a disdainful arch of her brow, "—is a crime against fashion and good taste."
"Thank you," Cynthia said as Minister Fudge picked up her hat and handed it to her.
"What are you doing here so early, Miss Malfoy?" Minister Fudge asked. "Is your father with you?"
"No, Father is not with me," Cynthia replied. "I was just on my way to the Portkey Office to travel to France."
"France? All of a sudden when Hogwarts is about to start?" Mr. Crouch inquired, raising an eyebrow.
Cynthia smiled politely and suppressed the urge to tell him that where and when she would be travelling were none of his business. "I'm visiting my great-grandmother for a short period. I won't be seeing her for a while."
"The one you learned German from?" Mr. Crouch continued. Cynthia nodded. "During the World Cup, Miss Malfoy here helped communicate with the Bulgarian Minister since they both spoke German. Of course, that was before I found out he could understand me perfectly well."
"I thought it was funny," Cynthia admitted with a small smile. "It's always a good sign when a world leader has a sense of humour."
Before Minister Fudge could respond, a sudden 'ahem' from the woman in pink interrupted them. Fudge jolted.
"So sorry to interrupt, Minister, but you haven't introduced us yet."
"Ah, pardon my manners. Everyone, this is Lucius Malfoy's daughter, Cynthia. Miss Malfoy, this is Dolores Umbridge, my senior undersecretary and Mr. Crouch, head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
"Yes, Lucius' little shadow," Miss Umbridge said with a simpering smile. "It's wonderful to see you up close. We missed you this summer."
As a reward for being the top of her class every year, Lucius would take Cynthia to the Wizengamot meetings. She had always been fascinated by politics and the inner workings of the wizarding legal system, and her father nurtured this interest. Normally, bringing someone to a Wizengamot meeting required special permission. However, Cynthia was his heir and was destined to take over the Malfoy seat in future meetings, so Lucius was granted this privilege.
Cynthia cherished those moments. She would sit quietly beside her father and absorb every detail of the proceedings. Lucius took pride in her keen observations and insightful questions, often discussing the day's events with her afterwards. Her presence at these meetings earned her the nickname "Lucius' little shadow," a term that carried both admiration and a touch of condescension from those who saw her as merely an extension of her father's ambitions.
"Yes, I wasn't able to due to my studies," Cynthia said.
"Right, your father told me," Fudge said, beaming with a hint of pride in his voice as if she was his daughter. "Did you also know that Miss Malfoy, a sixth-year, is set to take four of her NEWTs early?"
Mr. Crouch, who had appeared uninterested in the conversation, suddenly turned his full attention to her. "Really? That's quite impressive. What subjects will you be tested on?"
"Potions, Herbology, History of Magic, and Ancient Runes," Cynthia replied confidently.
"Hmm, such a rigorous selection," Mr. Crouch remarked, nodding in approval. "May I ask, Miss Malfoy, when you would be turning of age?"
Cynthia felt a wave of discomfort wash over her at Mr. Crouch's question. Her confusion was evident in the slight furrowing of her brows and the way she hesitated before answering. Why did it matter when she would be turning of age? She glanced quickly at Fudge, but he was also watching her with an oddly expectant expression.
"April 16th," she replied. Her voice was steady despite her unease.
Mr. Crouch and Fudge exchanged a look, both appearing subtly disappointed by her answer. Fudge's smile faltered just slightly, and Mr. Crouch's nod was more perfunctory than approving now. The brief unspoken exchange between them only heightened Cynthia's sense of unease. What could her age possibly have to do with anything they were discussing?
Cynthia cleared her throat. She didn't want to linger any longer than necessary. "If you'll excuse me, I really must be on my way now. My great-grandmother is expecting me."
"Of course, of course," Minister Fudge said and waved her off with a smile. "Safe travels, Miss Malfoy."
With a final nod, Cynthia turned and hurried towards the Portkey Office, clutching her hat tightly. The encounter had been unexpectedly taxing, and she was eager to leave the Ministry behind.
At the Portkey Office, the process of securing an international Portkey was typically meticulous. Visitors would show their identification, state their destination, and provide a reason for their travel. However, for Cynthia, who had been taking Portkeys to France since she was a toddler, the procedure was swift and seamless.
She handed over her ID to the clerk behind the counter, who recognized her immediately from two weeks ago. "France again, Miss Malfoy?" he asked with a friendly smile.
"Yes, visiting my great-grandmother," she replied.
The clerk nodded and quickly prepared the Portkey, a small unassuming rock. Cynthia took it and moved to one of the designated corners for Portkey travel. She felt the familiar tug behind her navel as she was pulled through space, landing moments later at the corresponding Portkey Office in the French Ministry of Magic. The routine was the same over there as well. One of the workers recognized her and greeted her warmly. The only exception was that they requested her to perform a simple spell to confirm her magical signature. Once completed, the worker smiled and handed back her ID. "Everything is in order. Allow me to escort you to the fireplaces."
She followed the worker through the bustling corridors of the French Ministry until they reached the line of Floo Network fireplaces. With a quick nod of thanks, she stepped into one. She announced the name of the location clearly, and with a whirl of green flames, she was transported to her great-grandmother's home.
Her great-grandmother lived in Alsace-Lorraine, a charming area nestled between France and Germany, in a small wizarding village. It was a unique village in that both French and German wizarding folk lived here. The area was considered neutral territory, not claimed by either the French or German Ministries of Magic. Predominantly a community of families and retired witches and wizards, it was a safe haven, untouched by violence since the dark days of the witch hunts.
Stepping out of the fireplace, Cynthia was immediately enveloped in the comforting ambiance of her great-grandmother's home. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the gentle hum of the house's magical enchantments which created an atmosphere of warmth and security. Her great-grandmother, seated in her favourite armchair by the hearth, was embroidering a delicate pattern. Her nimble fingers moved with practised ease. She showed no hint of surprise when Cynthia emerged from the fireplace, probably because she already had a premonition of her arrival.
Despite the morning's tears, Cynthia felt another wave of emotion welling up inside her, stronger than before. She tried to hold it back, but the sight of her great-grandmother sitting across from her, the only person who could possibly understand, made her chest tighten. Her breath hitched, and her vision blurred with unshed tears. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but nothing came out. Her face crumpled completely, and the sobs she'd been holding back erupted, shaking her small frame.
This sudden outpouring of emotion wiped away the unsurprised look from her great-grandmother's face. Across from her, Marielle's hands stilled, the delicate needle she had been holding slipped from her fingers, clattering softly onto the table. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cynthia crying.
"Liebchen," her great-grandmother exclaimed, setting aside her embroidery and rising swiftly. She enveloped Cynthia in a comforting embrace, her hands gently patting her granddaughter's back. "What troubles you so deeply?"
Cynthia clung to her great-grandmother, her fingers gripping the soft fabric of her robe as if letting go would mean losing the only anchor she had left. Her chest heaved with each sob, shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she gasped for air between the cries. Tears streamed down her face, soaking into her great-grandmother's clothing, but Cynthia didn't care. All the fear, the confusion, the terror of her visions and the looming darkness of Voldemort's return were pouring out of her, and for once, she wasn't trying to hold them back.
Her great-grandmother held her close, cradling Cynthia like she had when she was a child. She whispered soft words of comfort, her voice low and steady, weaving a quiet melody of French and German phrases.
The sobs slowly began to ebb, but the weight that lingered in Cynthia's chest felt suffocating. She pressed her forehead against great-grandmother's shoulder, exhausted, and let her eyes flutter closed. The room seemed to blur into a hazy quiet, the sound of her great-grandmother's whispers mingling with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Cynthia breathed slowly, the tension in her body easing little by little, as her great-grandmother's gentle murmurs lulled her into a fragile sense of calm.
Arthur Weasley trudged through the front door of the Burrow, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. The chaos at the Ministry following the Quidditch World Cup had left him drained, and all he wanted was to collapse into a chair and unwind. However, the familiar cacophony of voices from the living room reached his ears. It was a reminder that home was never quiet for long—at least not during summer.
"Arthur, is that you?" Molly's voice called out, warm and welcoming despite the noise.
Before he could respond, she appeared in the hallway with a loving smile on her face. "Come in, dear. I'll fix you a plate. What's that in your hand?"
Arthur managed a tired smile and held up the basket he carried. "It's for the twins. Someone wanted me to give it to them."
Molly's curiosity was piqued, but she knew better than to press him for details now. "Why don't you bring it into the living room and tell us all about it?" she suggested, already turning towards the kitchen to prepare his dinner plate.
Arthur followed her suggestion and moved towards the living room where the voices grew louder. When he entered, he was greeted by the sight of his children, Harry, and Hermione, who were all gathered together in a boisterous circle. They were listening to a story Charlie was recounting from the dragon reserve he worked at.
"Dad!" they chorused as he walked in. Harry and Hermione added their own warm greetings.
"Hello, everyone," Arthur said. His weariness was momentarily forgotten in the face of his family's exuberance. "Fred, George, here. I've got something for you."
He gave the basket to George, or Fred, he was too tired to try to tell them apart. Everyone's eyes were drawn to them. Molly reappeared with a heaping plate of food, which she handed to Arthur before sitting down beside him.
"Who's this from, Dad?" Fred asked as he and George went through the basket which mainly contained sweets from Honeydukes. The twins briefly exchanged inquisitive looks once they looked deeper inside the basket.
Arthur took a seat and began to eat. "This was given to me for you two," he said between bites. "From Cynthia Malfoy."
Silence fell over the room as everyone processed this unexpected piece of information.
"What?" Molly exclaimed with a worried look on her face. "Arthur, are you sure it's safe?"
Arthur knew she was thinking back to when Lucius Malfoy slipped Ginny that wretched book in her first year of school. That ordeal still haunted her, and Arthur could see the anxiety etched in her eyes. He nodded reassuringly, his voice calm. "I checked it thoroughly, Molly. There's nothing harmful or enchanted. It's safe."
"Malfoy?" George repeated, his brows shooting up as he blinked in disbelief. His head jerked up from what he was doing, eyes narrowing slightly as if he hadn't heard right. "Why would she send us anything?"
Fred also stopped. His fingers paused mid-air, holding onto the package with suspicion, as though expecting it to explode at any moment.
Arthur finished his bite of food and set the plate down. "She said it was a thank you for helping her during the mayhem at the Cup."
"Help her?" Molly looked at them in curiosity.
"She got hurt during the chaos back in the World Cup," Ginny explained. "Fred, George and I ran into her at the forest. She couldn't even walk. I think she had to crawl to get to the woods."
Arthur frowned, disturbed by the revelation. "That's terrible. I had no idea she was in such a state."
George found his thoughts drifting back to Cynthia Malfoy. His initial crush on her had been based on superficial impressions – her smile, the way she seemed to make people around her burst into laughter sometimes. But now, armed with new knowledge about her, his curiosity deepened.
The basket she had sent to the Burrow was more than a simple thank-you. Underneath the surface layer of sweets, George discovered possible ingredients for his and Fred's pranking inventions, complete with detailed notes on their potential uses. It was this thoughtful gesture that prepexed him more. For though he seemed to know next to nothing about her, she seemed to have a pretty good idea of who he was. It eerily reminded him of another even more mysterious person in his life.
George's mind raced. How could she possibly know? This revelation led him to suspect she had been watching them, an idea that both intrigued and unsettled him. The realisation that she knew things she shouldn't only fueled his interest in her. He saw her often enough to notice her, but now he knew she knew things about their jokes and ingredients, things that she shouldn't have any way of knowing.
His curiosity was pure, untainted by suspicion, even though he knew he should be wary. After all, how could Cynthia possibly know so much about their pranking inventions, let alone the specific ingredients they had been tinkering with in secret? It wasn't just the thoughtfulness of the basket she had sent—the potential uses for the ingredients were laid out with such precision that it was hard to dismiss the possibility she had been watching them closely. Yet, despite this eerie realization, George couldn't bring himself to think ill of her.
Common sense told him that her knowing so much was reason enough to be suspicious, but something about Cynthia's intentions didn't sit wrong with him. Her gesture seemed sincere, even kind, and George found himself convinced that she wouldn't use this knowledge to hurt him or Fred. No matter how much his mind tried to tug him toward doubt, his heart pulled him back, his feelings clouding any sense of alarm.
Fred, however, was different. While he was equally baffled, he was also very paranoid about the whole situation. Where George's crush softened his view of Cynthia, Fred's instincts were on full alert. He wasn't biased like his brother—he could see the situation for what it was: unsettling. To Fred, Cynthia's seemingly innocent gesture felt far too calculated. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that her insight into their work wasn't a mere coincidence or kindness. It was an understatement to say he was suspicious of her, his protective nature quickly kicking in.
As they continued to sort through the basket, the twins exchanged looks of silent agreement. They were determined to uncover the mystery behind Cynthia Malfoy's unexpected gesture.
"Here you go, liebchen," her great-grandmother set a hot cup of tea in front of her. "Drink this and tell me what troubles you."
Instinctively, Cynthia held the cup under her nose and sniffed, detecting the faint scent of peppermint. She glanced at her great-grandmother, who simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, you just calmed down after having a meltdown and I want to keep it that way.
So Cynthia sipped her tea and moments later, felt the subtle effects of the Calming Draught take hold. Albus, her great-grandmother's pet tortoise, nudged her hand and looked at her expectantly. He was a Greek tortoise, his patterned shell adorned with intricate geometric designs in rich shades of brown and gold. His eyes were dark and held the wisdom gained from living 57 years.
"Alright, Albus," Cynthia laughed when she noticed his eager expression. "I haven't forgotten about you."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a few crisp leaves of iceberg lettuce. "I always bring your favourite, don't I?" She placed the lettuce in front of him and watched with amusement as he began to munch contentedly. "Even if I'm in a hurry, I'd never forget your treat."
Her great-grandmother smiled at the interaction. "You didn't bring Artemis with you? I'm surprised, given how clingy that cat is."
"If cats could cry, she would. But I'm not staying here for long, and she hates Portkeys."
They stayed quiet for a few moments, silently sipping their tea. She could feel her great-grandmother's steady gaze waiting patiently for her to speak.
"I had," Cynthia hesitated, "a dream. The same one, three nights in a row."
"And it is something bad?" her great-grandmother asked gently.
"Bad doesn't even cover it, Oma," Cynthia replied. "Do you remember the war in Britain from years ago?"
"The one with the blood supremacist maniac? Of course, I do. It was on everyone's tongue here in the continent back in the day."
"Well, he's back. He figured out a way to revive himself," Cynthia's voice trembled.
Her great-grandmother's face went pale, her usual calm demeanour faltering. Her eyes widened slightly, and the lines around her mouth tightened in disbelief.
"Are you absolutely certain it was him?" she asked with a low voice.
"Yes, I am," Cynthia sighed. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I know this is hard to believe, but it was him. I saw his eyes, I heard his voice and I saw Death Eaters in the crystal ball."
Her great-grandmother's hands trembled slightly. She clasped them together to steady herself. Her eyes, normally sharp and discerning, now reflected a deep-seated unease. She took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure but failing to hide the dread in her gaze.
"He can't return, Oma. We can't let this happen," Cynthia's voice cracked with urgency as she gripped her great-grandmother's hands tightly. "Please, there has to be something we can do to stop it."
"Liebchen, you know there is nothing to be done. Dreams—"
"I know, I know, dreams always come true," Cynthia interrupted, her frustration barely contained by the Calming Draught. "But still, there must be something we can do. It isn't like all dreams have the potential of becoming reality."
"If you are talking about your George, you must be patient, liebchen. I started dreaming about your Pépère when I was thirteen and it was years before we even spoke to each other in person. Don't worry, it won't be long before you are with the one your soul yearns for."
The Calming Draught did little to quell Cynthia's flustered state. She felt a hot blush creep up her cheeks.
"First of all, he isn't my George, and secondly, this isn't about that," Cynthia insisted, though she always harboured doubts about whether she and George would ever be together like in her dreams. "This is about the fact that a dangerous Dark wizard is going to return and wreak havoc. The same Dark wizard my father, your grandson, served and will definitely be punished for abandoning, then forced to work for once more. We can't let him come back. We just can't."
Cynthia's great-grandparents never supported Voldemort. Her great-grandfather had fought in the war against Gellert Grindelwald and bore the scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of his life, while her great-grandmother lost a brother. When Voldemort began to gain power in England, they feared he would become a similar threat and endanger other countries. They were deeply worried for her father and grandfather, so they tried to convince Abraxas to move Lucius to France for safety. But to their horror, Abraxas supported the Dark Lord. This revelation infuriated Marielle and Sébastien and led to a heated argument.
Their fears worsened when they discovered that Lucius not only agreed with his father, but wanted to become a Death Eater. In a last-ditch effort to stop him from making such a stupid, dangerous mistake, Marielle and Sébastien threatened to cut him off if he joined the Dark Lord. But it didn't work; Lucius made the decision for them by cutting them off instead. Years passed without any communication between them, until Lucius learned that Cynthia was a seer. Upon making that discovery, Lucius knew he had to swallow his pride and seek his grandparents' help. He apologized and begged for their forgiveness, and so Marielle and Sébastien forgave him easily. He was their daughter's only child. Despite the years of estrangement, their love for him never wavered.
Cynthia often wondered if she would have known this side of her family if she wasn't a seer. Would Lucius have ever swallowed his pride and bridged the gap with Marielle and Sébastien if it weren't for her abilties. It was a sobering thought—one that made her feel as if her place within this part of her family had been shaped more by necessity than affection. Without her gift, would they have remained strangers, tangled in the web of estrangement that she hadn't even been alive to witness?
Her great-grandmother looked at her with a sad frown. "You know that can't be done. Did I not give you the diaries of Gregor Weichselbraun or Stella Asmussen? Do you not remember what happened when they tried to intervene in fated visions? Do you not remember what happened when I tried to interfere with your Pépère's death?" Her voice choked with despair, as it always did at the mention of her great-grandfather. "I taught you better than that. You know things always get worse when you try to interfere with your dreams. They always do. Do you not remember what happened the last time you tried interfering with your dreams?"
As if she could ever forget. Cynthia once dreamt that her father would get arrested and sent to Azkaban for five years because he owned multiple dangerous Dark artifacts. The vision had been so vivid, so distressing, that she felt compelled to warn him. She hoped to prevent the grim future she had seen so she dismissed the whispers of her Oma's warnings in her mind. She truly believed that a timely warning could change the course of events. But her interference had dire consequences.
The law not only passed faster, forcing her father to dispose of most of the artifacts hastily, but the desperate move led him to take reckless actions. In a bid to protect his interests and take revenge on Mr. Weasley, her father slipped a cursed book into Ginny Weasley's possession. A book that had a hand in unleashing a basilisk within Hogwarts. A basilisk which threw the entire school into chaos by causing a series of petrifications among the Muggle-born students. Fourth-year Cynthia had to watch in horror as her well-meaning warning spiralled into a catastrophe far worse than she could have imagined.
The memory of that mayhem served as a haunting reminder of the dangers of meddling with fate. Cynthia understood the gravity of her great-grandmother's words. Not only did attempts to alter fated visions often result in more severe outcomes, but there was always a lingering chance that the original dream would still come to pass. Her father hadn't been arrested at that moment, but the threat was not entirely gone. With Voldemort's return on the horizon, the spectre of her father's arrest loomed larger than ever.
"I know, I understand, I—" Cynthia sighed. "I have to know for sure. I have to— I can't just not do anything."
Her great-grandmother went to hold her hand, nodding in an understanding gesture.
Throughout the day and the next, Cynthia and her great-grandmother immersed themselves in a myriad of divination practices. They laid out tarot cards, studied tea leaves, and even performed capnomancy, seeking messages in the patterns of smoke. The fire omens were particularly unsettling, the flames dancing in erratic patterns that foretold danger and havoc. Phyllomancy, the interpretation of leaves, only confirmed their growing dread: death and disaster were on the horizon.
As they worked, an uneasy certainty settled over them. Each method of divination echoed the same grim prophecy: Voldemort would return, and soon. Signs of death were disturbingly prevalent, casting a dark shadow over their readings. Cynthia felt a cold knot of fear tighten in her stomach with each new confirmation. They turned to astrology, hoping to pinpoint the timing of this calamity. The stars, however, were cryptic and offered only a vague hint towards the summer months. Frustration mingled with panic in Cynthia when she realised they couldn't determine the exact moment of Voldemort's resurrection.
Her great-grandmother eased her aggravation by suggesting Cynthia seek the counsel of the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest when she would go to school. The centaurs were renowned for their astrological prowess and could provide insights far beyond what their own readings could offer. Cynthia listened intently as her great-grandmother described the kind of gifts that would be necessary to gain the centaurs' help: offerings of respect and acknowledgment of their wisdom, something they often didn't receive from the wizard kind.
Two days later, Cynthia prepared to leave. Her great-grandmother pressed a pouch of carefully selected gifts into her hands, each item chosen for its symbolic value to the centaurs. With a heavy heart, Cynthia returned home.
Upon her return, Cynthia made a conscious effort to appear untroubled. Her great-grandmother's reassurances had bolstered her resolve, which allowed her to present a facade of serenity. Her family's relief was obvious. Despite her efforts, dinner that night was still filled with an underlying tension. Cynthia remained unusually quiet, not giving them any hint of the turmoil she felt inside. Her expression was composed, but the silence was heavy with unspoken questions from her family.
Sensing the discomfort, Cynthia knew she needed to lift the atmosphere. As they sat around the dinner table, she turned to her father with a warm smile and in a light, conversational tone, she asked, "So, what makes deliberation the trickiest to implement?"
A/N:Okay, let's be honest, Albus the turtle stole the spotlight in this chapter. All jokes aside thought, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know your thoughts on Cynthia's great-grandmother, how Cynthia handled the reveal that Voldemort is coming back, and George and Fred's reactions towards the basket