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The name Cadfael is dotted intermittently throughout the Greengrass line. Welsh, like the origins of the family itself, it means 'battle' and 'prince', and Cadfael Eirian Greengrass, born in 1955 to Cadfael Hyperion Greengrass and his wife, Erminia Lestrange, is the sixth to bear the name.
He attends Hogwarts in 1966 and is sorted into Slytherin. Later, when his brother becomes a Ravenclaw, his parents will boast of their matched set; the Greengrasses have historically populated either house, and to have the perfect Greengrass sons, the images of their father in strong jaw, dark hair, and dark eyes - assisted in no small part by the weighted features of the Lestrange line - in either House becomes a point of pride.
At the behest of his parents, he courts a few girls in his time at Hogwarts. He's the heir, after all, and while Hyperion is expected to dedicate himself to his studies and bolster the Greengrass reputation by way of talent and skill, Cadfael must add to the prestige of their name by way of a marriage of influence, through advantageously compounding their bloodline and magic.
There's a girl from the Selwyn family, known for their fertility and their talent for Charms; then, there's the Abbott witch, who wears yellow and black and is quick-witted in a way that doubles him over, but his mother hates. For a moment, there's even a consideration of Bellatrix Black, who's brilliantly talented, beautiful, and the eldest of the current generation of one of the most respected Pureblood families in England.
His father puts and end to it. "Too inbred," he says, shaking his head over his tumbler - "I won't risk the Black madness in your sons."
He does not find a wife before his graduates; his focus remains split threefold throughout his schooling, on marriage, and studies, and the Cause.
The burgeoning movement of the Dark Lord creeps its way into Greengrass Court in the summer of Cadfael's fifth year. He's heard murmurs of it himself, of course; in the common room, from the mouths of Lucius Malfoy and his Snape-shaped shadow, in the mumblings and murmurs of others that follow every altercation in the halls.
Cadfael agrees with parts of it; he does not think Mudbloods should be taught among the children of proper Wizarding families; it's improper, an insult, and though half-bloods are another thing entirely, the creation of them is in itself wretched, reprehensible. However; he does not believe that their magic is stolen - the idea that a Muggle could overpower a Wizard in any way is inherently absurd. He does not know how they come about it, but he knows it isn't Pure, and that's good enough for him to harbor a hate. Magic is might. That's true enough, he knows, and so though he doesn't agree with the violence - a useless expenditure of energy and magic, in his opinion - when his father joins up with the Dark Lord, he accepts the expectation that he will do the same upon graduation.
And he does.
The tattoo is the most painful thing he's ever experienced; the most painful thing he could ever imagine. It is a full-body burn that lasts for hours, and he screams, and he cries, and he vomits, and when it's over his father tells him he's proud of him.
They do not expect the same of Hyperion. He is younger, much younger, and they are Greengrasses; they are of duality, they play either side, so someone is always on the winning team. Cadfael does his best not to be jealous of his brother's freedom, knowing that every day Hyperion walks without the Mark is as dangerous as every day Cadfael does.
There are saving graces, after all. It's through the Cause that he meets his wife. He's approached by Evan Rosier, who is tall, blonde and lithe and has a penchant for explosive curses, who's been the Head of his family since his fifth year, who wants his sister, sixteen to Cadfael's twenty, wedded and bedded to the right sort of wizard as soon as she's out of Hogwarts.
Elizabeth is tall, like her brother.
Her smiles are not easily earned, but Cadfael learns quickly just how much he would do to see the quirk at the corners of her mouth. She is beautiful; and she is smart; Slytherin, and quiet, she hears everything and uses it to the benefit of those she loves.
She does not support the Cause. He learns this quickly; she does not go against it, not publicly, but she does not hide her distaste or dismay when it comes up, which is often, or when Cadfael bears the bruises of his work; especially when the stories he will not tell are pieced together over copies of the Prophet.
On their wedding night, she glares at the tattoo on his forearm like it might come to life and bite her. He tries to kiss the scowl from her mouth - and eventually, she kisses him back.
The ring is gold and green, ever present on her finger, and Cadfael is both lucky and doomed to fall in love with his wife, for he is not so naive as to believe that means she must feels the same. In fact, he knows she does not.
She does care for him. She learns how he takes his tea and his liquor and when he needs which; she makes a point of taking breakfast privately with him, in his study, on every morning that he is home to see the sun rise, and hides cauldron cakes in his pockets before he goes to work.
But he is not the Greengrass she wants.
He loves her, and he loves his brother; and he cannot blame them. He knows how often he leaves her alone, the nights in a row that he's gone with no goodbye and no explanation, out committing sins he will never admit to and she will never forgive, and he knows that Hyperion would be a far better match. But he loves her. And they do not lord it over him; they do not throw it in his face, and so he ignores what he knows and says nothing.
It's him that she's married to after all, and when he's twenty-five, she tells him she's pregnant.
She's overjoyed. He's terrified.
He knows, intimately, of Lucius Malfoy's grief over his wife's struggles. Two miscarriages, one that nearly killed her; it's all he can think of every time Elizabeth tells someone; she is grinning so much faster than she ever has and is bright with excitement, and he pictures her pale and cold and dead. He's caused enough corpses, after all, to know what it looks like - no matter how his father assures of the strength of the Rosier line over the weakness of Black blood.
And it's not just fear for her; it's fear for himself.
His own vulnerability feels absurdly more blatant every day closer they step to the birth. His wand starts to slip in a sweaty grip and he throws more defensive spells than attacks. They call him cowardly, they say he's lost his nerve - and he has, but he's got a wife and a baby, and fighting for a Cause he loses faith in every moment is not how he wants to leave them. He does not want to stain them with the blood on his hands.
When the Dark Lord is defeated, he celebrates. He does not mourn with his father or the others; he abandons them to their grief and broken dreams. His father attacks, goes after Order Members, and they kill him while Cadfael is in Paris with his wife looking at silk-lined prams.
He buries his father in the Greengrass plot. His mother cries. His daughter is born two weeks later and his brother holds her first because he is too busy washing his hands.
For five years, he escapes the persecution of the Wizengamot. He is not punished for his choices. He suffers; he has nightmares, his fingers slip on his wand and he feels phantom pain embedded in black ink - but his life goes on.
He teaches Daphne to walk and when Astoria's born, he tells his mother off on her scolding about an heir. He tells his daughters that they're beautiful, that they're smart, over and over and over again until they become their first words. He lets his influence at the Ministry stagnate in favour of his family and does not regret it for a moment. Quietly, he directs funds to St. Mungo's for those who half-survived the War and tries not to think of the Killing Curse he once aimed at Frank Longbottom when he looks at Daphne, who will be in the same year as the man's son.
For five years, he loves, hard. He continues to ignore that his wife is in love with his brother and his brother in love with his wife and sets Hyperion up on dates with eligible bachelorettes from all over Europe, and forces him away from his books to play one-on-one Quidditch on the private pitch while their girls watch and giggle and clap. He buys Elizabeth jewelry, and books, and hides cauldron cakes in her pockets, and makes love to her at night, and in the morning, and never again leaves her to sleep alone.
Cadfael loves, and he lives, and a week before Astoria's third birthday, he feels the noose settle around his neck.
It's a subtle change, but he's walked into warzones of his own creation and he can feel it when they throw sidelong glances, when they murmur until he steps into a room. Someone has told; someone has given his name and though they explained away his father's death, there have always been suspicions.
He keeps his sleeves down, and he looks after his family.
Abraxas Malfoy approached him a year after Daphne was born about his grandson; Draco, the baby Lucius and Narcissa fought so hard for, named after the stars like all of his mother's family. Cadfael, thinking of the weakness of Black blood, had declined with explanation of his wife's reluctance to betroth the baby in the cradle. He thinks of them first, now; his daughter would be well off as a Malfoy. Their name is nearly as old as the Black that has died out and the boy stands to inherit the magic of both lines. She'd be respected, and she'd be safe - but he does not contact Lucius, whose father died the year before.
He approaches Aloysius Nott. The man is nearly the age his own father would be, and his third wife had given birth to a son only months before Daphne was born. Theodore, they called him, and Cadfael knows that though the Nott name may not come with the same sort of prestige as Malfoy, it comes with something more valuable; subtlety. Oh, Aloysius attended the meetings and the raids; as vocal and violent a supporter as any - but he's managed to remain clear of the Ministry's suspicion, and the Nott name has never been quite as loud as the Malfoys.
He agrees. The contract is drawn up, and Elizabeth only protests until, Cadfael thinks, she sees that he is afraid. Then she nods, and she signs, and she kisses him on one unshaven cheek and he pretends that it does not sting like a slap.
They're a good match; that much is immediately obvious. Both quiet, both observant - they watch and they wait and at five, they hold hands and promise to never betray each other, words heavy with the weight of any adult's, and with all his heart, Cadfael believes them.
The match will be re-evaluated; Theo will be expected to give Daphne a ring in their teenage years, and she will be expected to accept it; the marriage will not work, their magic will not meld, if they do not consent.
Cadfael knows that they will, and he knows he will not be there to see it.
He does not manage to secure a match for Astoria, already so much more outspoken than her sister, before they come for him. It's during dinner; the Aurors burst in, and his mother raises her wand, and he does not. He puts his hands up. He watches Daphne cry, silent, and listens to Astoria scream, and aches when he sees the gloss of his wife's eyes.
Hyperion goes to them, while Cadfael is restrained, and he knows his brother will look after his family like it's his own, and thinks that perhaps that's been the point the whole time.
Elizabeth and Hyperion both attend the trial and he sees them holding hands in the seats, though they do not touch when they are allowed to see him after he is sentenced. He is named guilty on counts of murder, and torture, and he cannot remember who he was trying to make proud.
"Don't let them down," he tells his brother, and Elizabeth does not sob; but she does cry, thick, wet tears rolling down her cheeks as she curls fingers in the ragged robes they've given him and hides her face in his chest.
"I'm sorry," she says, the closest to an admittance that he's ever gotten, more than he's ever wanted, and he kisses her temple and tries not to fight too hard against the binds that keep him from holding her.
"Tell the girls I love them. Tell them the good parts," and he will write, later, to his brother, to insure that they never bring his daughters to see him; he does not want them to remember this picture of him, to know about the bad things Papa has done, he does not want them to see him lose himself to the dementors, as he's sure to do.
He wants them to know about sunrises in his study and their mother's laugh, so unexpected that she spills sugar-soaked tea on her nightdress and he kisses the giggles from her mouth. He wants them to remember bedtime stories with silly voices, piggyback rides and sugar quills snuck to them after dinner when Mama isn't looking.
"I will," Elizabeth tells him, and her voice cracks a little in it, and he closes his eyes.
Cadfael Eirian Greengrass, whose names mean battle, and prince, and bright, who does not think himself worthy of any of them, dies in Azkaban. He dies alone, as he believes he has been for years, perhaps decades, maybe centuries; but he does not know that he dies loved, and that is important.