Melanthe was nervous as she waited in line behind Harry. She did try to hide behind Ron, uncomfortable with the attention that was on them, but it was a bit of a moot point. She tried to catalogue the names and faces. Abbott, Bones, Boot, Brocklehurst… Her heart was in her throat. …Moon, Nott, Parkinson, Patil, Patil, Perks… And then McGonagall called out the name, “Potter, Harry.”
The stares were almost too much for Melanthe to bear, and she wasn’t even the centre of attention. The two-minute wait was almost agonising, and then the Sorting Hat finally called out, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Melanthe applauded her brother with a smile, but that smile was soon wiped from her face as McGonagall called out, “Potter, Melanthe.” And the piercing, judging gazes fixed on her as she moved towards the hat, unconsciously straightening up under the scrutiny, pushing her ash blonde hair out of her face. I have done nothing wrong. She managed to sit down elegantly, letting the hat slip over her head.
Tricky, so incredibly tricky. Brave like a Gryffindor, certainly, but also patient like a Hufflepuff. Cunning and shrewd, like a Slytherin, most definitely, but also innovative and witty, like a Ravenclaw.
Melanthe’s expression changed slightly. Not Gryffindor, and not Slytherin. I’d be overshadowed in the one and loathed in the other.
And that, Miss Potter, is why you are shrewd. Not Hufflepuff either, that’s for sure, so that leaves us with… “RAVENCLAW!”
The hall was silent for a moment, before raucous applause sprang up from the Ravenclaw table, and Melanthe blushed as she made her way over, blushing more when she saw Greengrass staring at her from across the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.
Melanthe had her first Potions class on Thursday afternoon, and Snape singled her out after his speech.
“Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
“The Draught of Living Death, Professor.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”
“The stomach of a goat, my potions equipment kit, and your storeroom, Professor.”
“What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
“The names, Professor. They’re the same plant, also known as aconite.”
Melanthe could see that he was visibly rethinking something, before he said, “Three points to Ravenclaw.”
Judging by Boot’s sharp inhale, that was not normal. But what was one oddity, if it got them house points?
Her heart was in her throat a she snuck into the hospital wing after her idiot Gryffindor brother decided to confront Quirrell. Oh, why did he have to inherit practically all the brawn? She shook her head, leaving a slice of treacle tart under a heavy preservation charm on the bedside table.
“If you wish to break the Statute, go right ahead. I think I’ll wait here for an adult, thanks.” Melanthe shook her head as the duo walked away.
Molly and Arthur came out later, with Molly fussing over her. “Where are Harry and Ron?”
“They took the car.” She winced. “I tried to remind them of the Statute, but it didn’t work, so I decided to wait for an adult. The barrier just closed unexpectedly.”
Molly pursed her lips, but Arthur ushered them to the closest Ministry entrance, and Flooed Dumbledore to his office, explaining the situation. And so Melanthe got to explore Hogwarts with no one except the staff, ghosts, and portraits for company.
Molly’s Howler the next morning was legendary, even if it left Melanthe’s hair red from embarrassment.
“Voices in the walls, you say? Talking about blood and killing?” Melanthe gave Harry and his friends a deadpan look.
“Mel, I’m not kidding, I swear!” Harry pleaded.
“Gryffindors sure are obtuse. Was the floor wet?”
“Yes, what does that have to do with anything?” Hermione scoffed.
“Because it narrows down the list of creatures capable of petrification, Granger.” Melanthe raised an eyebrow at the Gryffindor girl. “Wet floor and petrification… Yeah, it’s a basilisk.”
“Can’t be. Basilisks’ gazes kill, not petrify,” Hermione denied vehemently.
“Reread that chapter, Granger, because you’re only half correct.” A sardonic smile played across Melanthe’s lips. “A basilisk’s direct gaze will kill anyone that isn’t a Parselmouth, while its indirect gaze will petrify you. And indirect means anything from a reflection in water or a mirror, to through a ghost or a camera. And it’ll petrify ghosts, because they’re already dead.” She studied the trio. “Is that all? I have Charms homework I wish to finish.”
Melanthe swiftly realised she was in the same classes as Greengrass, especially since the Slytherin often preferred to sit as close to her as possible in their shared classes. And two weeks into term, the Ravenclaw was nearly late to Runes, plopping down into the only open seat.
Babbling smiled slightly. “Take a very good look at who you are seated with, because they are your assigned partner until you sit your OWLs. Barring violent disagreements, blood feuds, and grievous bodily harm, you will not be reassigned.”
Well, this is my life now, I guess. Melanthe shrugged, offering the Slytherin a hand. “Melanthe Potter. I hope we can work together.”
Dark blue eyes met pale blue-grey, and the Slytherin took the Ravenclaw’s hand. “Daphne Greengrass. Likewise.”
Melanthe had the distinct impression she had just walked into the Nundu’s den.
If there was one thing that was common knowledge about Harry Potter’s older sister – besides her being a Ravenclaw – it was that she did not swear. So, imagine the shock it was to the staff when they heard Melanthe swear, violently, the morning after the Trio’s brush with death.
“Bloody buggering fuck, Harry, what in the name of Merlin, Morgana, Circe and all the Gods were you three thinking?!” Melanthe had grabbed her brother by the shoulders and was shaking him lightly. “Are you trying to kill me from worry?”
“Hey, Mel, none of us intended our shenanigans last night,” Harry attempted to placate her.
“Okay, you got accosted by an escaped convict, nearly mauled by a werewolf – twice! – faced a hundred blasted dementors with a Patronus you weren’t sure would even work – nearly losing half your soul in the process – but it’s all fine because it was not intentional?” Mel stepped back, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. “You’ll be the death of me before I see 40, I swear to the gods!”
“Mel…”
“Don’t Mel me, Harry James Potter.” Melanthe tried to keep her tone even. “I worry because you’re the only person on Earth I still claim as family. I don’t think I’d survive losing you.
Melanthe had been feeling off since she saw the glowing Dark Mark in the sky, and that feeling became oppressive when the champions’ names were drawn, almost constricting around her heart.
“The champion for Dumstrang will be Viktor Krum.”
She clapped politely, pausing when the flames turned red again.
“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour.”
Melanthe clapped, but her ears were ringing, so she missed the announcement of Cedric being a champion, clapping manually.
And then the flames went red again, and the fear constricting around her heart became so tight that spots were dancing across her vision, as Dumbledore called out, “Harry Potter.”
This is going to be bad, very bad. Melanthe had read up on the Tournament, to get an idea of what they could expect. The death toll was astronomical, nearly 2.500 if she remembered right. It had been discontinued in 1793 after all three champions, two judges, and 500 spectators died in the third task due to a chimera getting loose. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen now that a teenage celebrity with people after his head was entered. They’re practically begging for disaster.
Daphne’s words made Melanthe almost choke on her pumpkin juice. “What?”
“Potter, you heard me.” The Slytherin’s tone was fond, if exasperated. “Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”
Melanthe blushed, the tips of her hair going as red as her cheeks did. “Is it allowed?”
“They can shove their opinions somewhere dark and small, I don’t care what they think of two girls going together.” Daphne’s darker blue eyes sparkled. “Will you?”
“Oh, for Circe’s sake, Greengrass, yes!” Melanthe smiled, her eerily light blue eyes almost glittering in the light.
“What colour are your robes?”
“Midnight blue. Yours?”
“Silver. It’ll work.”
“How… unorthodox,” Snape muttered when he saw Daphne and Melanthe dancing together.
“If the rules do not explicitly state it is, then it is not forbidden, professor,” Melanthe sniped back as she led Daphne into another waltz.
She could faintly hear McGonagall’s chuckles, but it faded at the sound of Daphne’s laughter, at the sight of the jewels in the tiara in the Slytherin’s honey blonde hair catching the light, and of the sensation of just moving, almost without thought, to the rhythm of the music.
Melanthe’s Hogwarts letter felt heavier than usual as she took it from Molly, cracking it open. Alongside the parchment, a blue and bronze badge fell out. Prefect. Oh, Circe, I’m a Prefect!
“Ron and Hermione, they’re prefects! Oh, it’s so wonderful!” Molly had tears in her eyes when Melanthe went down later.
“What do you have there, Melanthe?” Remus raised an eyebrow.
With red cheeks and hair, Melanthe opened her hand, displaying the Prefect badge in her palm.
“I knew you were Lily’s daughter. Prefect, honestly!” Sirius shook his head, “James would be shocked.”
“Please tell that to Dorea and Charlus,” Melanthe sniped playfully, drawing a bark of laughter from the Grim animagus.
“You too, Potter?” Daphne teased when Melanthe entered the Prefects’ Carriage.
“Well, I’m more surprised that you got it, since Parkinson was crowing that she would for the entire last week of term,” Melanthe snarked back, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Pfft, as if.” Daphne snorted. “Her grades slipped, badly, and her parents decided she did not deserve that kind of authority until she had her responsibilities straight.”
“Brilliant.”
Melanthe and Daphne traded looks over the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables at Umbridge’s speech, both blanching with the implications of every word.
“Well, it’s lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me! I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends! The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”
Flitwick was scowling, Snape looked ready to use her in experimental potions, McGonagall was scowling as well, and Sprout was keeping a vague smile on her face as Umbridge continued speaking.
“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’ sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation, because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.” Umbridge’s sweet smile made Melanthe hold back a gag, and fight to keep her hair from going vomit green.
Melanthe knew she was dosed with Veritaserum the second she took a sip of the tea Umbridge gave her, and decided to play along. Two drops weren’t exactly enough to make her spill all her secrets.
“Where does your brother’s secret club meet?”
“I don’t know, Professor. I’m hardly my brother’s minder.”
“Who is part of the club?”
“I don’t know, Professor.”
“Where is Albus Dumbledore?”
“I don’t know, Professor.”
Umbridge – clearly furious – spat another question. “Where is Sirius Black?”
“I don’t know, Professor.”
Umbridge let her go at that, and Melanthe immediately went to Snape to beg for the antidote.
The summer before sixth year saw Melanthe sneaking out to Gringotts, legally changing her name to Melanthe Hadrea Peverell. She didn’t look like a Potter, something that could help her in the long run. Then, after the name change, she locked her original identity away behind the Fidelius – a highly experimental thing to do – and sighed with relief.
It came in handy during their seventh year, since Melanthe could go to Hogwarts normally. Only a few staff members knew her original name, and definitely none of the Death Eaters.
It was during a midnight patrol around midwinter when Daphne shoved Melanthe against the wall in an alcove in an abandoned corridor, and snogged her senseless.
And in that moment, that stolen moment where Hogwarts once more felt like the magnificent fortress and magical masterpiece eleven-year-old Melanthe saw it as, it was like something just… clicked.
The way Melanthe’s stomach flipped when Daphne smiled at her, the utterly sappy looks she had when she thought nobody was looking at her, the way Daphne could look so dishevelled, with ink smudges on her cheeks and staining her fingers, neat braid undone and green and silver tie cast aside, and still be the most beautiful thing in the universe to the necromancer…
By Dagda, I’m in love with Daphne Greengrass. The realisation didn’t hit her like a freight train. No, it just clicked into place. And Melanthe just kissed the Slytherin. “Se agapw,Dafnh,” she whispered against her kips.
“Je t’aime aussi, Melanthe,”
Melanthe had no blasted idea what possessed her, but she went with it. “Greengrass?”
“Yeah, Potter?”
“When the war’s over, and if we survive, will you marry me?”
“For a Ravenclaw, you have the subtlety of a bludger to the cranium, Potter. But yes, I’ll marry you. It better be an Old Ways bonding, or else.”
“Where else would I get a chance to use traditional Celtic vows, Greengrass?” Melanthe laughed, sending a spell flying towards one of the masked Death Eaters.
“Only you would pop the question in the middle of a fucking battle, Potter.” Daphne sent another spell flying.
“Peverells don’t do things by halves, Greengrass.” Melanthe had a devilish glint in her eyes.
“I hope that holds true for our NEWTs,” Daphne snarked.
“Oh, ye of little faith…” Melanthe laughed again, throwing another spell, standing back to back with the Greengrass heiress.
“And?” Daphne raised an eyebrow at Melanthe’s NEWT results. “Come on, Mistress of Death, was that all talk on the battlefield?”
When Harry surrendered the Hallows to Melanthe after the battle, saying that he’d pass on immortality, thanks, it had soon become a bit of a joke as Melanthe became the master of the Hallows in her brother’s stead.
“Nearly all Outstanding, except for an Exceeds Expectations in Care and Acceptable in History.” Melanthe smirked. “You?”
“Acceptable in History, Exceeds Expectations in Care and Charms, and Outstanding in the rest.”
“As I said, Peverells don’t do anything by halves,” Melanthe said with a smirk.
Daphne kissed that smirk right off her face. And the former Ravenclaw didn’t have the heart to complain.
Melanthe’s breath almost left her lungs at the shy smile Daphne gave her as her younger sister wrapped the final cord around their clasped wrists. “May your hands and wands never be raised against each other in anger, and may your union be blessed.”
“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.
You cannot command me, for I am a free person.
But I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.
I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.
I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup.
I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.
I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine.
I shall not slander you, nor you me.
I shall honour you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in private, and tell no strangers our grievances.
This is my wedding vow to you.
This is a marriage of equals.”
The magic hanging in the air became thicker, almost cloying in its intensity with Daphne’s vows, but when Melanthe repeated them, it became tangible, converging into a blue and silver ribbon around their wrists – the same blue and silver of their fourth-year robes – before the magic sank into their skin and the cords came undone.
“I now pronounce you bonded, Daphne and Melanthe Peverell-Greengrass.”
“You are so carrying the next child,” Daphne snarled at Melanthe under her breath, cradling her infant son to her chest.
“Gladly, h kardia mou,” Melanthe smiled tenderly. “He’s adorable.”
“Cadmus Cygnus Peverell-Greengrass,” Daphne said softly after several long moments of silence.
Melanthe pressed a kiss to her wife’s cheek in silent answer, watching their son clutch their fingers tightly.
The Peverell-Greengrass family home was never one devoid of life, laughter and love. It always tore at Melanthe’s heart to lose a child, or grandchild, any relative really. But Daphne was there for her, preventing her slow downward spiral into insanity the same way Cadmus Peverell went after his wife died, until – suddenly – one December night, she just wasn't.
Jarring pain from their soul-bond snapping jolted Melanthe from a deep sleep, crying out in pain.
Two weeks later, Melanthe stared down at Daphne’s tomb, uncaring of the tears streaming down her face and freezing in the biting icy wind. She knew the Greengrass line wouldn’t die out for centuries yet, and that she had the unique opportunity to see it herself, but she just couldn’t care. She’d lost so many people – Astoria, Draco, Scorpius, Harry, Ginny, their brood, Ron, Hermione, Bill, Fleur, Victoire, Charlie, Teddy, Neville, Hannah, Luna, Susan, Terry… The list went on and on – but managed to cling to life due to Daphne. But Mel had known that, regardless of the fact that she was the Mistress of Death and that they had used the soul-bonding ceremony, Daphne would die. “When the first red snowflake falls, I’ll find my way back to you, h kardia mou.”