Chapter Text
Power came in many shades. In the world Harry Potter lived in, it was always green.
The night was heavy with a sense of foreboding, as though the wizarding world itself knew it had reached a point of no return. Rain lashed against the tall windows of the Ministry of Magic, streaking the glass like tears. Deep within its labyrinthine halls, the air was charged with unease, the whispers of urgent conversations echoing against the cold stone walls. Something terrible had happened, and the entire magical community would soon feel its ripples.
Benedict Greengrass sat alone in his office, his hands steepled under his chin as he gazed into the flickering fire. The flames danced in his pale green eyes, betraying nothing of the thoughts racing through his mind. His robes, a dark emerald trimmed in silver, were as impeccable as ever, and his expression remained one of composed indifference. Whatever was unfolding tonight, he had not yet been given enough information to act, and Benedict preferred it that way. The less one revealed, the more control one retained.
The sharp crack of the door opening broke the silence. Lucius Malfoy strode in, his presence commanding as always. His long, platinum hair was tied neatly back, and his expression was a mask of calm, though his silver eyes betrayed a flicker of urgency.
“Benedict,” Lucius said, his voice low and clipped. “The Minister has called for you. It’s time.”
Benedict stood without hesitation, his movements smooth and deliberate. “What’s happened?” he asked, his tone neutral. He adjusted the cuffs of his robes as he followed Lucius out into the dimly lit corridor.
Lucius’s jaw tightened. “The Potters are dead.”
Benedict’s steps faltered for the briefest moment, but he quickly recovered. “And the child?”
“Alive,” Lucius said, his voice sharp with disbelief. “But Voldemort is… gone. Or so they claim.”
Benedict said nothing, but his mind churned with possibilities. The fall of the Dark Lord—if true—would leave a void, one that would either crumble their carefully woven plans or create new opportunities. As they approached the Minister’s office, Benedict schooled his features into a mask of calm detachment. Whatever was to come, he would face it with the same quiet calculation he always did.
The Minister’s office was filled to capacity. Cornelius Fudge stood near his desk, nervously clutching his bowler hat. Alastor Moody leaned against the wall, his magical eye spinning as it swept the room. Bartemius Crouch Sr. was by the window, his sharp gaze fixed on the storm outside, while Amelia Bones stood stiffly by the door, her lips pressed into a thin line. At the center of the room, seated with an air of authority that none could ignore, was Albus Dumbledore. His long silver beard caught the light of the torches, but his blue eyes were hard, their usual twinkle replaced with something colder.
Lucius took his place near the back of the room, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding. Benedict entered silently, standing beside him. The tension in the room was suffocating.
Dumbledore’s voice cut through the silence. “James and Lily Potter have been murdered by Voldemort.” He spoke the words with the gravity they deserved, his tone devoid of any softness. “But something extraordinary occurred. Voldemort attempted to kill their son, Harry, and… he failed.”
A murmur swept through the room, disbelief and shock rippling among the gathered officials.
“Failed?” Crouch’s voice was incredulous. “How could the Dark Lord fail to kill a child?”
Dumbledore’s piercing gaze swept over the room. “That is the question we must answer. For now, what matters is that Harry Potter survived, and Voldemort has vanished.”
“The child is at St. Mungo’s,” Fudge interjected, his voice shaky. “He’s being treated for the aftereffects of the curse. But we must discuss his future—his guardianship.”
“He’ll go to his aunt and uncle,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Lily’s sister. Blood wards will protect him there.”
“That arrangement is no longer an option,” Fudge said, shuffling a parchment nervously. “The Potters named Sirius Black as their first-priority godparent.”
The room froze. Moody’s magical eye locked onto Fudge, and even Dumbledore’s composure seemed to waver.
“Black is in Azkaban,” Moody growled. “That man is a traitor and a murderer. He’s no more fit to care for a child than a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
“Indeed,” Fudge said, his voice cracking slightly. “As such, the responsibility defaults to the second-priority godparent… Benedict Greengrass.”
The murmurs grew louder, disbelief rippling through the room.
“James Potter would entrust his son to a Slytherin?” Crouch said, his tone dripping with disdain.
Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened as it settled on Benedict. “James Potter’s decision was unorthodox, to say the least. A child of his significance must be placed where he can flourish into the symbol of hope we all need him to be. I am not convinced that your household is the ideal environment for such a task, Mr. Greengrass.”
Benedict’s face remained impassive as he absorbed the information. The weight of the responsibility settled on him like a heavy cloak, but he gave no indication of his thoughts. His silence spoke volumes, a calculated response that ensured no one could glean his true feelings.
Amelia Bones’s sharp voice broke the tension. “Mr. Greengrass, will you accept this responsibility?”
Benedict inclined his head slightly. “If the arrangement is legal, I will honor it.”
Fudge’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Good, good. Then it’s settled.”
But Dumbledore’s frown deepened, and the room remained steeped in unease. As the officials began to disperse, Benedict stood rooted in place, his thoughts carefully guarded. The child—Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—was now his responsibility. What that would mean for his family, his position, and the delicate web of secrets he maintained was a question that would soon demand an answer.
The storm still raged outside as Benedict Greengrass arrived home at Greengrass Manor, his emerald-green robes slick with rain. The manor stood tall and foreboding on the edge of Wiltshire, its grand stone exterior gleaming under the flashes of lightning. The warmth of the house hit him the moment he stepped inside, but it did little to thaw the cold calculation running through his veins.
A house-elf appeared instantly, its large eyes peering up at him with deference. “Master Benedict,” it squeaked. “Mistress Beatrice is in the drawing room. She is waiting for you.”
“Of course she is,” Benedict muttered, handing off his soaked cloak. The elf vanished with a pop as he strode through the halls, his boots echoing softly against the polished marble floors.
The drawing room was lit with a low fire, its flames casting long shadows across the room. Beatrice Greengrass sat perched on a high-backed chair, her posture rigid yet poised, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was the picture of control, her dark hair pulled into a severe chignon, her silver-gray robes unwrinkled despite the late hour. She looked up as Benedict entered, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice clipped and precise.
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Would you believe I was detained by the Minister himself?”
“Obviously,” Beatrice replied, her tone leaving no room for levity. “What’s happened? The elf said you returned with… an expression.”
Benedict ignored her jab and poured himself a glass of firewhisky from the sideboard. “James and Lily Potter are dead.” He took a deliberate sip, letting the weight of his words settle into the room before continuing. “Voldemort attempted to kill their son, Harry, but the curse rebounded. The Dark Lord has vanished. And now—” He paused, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “We are responsible for the boy.”
Beatrice tilted her head, her expression inscrutable. “Elaborate.”
Benedict recounted the events of the night in meticulous detail, sparing nothing. He described the scene at the Ministry, the revelation of the Potters’ will, and how Sirius Black’s imprisonment had left Harry’s guardianship in their hands. He hesitated only once, his gaze momentarily flickering to the fire as he mentioned James Potter’s name. As he spoke of James Potter, he hesitated briefly, his gaze flickering toward the fire. He could still remember the days when James and Regulus Black had been entangled in something far more than a schoolboy rivalry. Nearly all of Slytherin had known about the relationship, whispered about it in hushed tones, though most had been too wary of Regulus to speak of it openly. Benedict had seen the way James's presence had lit a fire in Regulus, one that hadn’t dimmed even after their bitter, painful end. And now, years later, James’s trust had once again landed on a Slytherin—on him. Through it all, Beatrice remained silent, her expression carefully neutral.
When he finished, she rose gracefully from her chair, crossing the room with measured steps. She stood before the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flickering light. “So,” she said finally, “it’s either us or Muggles.”
“Precisely,” Benedict replied, his voice calm but firm. “Dumbledore was… less than pleased, though he could hardly argue with the legality of it.”
Beatrice turned to face him, her dark eyes blazing with cold determination. “Then there’s no question. We will take him in.”
Benedict studied her carefully. “You’re certain?”
Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile—sharp, knowing, and unyielding. “Do you realize the opportunity this presents?” she said, her voice low but laced with conviction. “This child is not just the Boy Who Lived. He is a Potter, a symbol, a legacy. Under our roof, he will grow to understand his place in the world. And we will ensure he belongs to us, not Dumbledore or anyone else.”
Benedict’s expression did not change, but her words stirred something deep within him. Ambition, perhaps. Or the faintest flicker of hope that Harry Potter, with all his fame and power, might someday become an ally in their carefully constructed world.
“The boy is at St. Mungo’s,” Benedict said after a moment. “He’s being treated for residual magical effects. He will need to be collected tomorrow.”
Beatrice nodded once, decisively. “The east wing will be prepared by morning. The elf will handle the essentials. Daphne…” She hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. “We will have to explain this to her carefully. She is young, but clever enough to notice something is different.”
“She’ll adjust,” Benedict said dismissively. “Daphne is clever enough to understand what this means for us.”
Beatrice’s gaze softened slightly at the mention of her daughter, but it hardened again as she returned to the matter at hand. “Good. Then it’s settled. Harry Potter will be a Greengrass by morning.”
Later that night, Benedict stood in his study, staring out into the storm. The rain lashed against the window, the sound a steady rhythm that matched the quiet hum of his thoughts. The responsibility that had been thrust upon him weighed heavily, but he was not a man to balk at duty—especially one that could be turned to his advantage.
He thought of Dumbledore’s frown, the skepticism etched into the old man’s face as he had reluctantly acknowledged the legality of the arrangement. Benedict smirked faintly. The Potters’ trust in him—misplaced or not—had ensured that Harry would not be molded into Dumbledore’s golden boy. Not entirely, at least.
From the doorway, Beatrice’s voice cut through the silence. “You’re brooding.”
Benedict glanced over his shoulder, his smirk deepening slightly. “Merely thinking.”
“Make sure your thinking includes what we’ll do when the Ministry starts asking questions,” she said, stepping into the room. “They’ll expect you to raise the boy as a proper hero. To shape him into something palatable for their narratives.”
“And we’ll give them just enough to satisfy them,” Benedict replied smoothly. “But the boy… he’ll be ours. In time, he’ll see the truth of the world.”
Beatrice’s lips curved into that same sharp smile. “Good. Then we understand each other.” Beatrice turned, her expression sharp as ever. “It’s settled, then. Harry James Potter will be tied to green.”
For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the storm outside raging on. Somewhere in the distance, the future was shifting, tethered now to the unyielding green of the Greengrass name.