Chapter One: Girl Talk
September, 2000
Minerva McGonagall's eyes were narrowed behind her square spectacles as she read over Melinda's transcript one last time, searching for some small disqualifying fault that she might have missed in some previous reading. Sitting on the edge of one of the Headmistress' square, slightly uncomfortable chairs, Melinda folded her hands, tried not to fidget, and waited. It would be irrational to expect the woman who had been Head of Gryffindor as recently as Melinda's third year to take readily to the idea of having a student who had been a Slytherin under Severus Snape accompany her to France for the better part of a year, but she had said that the Tournament was open to all seventeen-year-old students who met the grade and behavioral requirements. Melinda had gone over the papers herself before she submitted her name to Professor Slughorn for consideration.
McGonagall put down the parchment and fixed Melinda with an unreadable stare. "Your parents wrote to indicate their willingness to allow you to compete, Miss Bobbin," she said, all but emotionlessly. Melinda focused harder on not fidgeting. McGonagall had been intimidating when she was merely Melinda's Transfiguration professor; as headmistress, she had changed, just enough to make anyone in his or her right mind avoid crossing her like the plague. "Not that, of course, it is necessary now that you're of age, but the gesture indicates that they believe you will be selected as part of the Hogwarts delegation."
"I'm sorry if they seem presumptuous, Professor," Melinda said, trying to keep her own face and voice as neutral as McGonagall's. "I'm their only child, and they think very highly of me – "
"That," McGonagall said, cutting her off, "is obvious." The professor moved another sheet of parchment to the top of her small pile. "Professor Slughorn also speaks highly of you, as do your records." Something almost like a smile touched McGonagall's mouth, and Melinda realized she was holding her breath in anticipation. "Based on the criteria I set up for the students wishing to compete, there is no reason why you should not be allowed to travel to France and submit your name to the Goblet of Fire."
She doesn't think there's a chance I'll be selected, Melinda translated mentally. She's out for another Gryffindor, maybe a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw – never a Slytherin. Slytherins, after all, are exceptional people, but not in the way a Triwizard Champion is supposed to be. I'm certainly no Harry Potter. Aloud, she said, "Thank you, Professor."
"You won't be thanking me long," McGonagall said grimly. "It's a hard game, the Triwizard Tournament. Are you quite sure you've thought this all the way through, Miss Bobbin?"
"Quite, Professor," Melinda said quietly. She'd thought about it, all right, all about Cedric Diggory and all the others who had died over the centuries. This time, though, it was supposed to be safe; the Dark Lord was gone for good, so the difficulties of the last Tournament wouldn't be encountered again, and the safety measures of Dumbledore and Crouch were being retained. Silence stretched for a long moment before Melinda cleared her throat, tired of listening to it. "May I be excused?"
"You may. Professor Slughorn will be given enough details to answer any questions you might have."
"Thank you, Professor." Really, what was there to say? One didn't pal around with the headmistress of Hogwarts School. It would have been unseemly, and McGonagall probably would have thrown her in detention for impertinence. Rising, she bobbed a curtsy, McGonagall made a noise suspiciously like a snort, and Melinda left the woman's office, keeping her dignity until she reached the entrance to the dungeons, where she broke into a run.
"Champion," she gasped at the wall, the recollection of Professor Slughorn's claim that the new password was for luck almost sending her into gales of laughter on the spot. This was the most exciting thing to happen since – since – since she couldn't remember. Malcolm's birth had been cause for some excitement, since Genevieve had been despairing of ever producing a son, but cousins being born was regular enough to make it seem a little anticlimactic compared to this. Hurrying across the common room with barely any real effort to contain herself, she ignored any odd looks she got and burst into the dorm.
Elspeth was already standing right behind it, and Mercedes, though seated on her bed, looked no less interested in hearing what had happened. "Well? What did the old bat say?" Even worked up as she was, Melinda managed to giggle at hearing the Headmistress referred to as an 'old bat' while Mercedes winced at it. Elspeth was both the shame of the McGonagall family, Sorted into Slytherin while her twin brother Eric went into Ravenclaw, and Minerva McGonagall's granddaughter. The only comment Melinda had ever head Ellie make on it was to say that she hoped she found out about her inevitable disownment before Eric did. It had become something akin to a class joke.
"Well…she wasn't happy," Melinda bluffed. "Not happy at all…that there was no reason by her own rules that she could find to keep me here." Elspeth, all dignity forgotten, shrieked and hugged her. Mercedes sighed.
"Just because McGonagall is a Gryffindor doesn't mean that she's utterly prejudiced against us," the tall girl told them, but with the mechanical air of one who had said the same thing many times and almost accepted that it would never be paid any heed.
"The whole world is against us," Elspeth informed her. "We're members of the House of You-Know-Who and the worst traitors of the war. You can't expect all of the Phoenixey people to forgive us this quickly. I don't know if old Dumbledore would have done." No one made any argument about the unfairness of judging them by people who had long since left Slytherin or who had, at the least, not been their yearmates. They were all too practical to consider it. Elspeth shook back her long hair and forced a smile. "Has Valarie made up her mind yet, 'Cedes? I've been so busy thinking about Melinda dueling with Grandmother that I forgot to ask."
"Yes," Mercedes said, looking grateful for the topic change. No one liked to be reminded of why they still weren't trusted. "She's decided that it's unladylike for a girl to take part in this sort of thing and announced she wants nothing more to do with you or Melinda until you come to your senses."
Valarie had always been the snob of their year, Melinda thought bitterly. She'd never liked that girl. "What about you?"
"Mother and Father won't hear of it." Mercedes said, lifting one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. Melinda envied her her ability to make anything look graceful. Merlin knew she herself had virtually nothing of it. "Nor will my – "Mercedes grimaced – "fiancé. I wasn't part of a litter – "Elspeth glared at her – "or an extended network of cousins. Not in Britain, anyway, and someone has to inherit the British money. "Another little joke among them was that Mercedes had been named by default, since her name was one of the very few used in both Spanish and German. Melinda's great-grandfather's apothecaries were widespread, but Mercedes' family consisted of diplomats and those who thought they were. They were scattered across three continents that Mercedes could remember.
"You're of age now," Elspeth pointed out. "You could do as you liked."
"I could," Mercedes agreed, "If I was feeling suicidal. Father's reaction would be sweet compared to Andrean's, and if I survived the Tournament, it would be him I had to live with for the rest of my life." Melinda almost reached out to pat her friend's shoulder, but stopped short. Mercedes might appreciate the feeling behind the gesture, but not the gesture itself. She had been engaged unusually early, but that was what sometimes happened when the family needed alliances. Merlin knew there had been enough discussions of what to do with Melinda's hand in the family already, though she was still thankfully single. It was just another part of being a pureblood, and there was no point in getting upset about it.
"So," Elspeth said, saving them again. That was her role in the group, and she had become better and better at it as the years went on. "Robes. Which ones are you taking with you for this Yule Ball? I hear the French are very – er – derisive when they think someone's formals are out of style."