A/N: This chapter has been edited by suniwrites and MomentoVirtuoso
Full Chapter Title: I've Been Asking You to Check the Monsters Under My Bed When You Were the Real Monster
August 26th, 1989
The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the sprawling grounds of Malfoy Manor. It was a beautiful day.
The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the sweet scent of blooming flowers from the nearby gardens. Sunlight danced through the leaves of the towering trees, painting intricate patterns of light and shadow on the lush green grass below. Everywhere Cynthia looked, she was met with a riot of colours: vibrant blooms of every hue carpeted the gardens, from delicate roses in shades of pink and crimson to bold sunflowers basking in the warmth of the sun. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, their gentle hum blending harmoniously with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
For eleven-year-old Cynthia Malfoy, it was a day filled with mixed emotions as she strolled through the manicured gardens beside her father, Lucius Malfoy. It would be one of the last times they would walk together as she was heading to Hogwarts next week.
Their daily walks had become a cherished tradition, one that had begun as a simple attempt to help Cynthia lose the extra weight she had gained from stress eating. It was only two years ago after being teased by the other girls on her weight that she finally caved and followed her mother's diet plan. Part of it was drinking this potion that would help her speed the process of losing the weight but would only work if she exercised.
Over time, however, the walks had evolved into something much more than just exercise. Especially since she achieved her ideal figure a few months ago. They had become a time for father and daughter to bond, to connect on a deeper level as they discussed a myriad of topics. From economics and finances to business strategies and politics, Lucius had a wealth of knowledge to impart, and Cynthia hung on his every word. Hogwarts too became a frequent topic of conversation, as Cynthia eagerly awaited her impending departure to the magical school.
"This is lovely, isn't it, Papa?" Cynthia said, her eyes alight with excitement as she skipped ahead, her hand clasped firmly in her father's.
"It is indeed, ma poupette," Lucius replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.
As they made their way down the winding path, Lucius cleared his throat, his expression growing serious. "Cynthia, there's something important I need to discuss with you."
Cynthia's brow furrowed in concern. "What is it, Papa?"
She gave him her attention.
"I know you'll be starting at Hogwarts soon, and I want to remind you of the importance of..." Lucius hesitated, searching for the right words. "...choosing your friends wisely."
"Okay," she trailed, waiting for him to finish.
"You remember why they're a disgrace to our society right?"
She nodded. She heard the stories and lectures multiple times throughout her childhood. Muggle-borns didn't have any concept of magic until it came time for Hogwarts. They didn't know of their ways and barely respected their traditions. But most importantly, everything they learn, they could easily take home and tell their families. And that's exactly what happened during the witch hunts. Muggle-borns were the reason why muggles learned to fight against magic and actually win. They were the reason wizarding societies around the world are forced to hide their magic, their existence.
She couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration as she contemplated the reality of their hidden existence once more. It seemed fundamentally unfair that the magical community had to endure such isolation, merely to safeguard themselves from a world that would never understand them. But wizards couldn't wage war against the Muggles because they were vastly outnumbered.
"Don't interact with them unless absolutely necessary," he said. "You know that Headmaster is unfortunately lenient with muggle-lovers. If anyone… unsavoury… approaches you, go directly to Severus."
"I know, Papa," Cynthia said. She had heard this countless times over the past few months.
Cynthia took after her mother in that her approach towards muggles and muggle-borns was more reserved. She didn't say her opinions out loud unless asked. This was mainly because she knew she was in the minority. Many of the wizarding folk thought it was okay to associate with muggles now and she didn't want to start any trouble. It wasn't worth it, anyway. Let them believe what they believe. Let them handle the consequences of their actions when muggles choose to rise against the wizarding society again.
August 26th, 1994
Amidst the chaos, Cynthia's heart raced, her senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of screams and shouts that suddenly filled the air. She tried to look for the source of the noise that started this. The screaming in the distance made it sound like someone was being tortured. Eventually, she didn't have to look far as the screaming took to the air. Two figures were suspended in the air, their bodies contorted in a cruel mockery of flight. Cynthia could see the muggle that had been the site manager along with his wife cast into the air. Her stomach churned at the sight, her mind reeling with disbelief at the brutality unfolding before her very eyes.
Panic rippled through the crowd like wildfire, sending people stumbling and tripping over one another in a frantic bid for safety. Some of them in their drunken state fell over or were pushing others out of the way, believing that they were next. The tents were being knocked over, causing more panic for the families inside as they didn't know what was taking place outside. Hooded figures moved with sinister purpose, their masked faces obscuring any hint of humanity as they orchestrated the chaos with ruthless efficiency.
Suddenly, the muggle woman was shifted upside down, exposing her knickers to the crowd. A wave of revulsion washed over her as she watched the muggle woman's dignity stripped away, her humiliation laid bare for all to see. Anger simmered beneath the surface of her fear. She needed to get back to the tent and alert her mother and Draco to get up so they could get out of there before anything else happened.
However, before Cynthia could make any progress, a sudden force knocked her down to the ground. The stampede of panicked people surged around her with relentless force, each person pushing and shoving indiscriminately. She tried to scramble to her feet, but each attempt was met with another jarring shove, leaving her trapped in the chaotic wave of bodies.
The initial impact sent a sharp, searing pain through her ankle, making her gasp. As she tried to crawl away from the frantic scene, every movement intensified the agony in her ankle. Her fear escalated with each passing second as she struggled to escape the crushing pressure, knowing that standing up would only expose her to further injury and being knocked down again.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she managed to drag herself out of the worst of the chaos. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she collapsed to the ground, feeling the sharp sting of a sprained wrist alongside her battered ankle. The incessant trampling had left her wrist swollen and painful, and the fear of being trapped, coupled with the physical pain, left her shaken and struggling to steady her breathing.
Cynthia took a moment to rest and breathe. She wanted to go back to their tent and warn her mother and brother that something was up. She didn't want her family to be caught up with people crashing into the tent, especially when they were asleep. Hopefully, all this uproar would have woken them up by now.
However, she knew that it wasn't feasible to go there because not only was it far but she could barely walk with her ankle the way it was. Just then, Cynthia looked up and caught a glimpse of those that were harbouring the muggles up in the air. While their dark cloaks and masks did well to hide their identities, Cynthia recognised one of the masks. She had seen it once before as a child.
It was her father.
A cold, sickening realization gripped Cynthia. It wasn't a secret within the Malfoy household that Lucius was a follower of the Dark Lord. The mask wasn't kept out in the open, but when she was young, Cynthia had a habit of going through her parents' things. At one point, she had come across the mask that their father placed away.
Cynthia knew. She knew that while he was a good father—a great father, even—Lucius Malfoy was not a good person. He didn't do things out of the goodness of his heart. He was a Death Eater and as such, he had done horrific acts. She had understood this intellectually, but seeing him now, enacting terror and cruelty, felt like a visceral betrayal.
Her childhood had been filled with tales of Muggles and Muggle-borns as threats—beings to be avoided and despised for their role in the persecution of wizards. Once upon a time, wizards lived openly among Muggles, practicing magic freely. It was only 500 years ago that Muggles, driven by emerging religions that condemned magic as devilry, began their brutal witch hunts. Wizards had been hunted, captured, and burned at the stake. As the hunts grew fiercer, they had to go into hiding. This had always been the narrative, the justification for their disdain.
But how could her father be so hypocritical? How could he perpetuate the very cruelty that had driven wizards into hiding centuries ago? Her mind reeled with confusion and anger. Why did he and his friends feel the need to cause such chaos at the World Cup? Was this the image they wished to project of English wizards—to make them appear as barbaric and ruthless? And where were the Aurors? Wasn't it their job to come here and fix things immediately?!
The weight of this betrayal, compounded by her physical pain and the chaos around her, left Cynthia feeling utterly shattered.
Cynthia shook her head. This wasn't the time to think such thoughts. She needed to find refuge. This part of the campground wasn't necessarily safe and she wasn't sure if danger would follow her here. Her best option was the surrounding forest. The trees would offer cover, and with the darkness of the night, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to spot her without the moon's light.
Summoning her resolve, Cynthia began a painstaking crawl towards the forest's edge, since she still couldn't walk with her hurt ankle. It was extremely hard as she tried to crawl as fast as possible without putting too much pressure on her sprained wrist.
After what felt like an hour, though in reality only minutes had passed, Cynthia finally reached the sanctuary of the forest. A chill breeze swept over her, causing an involuntary shiver. During the earlier upheaval, she had lost her warm wool shawl, leaving her clad only in a sheer nightgown that offered no defence against the cold wind. The hem of her nightgown was torn and awkwardly draped over her knees, while her legs were streaked with smudges from the dirt floor she had crawled across. Small cuts marked her skin from sharp rocks and branches. Her palms stung, scraped raw from the rough ground, and she could feel the sting of fresh bruises forming beneath her skin.
Her attire, once pristine, was now marred by footprints and grime. One sleeve had slipped down her shoulder, but the enchanted material clung to her modestly, ensuring her chest remained covered. Her hair, no longer bound in its braid, cascaded wildly around her face, framing her features in disarray.
She didn't need a mirror to know that she looked like a royal mess.
Just as she was about to lean against the bark of the nearest tree to her, the shuffling of the bushes nearby startled her. She found herself under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes that belonged to her schoolmates.
The words were out of her mouth before her brain processed them.
"Could you please help me?"
On August 25th, 1994, George Weasley found himself caught in a whirlwind of events that swung wildly from highs to lows. The day began with a jolt as they were rudely roused for an early morning departure to the World Cup. Yet any semblance of a good start was promptly dashed when their painstakingly crafted prank items, months in the making, were summarily banished by his mother's swift Accio. Just like that, their hard work vanished into thin air.
Despite the setbacks, there were fleeting moments of exhilaration. Witnessing Ireland's triumphant win at the Quidditch World Cup, with Krum catching the snitch, brought unexpected winnings when he and Fred bested Bagman's bet. Money they could use to invest in their shop. But of course that all had to go to ruin when the Death Eaters attacked. It somehow got worse now that they were separated from Ron, Harry and Hermione.
Yet, out of all those things happening, none of it compared to the shock of seeing resident Slytherin Princess, Cynthia Malfoy, in such a state, asking for help.
George never had many encounters with her. While some of them were bad, they weren't significant enough to create bad blood between them. Unlike her brother, Cynthia maintained a reserved demeanour and stuck closely to her own circle of friends within Slytherin. She rarely ventured beyond her housemates, maintaining polite but distant interactions with students from other houses, even those of Muggle-born backgrounds. All the professors loved her; even McGonagall appeared to be fond of her. They would call upon her whenever there was a question that no one could answer. Snape did it the most, if not to emphasise how brilliant and better his Slytherin was than them. Despite all of that, Cynthia never displayed arrogance or boasted about her achievements. Fred, however, disagreed, arguing that her supposed humility stemmed from knowing others recognized her superiority without needing it pointed out.
In their third year, the nickname "Slytherin Princess" emerged. Initially, it seemed rooted in superficial reasons like her appearance and family background. Cynthia possessed dainty features and long blond hair, making her one of the most attractive girls at Hogwarts. Many boys secretly harboured crushes on her, including himself, though he felt a pang of embarrassment about it. But it was hard not to be captivated, especially when the sight of her dimples when she smiled caused his heart to skip a beat and left him momentarily spellbound.
But George knew that the nickname held deeper significance after witnessing an incident during their fourth year. Cynthia, then a fourth-year student, managed to dissuade Flint, a sixth-year Slytherin, from engaging in a fight with the Gryffindor team using just a few simple words that avoided any mention of her father or their family. It was a surprising moment for everyone present, especially because they didn't understand her words or the meaning behind them the way Flint and the Slytherin team did. It was at that moment that George came to understand just how cunning and calculating Cynthia Malfoy was. It became clear to him that there was a reason she belonged in Slytherin and was acclaimed with the title of Slytherin Princess.
And seeing her like this—dirty, hurt, vulnerable, and desperate enough to ask for help from her family's 'rival'—ignited an even greater curiosity in George about what kind of person she truly was beneath the façade of Slytherin Princess. And even in such a state, George couldn't help but notice how strikingly beautiful Cynthia remained. Despite the dirt smudges on her face and the dishevelled state of her hair, there was an undeniable elegance to her features, a grace that seemed to endure even in moments of distress.
He didn't even hesitate to help her up from the ground. Supporting her gently under one arm, George could feel her weight leaning slightly against him. As they began to walk slowly, he noticed the small cuts marring her skin and the pained groan that escaped her lips when she stood. Her limp became more pronounced with each step, and it was clear she was favoring one foot over the other. Concern flickered in his eyes and he tightened his grip, careful not to hurt her further, yet offering as much support as he could.
"What happened?" he asked, guiding her carefully over the uneven ground.
"Human stampede," her voice was strained with discomfort. "Turns out cows aren't the only animals that create a stampede when they're panicked. Who knew a walk in the night would've ended like this?"
George chuckled softly. Her ability to find humour in such a chaotic moment impressed him. Even with her evident pain, George couldn't help but admire her resilience. Her calm demeanour under pressure spoke volumes about her character, reinforcing his growing curiosity about her.
When George glanced over at Fred and Ginny, he caught his brother looking at him momentarily in confusion, his eyes drifting off to the side to observe Cynthia for a moment before being drawn back in on him. Curiosity was evident within his gaze. Fred seemed unsure what to make of the situation.
George felt his face flush. He had never told a living soul about his feelings for Cynthia, not even his twin. For the longest time, he had been lucky that Fred hadn't noticed the way he snuck looks at her. But now, it appeared his luck had run out, with no way to recourse, and no doubt Fred would be able to piece it all together. George dreaded the inevitable awkward conversation with his brother.
Thankfully, Ginny hadn't figured it out yet. Otherwise, he really wouldn't hear the end of it. His only sister had a different reaction. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Cynthia with a wary expression. There was a clear mistrust in her gaze, a subtle but unmistakable judgement. George assumed it was because Cynthia was a Malfoy.
"Does your father know you're out here?" Fred asked, his tone laced with suspicion, a sentiment mirrored by Ginny's guarded gaze. It didn't take a genius to discern the insinuation that her father might be among the Death Eaters causing havoc a few feet away.
As angry as Cynthia was with her father for putting her in this position, she couldn't confirm their beliefs. "He should if he were to wake from all this noise and read my note," she lied confidently. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain through her ankle and wrist, but she forced herself to look them in the eye. She willed her heart to steady and her hands to stop shaking. "What about you? Where is your family?"
"Dad and our older brothers went to help out. We were supposed to be with Ron, Harry and Hermione but we got separated," Fred sighed. "This is so frustrating. We don't know what's going out there and there's nothing we can do."
Cynthia listened intently to Fred, her brow furrowed with concern as she glanced around, masking the mounting panic she felt inside. The frustration in Fred's voice echoed her own feelings of helplessness. She wanted to do something, anything, to improve their situation. Her mind raced, searching for any idea that might help and then, it came to her.
"So stupid, why haven't I thought of this before?" she muttered then called out. "Cranky!"
Crack!
All Weasley siblings stumbled back as an old house-elf suddenly appeared before them.
"Yes, young mis—," Cranky quickly noticed how she was leaning on George, "Young Mistress! What happened? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry about me. Listen, I need you to do something important," she told him. "Can you check on my parents and Draco? Make sure they're safe. And my friends' family too!"
She turned to George and gestured for him to speak. But Fred already beat him to it.
"We need you to check on our brother Ron and his friends, Harry and Hermione. They should be somewhere around here, they couldn't have gone far. Make sure they're safe."
"And help them if they're in any trouble," Cynthia added. "Don't come back until you've checked on all of them."
"You think they're in trouble?" Ginny asked after Cranky left.
"I'm assuming based on Potter's past record," Cynthia said, her eyes fixed on the sky where the Muggles were suspended in the air. Her expression twisted with disgust at what the Death Eaters were doing to them, especially the innocent children. Fred and Ginny exchanged glances, noticing Cynthia's look of revulsion.
"Have you got your wands on you?" Cynthia asked. She left hers at home since she didn't think she would need it, let alone allowed to use it. "We should set up a ward charm to steer off any danger."
Fred and George looked at each other and Cynthia was able to deduct their expressions. "You don't know how to cast ward charms."
"I mean, it wasn't taught to us," Fred said.
"Professor Quirrell taught us in third year, we just weren't tested on it!"
"Oh come on, you know how Professor Quirrell is!"
"That is still no excuse, you two are smarter than this," Cynthia huffed, not realising the compliment she just gave them.
"Um, what's a ward charm?"
She turned to Ginny. "A ward charm creates a simple ward around us so that no one would notice or see us except those who are actively looking for us. You should be able to learn about it in DADA this year."
She gestured towards a stick lying on the ground. "Weaslette, could you grab that stick for me? I'll show them how it's done."
With a focused expression, Cynthia began instructing the twins on the basics of the ward charm. She showed them the wand movements and how to enunciate the words, her instructions clear and concise. It took them a couple of tries, but eventually, a faint shimmer enveloped them, signalling the success of the charm. She couldn't help slumping onto George with relief.
As Cynthia rested against him, George felt a jolt of warmth spread through him, a rush of intimacy in the simple touch. Her unexpected closeness seemed to linger like a gentle echo against his side. He could feel the subtle rise and fall of her breath, a delicate reminder of her presence that left him both elated and slightly disoriented. The fleeting moment, however, was abruptly shattered as a green, glittering light suddenly illuminated the dark sky.
Cynthia let out a horrified gasp when the Dark Mark appeared, bringing about an eerie green glow out of greenish smoke.
Deciding to be efficient, Cranky left to find Ron and friends since they were closer. Appearing before them, they immediately flinched back just like the other Weasleys. Truth be told, Cranky was beyond confused why his mistress was sullying herself by hanging around blood traitors, but he soon came to understand why due to her injury and need of help. Besides, he wasn't one to question orders, especially those of his young mistress. Of all the Malfoy that he had served, she was his favourite and the one to treat him the best.
"Are you Mr. Ron and friends Harry and Hermione?" he asked. The red-haired boy bore a strong resemblance to the other Weasley he encountered minutes earlier, but Cranky had to confirm.
"Ah, yes," Ron answered hesitantly. "Who are you?"
"I am Cranky. Young mistress send me to check if you are safe for your brothers and sister."
That only made the boy hesitate. "You mean Fred and George?"
"If you are talking about the boys with the same face then yes."
"Who is your mistress, Cranky?" the girl with bushy hair, who must be Hermione, kneeled in front of him and asked gently.
But before Cranky could answer, it happened. A voice called out a spell.
"MORSMORDRE!"
And then, out of the darkness, emerged the Dark Mark and with it, screams of horror.
"Who's there?" the boy with the messy hair, Harry, called out.
"Harry, come on, move!" Hermione urged, pulling him along. They seemed to have forgotten about Cranky, but Cranky couldn't afford that luxury; he had to obey his mistress's command to keep them safe. Which is why, when several wizards appeared around the three children, wands drawn and aimed, Cranky leapt into action, shielding them and deflecting the stunning spells.
"You mustn't cause harm to mistress' friends!" Cranky's voice rang out, unwavering in its resolve.
Before anyone could process the absurdity of a house elf stopping their spells, a familiar, desperate cry pierced through the tumult. "Stop! STOP! That's my son!"
Mr. Weasley emerged from the fray, his face etched with concern as he rushed toward them. "Ron, Harry, Hermione, are you alright?" His gaze darted anxiously from one to the next.
Cranky, still firmly positioned in front of the trio, turned his large eyes toward Mr. Weasley. "Sir will keep mistress' friends safe?"
Mr. Weasley, bewildered by the appearance of the house-elf, blinked in astonishment, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words. "Yes".
That was all Cranky needed to hear before leaving to go to his Masters.
Narcissa Malfoy was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. She had woken up earlier after hearing all of the ruckus. The first thing she noticed was the note her daughter left her. Initially, she wasn't overly worried, but after hearing the screaming and yelling outside, panic set in. She swiftly told Draco, who had also been awakened by the noise, to stay put while she went to find Cynthia. But not only did she fail to find her daughter, but she also returned to find the tent empty and Draco nowhere in sight.
When Lucius finally returned to the tent, she grabbed him by the front of his robes and frantically told him everything that had happened. Her eyes glistened with tears, which soon overflowed as she began to sob, fearful of the uncertainty surrounding her children's location and safety. He pulled her into a hug and tried to reassure her by saying he was certain the children were fine and that they would find them. But suddenly, Narcissa pushed him away with an enraged look on her face.
"Were you behind all of this tonight? All this screaming and chaos? You and the others?!" she spat venomously. "Is that what you were all up to tonight? Lucius, what were you thinking? What if they got hurt?! What if they are hurt right now and we don't know because we don't know where they are!"
"Nar—"
"Don't touch me!" she snapped, smacking his hand away. She began storming off, determined to find her children. However, she didn't have to go far, as she spotted Draco making his way towards them. He looked quite frightened, constantly peering up at the sky. Narcissa moved quickly, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Where's Cindy?" Draco asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind. Narcissa glared at Lucius, furious with her husband for ruining the evening.
"Go home," Lucius said quietly, "go home, I'll find her. I won't come home until I do."
At that moment, Cranky chose to make his appearance.
"Master, Mistress, Young Master," he greeted. "Are any of you hurt?"
"No, Cranky," Lucius replied, his tone laced with confusion at the house-elf's sudden arrival. "What are you doing here? I did not summon you."
"Master didn't but Young Mistress did," he answered. "She wanted to make sure that you're alright."
At the mention of Cynthia, Narcissa pushed Lucius to the side to stand in front of Cranky. "Cynthia?! You saw Cynthia? How is she? Where is she? Is she hurt? Why didn't you bring her with you?"
Despite Narcissa's frantic questions, Cranky remained calm. "Young Mistress is in the forest, and she is hurt. Cranky doesn't know how badly she is hurt because Young Mistress ordered Cranky to check on the masters first."
His words did nothing to soothe Narcissa's worries. They only served to heighten her anxiety. "Hurt?! Badly hurt? What exactly is wrong with her?"
"Young Mistress seemed to have hurt her foot, she was leaning against the Weasley boy when Cranky last saw her. She was dirty too, with cuts on her legs."
"Weasley? Cynthia was with a Weasley?" Lucius asked, a disgruntled look on his face. Draco shared a similar expression, and Narcissa simply didn't care.
Cranky nodded. "Would Master like Cranky to get Young Mistress?"
"No need, I will bring her myself," Lucius turned to Narcissa and Draco. "Go home. We know where she is now and I'll bring her."
After a while, Cranky returned, informing them that everyone was safe and that Mr. Malfoy would pick Cynthia up from the Weasleys'. Upon hearing this, Fred announced that it was time they head back to their tent. They had already healed Cynthia's sprained ankle and wrist, along with the cuts on her legs and hands, so she was able to walk on her own and no longer needed to lean on George. It turned out that, after facing several repercussions of their failed inventions, the twins had learned the basics of healing.
When they arrived at the Weasley tent, their surprise quickly overshadowed their brothers' relief at finding the twins and Ginny safe at seeing Cynthia with them, especially at her dishevelled state.
"Cindy!" Charlie pushed forward and went to stand in front of her. "What happened?"
"Charlie, I'm fine. The twins healed me so I'm alright," Cynthia answered, already noticing the weird looks they were getting from the others around the room. "What about you? What happened?"
She gestured towards the large cut on his shirt.
"Hold up!" Fred cut Charlie off before he could answer. "What's happening here? How do you two—"
"—know each other?" George finished the question.
Unfortunately, Fred wasn't going to have his questions answered either as Mr. Weasley entered the tent along with Ron, Harry, and Hermione in tow. They too were alarmed once they saw her.
Ron's face hardened, his expression shifting to a mix of suspicion and disdain. He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at Cynthia. "What's a Malfoy doing here?" he asked, his tone dripping with irritation. "You've got some nerve showing up after everything your father did."
Cynthia's face tightened in offence, her eyes narrowing as she lifted her chin defiantly. She opened her mouth to defend herself, her posture rigid and ready for a confrontation.
Before she could speak though, Charlie stepped in, his voice firm but calm. "Ron, that's enough," Charlie said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Cindy's not to blame for what's happened. And even if her father was one of those Death Eaters, she's not responsible for his actions."
George nodded in agreement, his gaze steady. "Charlie's right. We found her injured, so clearly she's not involved in whatever's going on. Stop making baseless assumptions."
Charlie and George's words cut through Ron's harshness, his face flushing with the realisation that he had jumped to conclusions. The atmosphere in the tent eased as the brothers' defence prompted a brief pause in the hostility.
"Did you get them, Dad?" Bill asked, breaking the silence. "The person who conjured the Mark?"
"No," Mr. Weasley shook his head. "We found Barty Crouch's elf holding Harry's wand, but we're none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark."
"What?" Bill, Charlie, and Percy exclaimed in unison.
"Harry's wand?"
"Mr. Crouch's elf ?"
With help from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley recounted the events in the woods. As they concluded their tale, Percy bristled with indignation.
"Idiots! Idiots, the whole bunch of them," Cynthia couldn't help but say her opinion. "What were they thinking? Of course, a house-elf didn't cast it. They don't use wands, and even if they could, she wouldn't dare displease Mr. Crouch. House-elves can't go against their master's desires. And even if that wasn't the case, where would she learn the incantation and the wand movements? She's probably been serving someone like Mr. Crouch her entire life."
"Right, there is no way that house-elf would've learned something like this from Mr. Crouch," Percy said.
"That's what I was saying! She was at the wrong place, wrong time," Hermione added. "Oh wait- that house-elf, Cranky. Was he yours?"
Cynthia nodded. For some reason, that made Harry look at her inquisitively.
"Can someone just explain what that skull thing was?" Ron asked impatiently, not interested in the Cranky story. "It wasn't hurting anyone. . . . Why's it such a big deal?"
"I told you, it's You-Know-Who's symbol, Ron," Hermione said in a frustrated tone. "I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts."
"And it hasn't been seen for thirteen years," Mr. Weasley added quietly. "Of course people panicked. . . . it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again."
"I don't get it," said Ron, frowning. "I mean . . . it's still only a shape in the sky. . . ."
"And Voldemort is just a name," Cynthia said, causing everyone to flinch except Harry. They all looked at her in shock. "And yet you're all scared of it."
Believing that he was truly gone, Cynthia felt no fear for his name. To her, it was pointless and absurd to fear a dead man. She saw the terror associated with the moniker as an unnecessary relic of the past. She reasoned that clinging to such fear only gave power to his shadow, an echo of his menace; long since vanquished. It was illogical for the past to continue haunting the present.
"Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed. The terror it inspired . . . you have no idea, you're too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside. . . ." Mr. Weasley winced. "Everyone's worst fear . . . the very worst . . ."
Silence fell over the tent as they all contemplated Mr. Weasley's words. Not for the first time in her life, Cynthia felt a deep pang of guilt. Her father and Aunt Bellatrix had been significant contributors to this reign of fear. She stared at the ground, feeling the weight of the others' gazes on her, probably thinking the same thing. The shame and remorse she felt were almost unbearable, and she wished she could distance herself from the horrors her family had inflicted.
In that moment, anger burned through her as she thought about what she would say to her father when she saw him next. How could you? she wanted to scream at him. How could you be so reckless, so cruel? Do you even care that I was hurt? Do you care that innocent people were hurt? Or is your twisted sense of pride and loyalty to the Dark Lord more important? She imagined the words spilling out in a torrent of fury, each one sharp enough to wound, hoping, just hoping, that for once he might actually feel the pain he so easily caused others.
"Cynthia!"
Her head snapped up at hearing her name from her father. She quickly exited, not looking back to see that almost everyone followed her out as well. Standing only a few feet from the tent's entrance was her father, dressed somehow neatly in his robes from the match as if he had not gone rioting through the campgrounds on a bigoted crusade. Lucius didn't look happy when he saw her surrounded by the tribe of Weasleys and company. The only indication of his displeasure was the creak of his glove as he tightened his fist around the silver snake head of his adorned wand. He grabbed her by the arm with his free hand and started to check her out. He was especially concerned at the state of her dirty torn dress and rumpled hair but he silenced his sigh of relief at seeing her safe from harm.
"Thank Slytherin you're alright. Your mother and I were worried sick. Come darling, we must go home. Your mother and brother are there already and waiting on us."
Cynthia smacked his hand away as she stepped away from him in disgust, incredulous at his nerve. First, he and his friends had to cause trouble for everyone, and now he wouldn't even thank the people who had helped her when she was hurt and alone. He didn't even glance at them, completely disregarding their presence and his own rudeness. Pretending the Weasleys weren't there, he seemed utterly indifferent. Suddenly, all the anger she felt towards her father surged back, stronger than ever. Unable to contain herself, she started yelling at him, her voice trembling with frustration.
Fortune was on Lucius' side because whenever she was angry, Cynthia would rant in French, and not even Hermione or Bill, who spoke the language, could understand what she was saying from how fast she was spitting out the words at her father. She launched into a tirade, her voice rising with each word. "What on earth were you thinking, Papa? Were you that drunk— that desperate to relive a moment of your youth? That trashed and muddle-minded to not think carefully about your actions—"
"Cynthia, enough!" Lucius cut her off sharply, his voice like a whip as he stepped forward, closing the distance between him and his rebellious spawn. He glared down at her, his eyes cold and hard, his jaw clenched tightly as he withheld reprimanding words which slithered at the ready on his tongue. With his free hand, he reached out to Cynthia gently to take her by the arm again. Yet, the unmistakable creak of his glove tightening in his other fist betrayed the storm within him. His body was a study in contradiction—torn between the relief of seeing her unharmed and the seething humiliation of being chastised by his own daughter, and worse, in front of blood traitors like the Weasleys. To appear weak in their presence was an intolerable disgrace, and every fibre of his being rebelled against it.
To the surprise of the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione, Cynthia didn't cower under her father's glare. Instead, she ripped her arm away from his soft hand once again and glared back at him defiantly, her eyes blazing with resentment. Her chin jutted out stubbornly, and her fists clenched at her sides, showing she was ready to stand her ground.
Cynthia switched back to English, her voice steady but full of indignation. "And now, you won't even show gratitude towards the Weasleys, where is your honour? They helped me, Papa, and you won't even bother getting off your high horse to thank them? They didn't have to help me, especially after all the things you and Draco say and do to them, and yet they still did. Thank them… I'm not leaving until you do."
Lucius' eyes were burning embers, his jawbone grinding itself to powder as he tried to form the words for his daughter's request; but his pride won out. He opened his lips to speak but not his teeth, morphing his features into a pained snarl as he beheld Cynthia's determination.
Cynthia held his gaze for a moment, her frustration evident. But as the silence stretched, her shoulders eventually slumped in defeat. "Forget it. You wouldn't really mean it anyway."
Cynthia turned to the audience behind her, who were all still staring at her in shock. "I'm so sorry you had to see this. I'm not usually this undignified. George, Fred, thank you so much for healing me back at the forest, I truly appreciate it. I hope you have a lovely calm night. Merlin knows you need it after the night we've had."
Then she curtsied and went to grab her father's arm, who was clearly displeased with her. "How dare you, child— undermine me so? In front of those— people?" Lucius reprimanded, his voice low and controlled but teetering on a very precarious edge."We shall discuss this at home." Without another word, he apparated them both back to Malfoy Manor.
As soon as they arrived, Cynthia released her hold on his father's arm and moved away from him as fast as she could. She couldn't walk far because her mother was there and immediately pulled her into a tight hug. After squeezing her a few times, Narcissa pulled away and began checking Cynthia over, her concern growing as she noticed her dirty appearance and torn dress.
"Are you alright?" she whispered to her. "What happened? I woke up in the tent and you were gone. Oh darling, I was so worried and then—"
"I told you I would be back with Father," Cynthia attempted to joke but it seemed to do the opposite of what she desired since Narcissa's look of worry persisted. "I couldn't sleep. I had… one of those feelings, that something could happen, and it won't go away. So I decided to go for a walk, and then Father and his friends just had to prove me right."
"Cynthia!" Lucius snapped out in a stern voice as mother and daughter gave him identical resenting looks, both disappointed in the man in front of them. "That's not— it wasn't supposed to be like that. You had no right to depose my authority! Not in front—"
Cynthia's voice rang out, sharp and unyielding. "No right? No, you had no right! What you did was cruel, disgusting, and inappropriate!" She was trembling, but she couldn't stop now. All that time she had been separated from her father, she had been thinking about what she was going to say to him once they were reunited. But now, standing before him, all those carefully crafted thoughts, the ones she had kept locked away in the corners of her mind, spilled out in a chaotic rush. The dam she had built broke, and she couldn't stop the flood of words from tumbling out, her emotions overpowering the restraint she had tried so hard to maintain. "And when did you decide to do this? On what day? At the World Quidditch Cup, Papa, the World Cup! Hundreds—no thousands of wizards from all over the world were here—are here! And after what they saw tonight, what must they think of Britain, of us, OF YOU?! That we're a bunch of barbarians?! A bunch of fear-mongering terrorists?! They saw the Dark Mark in the sky—in all its dark glory! They witnessed the panic and fear that you and your friends caused! Was that the goal? Was that what you wanted, Father? Did you wish to sully everyone's opinions of us tonight?"
Lucius stood in stunned curious but furious silence, his mouth slightly ajar but closing on and off in a scowl which seemed to slip off his face as soon as it set in. He had never seen Cynthia like this—his perfect daughter, always obedient, always respectful. Yet now, here she was, railing against him with a ferocity that took him completely by surprise.
"Why, Papa? Why couldn't you just leave it be? It was a good day—" Cynthia's voice wavered, her anger giving way to something deeper, more painful. " —Why couldn't you have let me—the world have one good day without causing all that terror?" Her voice cracked as the floodgates opened with her sadness pouring out. "I crawled—I had to crawl to safety! On my hands and knees, Papa! People kept knocking me down—over and over again, and I had no choice but to crawl! Hundreds of feet to the forest. Look at me… Look at what became of me." Tears welled up in her eyes as she gestured to her torn dress and dirty appearance, her body still aching from the stampede. "LOOK AT ME!" Cynthia cried out.
Lucius was speechless as he looked at his daughter's rumpled and muddied appearance. The sight of her made his heart clench and some of his anger dissipated. His gaze shifted unsteadily to Narcissa, who was glaring at him with unhidden anger after hearing what their daughter had to say.
"Tell me, Father," Cynthia's voice was quieter now but no less intense, "what was the benefit of what you were doing? What was the benefit of terrorising those Muggles?"
At hearing his daughter's accusations return, Lucius finally found his voice, his anger taut and barely restrained. "Do not defend those—"
"NO, I WILL! I WILL DEFEND THEM!" Cynthia's shout reverberated through the room, and she felt her throat burn from the strain. She took a deep breath, her body trembling as she tried to steady herself. "They were innocent, they did nothing to us. Tell me, what did they do to warrant such harsh treatment from you? Is their mere existence truly such a blight to you?"
Lucius scoffed, turning his nose upwards at his daughter's incessant question. "I thought we had dealt with this Mudblood-loving nonsense four years ago," Lucius droned, his tone patronising as though speaking to a child. He looked at her as if she were a toddler throwing a tantrum, dismissing her outburst with a casual wave of his hand. His eyes were cold, indifferent, giving Cynthia the unmistakable sense that he wasn't taking her seriously in the slightest. "But fine, if you must know... Those filthy Muggles shouldn't have been there. They had no right to witness—to even be present during the biggest wizarding event—"
"IT WAS THEIR LAND!" Cynthia's voice echoed with raw emotion. She stared her father down, refusing to back down. "The Muggles own that land! Just as we possess our own! They had every entitlement to be there as we do here! It was the fault of the Ministry, not the Muggle! Not his family! They were simply there, doing their jobs, simply existing, and you saw them as a threat?! You saw that as a reason to fling that Muggle woman in the air and expose her knickers for the world to see?"
Narcissa gasped, the sound sharp and pained, and she turned to Lucius with a look of disgust and disbelief.
"Oh yes, Mother. It was quite the sight!" Cynthia hissed, a mocking laugh bubbling up from her throat, almost unrecognisable to herself. Her parents both flinched, an image of Bellatrix briefly flashing in their minds where their daughter should have been. "Watching that poor woman attempt to cover herself. I don't care if she was a Muggle, what you did was revolting, and I honestly don't see the purpose of humiliating her in such a way. And children! Those children couldn't have been older than seven years! Innocent children, and you treat them this way?
"You told me when I was little that Muggles were the ones to be feared. How they hunted us and would randomly attack us. We are against Muggles for doing that to us, yet you went ahead and did the same thing to them."
Lucius opened his mouth, his expression darkening into a sneer. "You speak out of turn, daughter. It's not the same—"
"Not the same—IT IS EXACTLY THE SAME!" Cynthia's voice thundered with the force of a storm, her eyes blazing with anger and a profound sense of betrayal. Her voice dropped to a soft tone as she continued. "Monsters… Do you remember? You told me they were monsters, Papa. But from what I've witnessed tonight, it's you. You're the real monster."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of her words lingering in the air. Cynthia's chest heaved with the effort of holding back her tears. Her heart pounded with a mixture of rage and despair. Lucius's face paled, his composure cracking under the weight of his daughter's accusation. If he thought his heart was broken before, it shattered into a million pieces now. Each shard reflected the pain he felt at hearing those words from his daughter.
Without saying anything else, Cynthia strode past her mother and Draco, who had been listening in outside the room, and ascended the stairs to her room. The resounding slam of her door echoed through the house, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
The scene unfolded amidst mist and swirling clouds, obscuring Cynthia's surroundings. Yet, through the haze, the graveyard emerged, its tombstones looming dimly in the eerie atmosphere. Dominating the obscured landscape stood a colossal black cauldron, simmering ominously with a spectral glow.
"Bone o' th' father, un'nowingly given, you'll renew yer son!" echoed a chilling voice.
A fine trickle of dust softly descended into the cauldron, sparking outwards in vivid blue hues that illuminated the scene. An anguished scream pierced the air as something else plummeted into the dark depth of the cauldron.
Everything was unclear. She wasn't sure what was happening, but then…
Diamond sparks danced blindingly against the velvety darkness that shrouded everything else. A surge of white steam filled the air thickly from the cauldron, enveloping the surroundings in an opaque veil.
Through the steam emerged the chilling outline of a figure. Tall and gaunt, he ascended slowly from the depths of the cauldron. Yet, upon witnessing his form, Cynthia hesitated to call him a man. His emaciated frame and unnaturally pale skin seemed devoid of humanity. It was his eyes that held her captive though—not for their crimson hue, but for their intense malevolence. They glowed with hatred and a coldness that chilled her to the core.
His sharp voice pierced through the silence.
"Robe me."
Cynthia woke up screaming.
A/N: Special thanks to MomentoVirtuoso, he helped breathe life in the last scene with Lucius and to suniwrites who helped me spread out the exposition more naturally.
Yes, Cynthia did really witness the resurrection scene at the end. Is she what you think she is? Hmm, we shall find out in the next chapter. My goal is to update this fic at least biweekly but I'm in uni so my schedule can be hectic at times. You can find me over at Tumblr at mymindisverycomplicated