Chapter 8: The Greengrass Gambit

The Archimedes Principle

Chapter 8: The Greengrass Gambit

November, 1881

The art of pure-blood courtship, Cassian had determined, was functionally identical to a corporate takeover. It was a multi-stage process involving due diligence, strategic posturing, the leveraging of assets, and a final, binding contract. Love, as a variable, was an inefficient and dangerously volatile market force, one he had no intention of introducing into his calculations. His choice of a bride was a matter of cold, hard asset acquisition. And the prime asset on the market was Isadora Greengrass.

Prometheus had compiled the dossier weeks ago. The Greengrass family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, ancient and respected, but their power was of a different sort than the Lestranges' or the Malfoys'. It was not the brutal, political power of fanaticism, but the quiet, pervasive power of commerce. For centuries, the Greengrasses had been merchants, their fingers in everything from rare potion ingredients to, according to older records, the import of mundane goods like tea and tobacco. They were pragmatists who understood value, a trait Cassian found infinitely more useful than ideological purity. They were neutral, which meant they were unaligned, which meant they were available.

Isadora, the eldest daughter, was by all accounts her father's child: intelligent, shrewd, and educated not just at Hogwarts but tutored privately in magical theory and economics. She was the perfect candidate. An alliance with the Greengrasses would not only secure his social flank with a respectable, neutral powerhouse but would also provide invaluable infrastructure and expertise for his expanding commercial empire.

The first step was formal, a rigid dance dictated by centuries of tradition. He did not send an owl directly to Isadora; that would be seen as presumptuous. The proper channel was through the patriarch. In his study, surrounded by the dark, oppressive grandeur of Lestrange Manor, Cassian dictated the letter while a self-inking quill scratched silently across a sheet of expensive vellum.

To Lord Cyrus Greengrass, Patriarch of the Noble and Respected House of Greengrass,

It is with the utmost respect for the traditions that bind our society that I, Cassian Lestrange, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Lestrange, write to you today. Our families, while having walked different paths, have long stood as pillars of the wizarding world. I believe the time may be upon us where our paths might converge for the mutual strength and prosperity of our lines.

To that end, I formally request your permission to be introduced to your esteemed daughter, the Lady Isadora. It is my sincere wish to begin a period of formal courtship, should she, and you, find me worthy of such an honor.

Toujours Pur.

Cassian Corvus Lestrange.

The letter was a masterpiece of the form, a document Prometheus had helped craft by analyzing hundreds of similar pure-blood correspondences from the last two centuries. It was deferential yet confident, traditional yet hinting at a modern focus on "prosperity." It was a prospectus disguised as a social nicety. He sent it via the Lestrange family owl, a formidable eagle owl with eyes like chips of obsidian, its leg bearing a silver ring stamped with the Lestrange raven.

The reply came two days later. It was brief and written on crisp, unadorned parchment that spoke of efficiency rather than opulence. Lord Greengrass granted the request for an introduction. He and his family would be receiving guests the following Sunday. Cassian was invited to call upon them at Greengrass Manor at two in the afternoon. The game had begun.

Greengrass Manor, known to the family as Fear Glas, was located in the rolling hills of the Welsh countryside. It was a large, handsome estate, but it lacked the menacing, gothic spires of Lestrange Manor or the ostentatious gleam of Malfoy Manor. It was built of light grey stone, covered in ivy, and surrounded by gardens that were meticulously cultivated but for utility as much as beauty. Cassian recognized several rare potion ingredients growing alongside ornamental flowers. It was the home of a family that understood that wealth was something to be grown, not just displayed.

He was met at the door by a house-elf in a clean, grey tea towel and led to a sunlit parlor where the family was assembled. Lord Cyrus Greengrass was a man in his late fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He had the hands of a man who was not afraid of work, but the robes of a man who no longer had to. His wife, Lady Elara, was elegant and reserved, her smile polite but her eyes analytical. And beside her was Isadora.

She was not beautiful in the delicate, doll-like way of many pure-blood women. Her features were strong, her jawline defined, her gaze direct and unnervingly intelligent. Her dark brown hair was styled simply, and her robes, while of fine make, were practical. When he bowed before her, a perfect, formal gesture, she met his eyes without a hint of coyness or false modesty. She was assessing him, weighing him, just as he was doing to her.

SUBJECT: ISADORA GREENGRASS. PHYSIOLOGICAL STATE: CALM. HEART RATE: NOMINAL. PUPIL DILATION: MINIMAL. ANALYSIS: SHE IS NOT INTIMIDATED. SHE IS IN CONTROL OF THE SOCIAL INTERACTION. RECOMMENDED STRATEGY: ENGAGE ON INTELLECTUAL GROUNDS. AVOID PLATITUDES.

"Lord Lestrange," she said, her voice clear and steady. "My father tells me you have an interest in the prosperity of our houses."

It was a bold opening, cutting straight through the expected pleasantries about the weather or the journey. She was testing him, seeing if he was just another vapid heir spouting his father's lines.

"I have an interest in building things that last, Lady Isadora," Cassian replied smoothly, taking the seat offered to him. "And lasting prosperity is the only true measure of a house's strength. Tradition provides the foundation, but innovation must build the walls."

He saw a flicker of interest in her eyes, and in her father's. He spent the next hour in a carefully orchestrated conversation. He spoke of his family's finances, framing his revolutionary, Muggle-integrated businesses in language they would appreciate. He spoke of Aethelred Provisions not as a company that used house-elf labor and Muggle chemistry to create a monopoly, but as an enterprise dedicated to "standardizing the quality and availability of essential magical ingredients, freeing noble families from the whims of unreliable foreign suppliers." He spoke of Lestrange Capital not as a predatory lending firm, but as a "mechanism to unlock the latent value in ancient family assets, providing the liquidity needed for our society to grow."

He was selling them a vision, and they, as merchants, understood the language of a good sales pitch. He watched Isadora throughout. She listened intently, her head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable. She was not charmed; she was analyzing the prospectus. This was exactly what he wanted. A partner, not a decoration.

The courtship proceeded according to the strict, suffocating rules of Victorian high society, which the pure-bloods had adopted and amplified with their own magical paranoia. Their meetings were always chaperoned. They walked in the gardens of her family estate, her mother or a grim-faced governess always a discreet but non-negotiable ten paces behind. They attended a Ministry gala, where their conversation was a public performance of propriety. He could not touch her, save for offering a hand to steady her on a rough patch of ground, a gesture both of them knew was pure theater.

Their real courtship happened through letters. Each night, he would compose a missive, a carefully calibrated instrument of intellectual seduction. He learned of her passion for ancient runes and theoretical ward-craft. So he wrote to her not of love, but of the underlying arithmancy of protective enchantments, of the possibility of creating wards that could adapt and evolve. He was giving her glimpses of his true mind, the mind that saw magic as a science, but carefully framed it as a deep respect for the "old ways" and the "fundamental grammar of magic."

After a month of this meticulous campaign, the time came for the traditional courting gift. This was a critical juncture. A piece of expensive jewelry would be expected, but it would be banal. It would not impress a mind like Isadora's. He needed to make a statement of power and intent.

At their next meeting in the Greengrass parlor, he presented her not with a velvet ring box, but with a heavy, cube-shaped container of polished obsidian.

"A gift, Lady Isadora," he said.

With a curious glance at her father, who nodded his assent, she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a cushion of deep green silk, lay a single, perfectly smooth stone of a material she did not recognize. It was the color of a starless midnight sky, and it seemed to drink the light from the room. A complex, silver rune was inlaid on its surface, a rune of his own design.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice betraying genuine curiosity for the first time.

"I call it a Sentinel Stone," Cassian explained, his voice low and confident. "It is not an ancient artifact. I created it. It is a new type of warding focus. Most wards are static; they repel a specific list of curses. This stone is dynamic. If you place it at the heart of your estate, it will passively analyze the magical signature of every person and spell that crosses the boundary. It learns. It will not only block an attack, but it will deconstruct the spell's structure and, within microseconds, formulate a specific counter-frequency to nullify it. It is a shield that thinks."

Silence descended on the room. Lord Greengrass leaned forward, his eyes wide. Isadora stared at the stone, then at Cassian, her composure finally cracking to reveal astonishment. This was not a gift; it was a paradigm shift. The magic he described was theoretical, the stuff of Unspeakable research and academic fantasy. To have created a functional prototype was a display of power and genius that was simply unheard of.

"May we… test it?" Lord Greengrass asked, his voice hushed.

"I would be insulted if you did not," Cassian replied.

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the grounds of the estate, with Lord Greengrass and Isadora casting a variety of complex offensive and detection spells at a boundary line marked by the stone. Each time, the spell would fizzle into nothingness, and the rune on the stone's surface would glow and subtly shift its configuration. Prometheus fed Cassian the data in real-time, but the effect was, as he had designed, flawless.

He had not just given her a gift. He had given her family an absolute guarantee of security. He had demonstrated that his intellect was a weapon and a shield far greater than any amount of gold in a Gringotts vault.

The courtship was, for all intents and purposes, over. The negotiation was complete. A week later, he returned to Greengrass Manor. He met with Lord Greengrass in his study first, a formality to request his daughter's hand. It was a brief conversation. The deal had already been struck.

Then, he was granted a private audience with Isadora, unchaperoned for the first time, in the family library.

She stood by a window, looking out at the gardens, the Sentinel Stone now resting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace like a dark, sleeping heart.

"You are not what I expected, Lord Lestrange," she said without turning around.

"My name is Cassian," he said, moving to stand near her. "And I suspect you are exactly what I expected, Lady Isadora."

She turned to face him, her expression serious. "What is it you truly want? This alliance is more than a simple union of names. The magic you possess… it is beyond what is taught. What is your ambition?"

He met her gaze directly. There was no need for pretense now. He would give her a version of the truth, the part she was ready to hear.

"My ambition is to ensure that my family—our family—does not merely survive the coming century, but commands it. The world is changing. The pure-blood families are stagnant, clinging to traditions they no longer understand, their wealth bleeding away, their power a memory. They will be swept away. I intend to build an empire that is immune to the tides of history. An empire built on real power, real wealth, and real innovation. I am not looking for a wife to manage my household. I am looking for a partner. A queen for the kingdom I intend to build."

He let the words hang in the air. It was the ultimate appeal to her nature—to the shrewd, pragmatic, ambitious core of the Greengrass legacy. He was offering her not a cage of domesticity, but a throne.

A slow smile spread across her face, transforming her severe features into something truly captivating. It was a smile of understanding, of shared ambition.

"That," she said, "is a proposal a Greengrass can understand."

He took a small, velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was the Lestrange engagement ring. It was not a gaudy bauble, but a band of platinum and obsidian, set with a single, flawless black diamond that seemed to absorb the light, much like the Sentinel Stone. It was a tool of power, not an ornament.

"Then it is with the greatest strategic advantage," he said, taking her hand, "that I ask you to be my wife."

"Yes, Cassian," she replied, her voice firm as she allowed him to slide the ring onto her finger. "I will."

The ring settled on her finger, the black diamond pulsing once with a faint, cold light. The merger was complete. The Greengrass Gambit had succeeded. Now, the real work could begin.