Prologue – The Lost Future
19 December 2180
Greengrass Crypt, UK
Melanthe Peverell stared down at her partner of 180 years’ 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.”
28 December 2380
Greengrass Crypt, UK
Melanthe stared down at the last coffin to ever be interred in the Greengrass Crypt, before her throat seemed to close up, and she fell to her knees, sobbing. She’d lived for two centuries after Daphne’s death, watching generations of their descendants be born, live their lives, and die. But now even that was gone, because the last two Greengrasses had both died young. Many people in the Department of Mysteries looked at Melanthe in awe and admiration, because she was a relic of a time long gone, the last remnant of a war that was fought 382 years ago. And, to the 400-year-old Melanthe, it was a curse. She’d watched everyone she ever loved die, and the grief only built up instead of lessening as it should, because she could still see those she had lost, even without the Stone’s help. And she finally understood why Cadmus Peverell had gone insane from grief over his lost love. She could feel Daphne and Lily’s hands on her shoulders, and it only served to make her cry harder. “You can go on, mon amour, I won’t blame you.”
Melanthe shook her head wildly at Daphne’s words. “I can’t, h kardia mou, I can’t. By the gods, I don’t know how the Flamels could stand to live for six centuries. I can’t even last two without you. Everyone is gone, even the last of my blood. The Potters died out ten years ago, and I just buried my last descendant. How am I supposed to continue when my chest aches with every breath, and the family magics cry from the sheer emptiness of them? I can’t go on alone. Eternal life isn’t worth it, when I have no one to share it with anymore.”
Something wet and cold touched Melanthe’s cheeks, and she opened her eyes. It was snowing, but it was an odd snow, and she soon realised why: the snow was red. And she remembered her promise by Daphne’s grave, over 200 years ago now. And it was a promise she fully intended to keep. Mel pulled the elder wand from its holster, looking up at the red sky, and raised the wand to her heart. “Avada Kedavra.”
She was only dimly aware of her body hitting the ground, then the world went black.
Limbo
“Why, Mistress of Death, you lasted much longer than I thought you would.” The voice made Melanthe open her eyes, only to see King’s Cross – in pure white – and a dark-cloaked figure standing nearby.
“Death.” Melanthe’s voice was tired. “What do you mean by I lasted much longer than you thought I would?”
Death’s laugh was humourless. “Very few people survive their soul-bonded partner – whether by magic or by marriage – dying, much less for another lifetime. And yet you carried on, just to see your descendants. You’re brave, Melanthe Hadrea Peverell-Greengrass, and every bit as stubborn as Lily – it’s obvious that you get your personality from your mother.”
Melanthe snorted a little. “Well, I’m dead, aren’t I? So, what are my options?”
“You have the standard options of continuing on to the afterlife, or being reincarnated,” Death started. “But, for you, there’s a nonstandard, rare third option: going back in time.” He noticed Melanthe’s wince. “Not necessarily to your own time. You can go back earlier, to your parents or grandparents’ time. During those times, there are many opportunities to end Voldemort for good, more than in yours.”
“Any suggestions?” Melanthe was curious now.
“4th of April 1947 – a month before Orion Black’s wedding to his cousin, Walburga. 19th of March 1972 – when Walburga started poisoning Orion. 28th of July 1975 – when Sirius ran away.” Death hummed, observing Melanthe as she thought it over.
“How about the 5th of March 1972?” Melanthe asked in the end.
“Clever. Very clever. May I ask why?”
“Well, it’s better to be at least somewhat acquainted with the magical world of the 1970s if I’m trying to help,” Melanthe said with a shrug.
“I admire that sentiment. Do you wish to go now?” Death asked, genuinely curious.
“One question. Will I retain the Metamorphmagus ability?”
“It’s in your blood, Melanthe Peverell. You will always retain it.”
“Well, then, I’m ready to go. As long as I land in 1970s wizarding garb.”
“Oh, you will.” As Death spoke, the world around Melanthe started spinning – faster and faster – until she felt the disquieting sensation of pre-2050s Portkey travel, and felt her feet hit solid ground.