2 – Plans in Motion
7 July 1972
Hogwarts
Melanthe gave Minerva a polite smile as she was led through the halls of Hogwarts. “Pray tell, Lady Peverell, what are your qualifications?”
Melanthe chuckled at Minerva’s suspicion. “I have a triple mastery in Ancient Runes, Defence, and Dark Arts, top fifth percentile in the latter two and top tenth percentile in the former.”
“Why not Dumstrang? Their Dark Arts professor resigned last year.” Minerva frowned.
Melanthe pursed her lips. “Grindelwald’s appropriation of the Peverell Family Crest in his campaign of terror. Need I say more?” Her hair went red from annoyance.
“Are you by any chance related to the Blacks?” Minerva raised an eyebrow.
“Sixth or seventh cousins with Phineas Nigellus; Peverells have ridiculous lifespans.” Melanthe forced her hair back to ash blonde.
Minerva smiled. “Well, this is the Headmaster’s office.” The griffin stepped aside, and they took the stairs up. “Good luck, Lady Peverell.”
Melanthe knocked, and entered when called for. “Headmaster Dumbledore.”
“Ah, Lady Peverell.” Dumbledore smiled genially. He had learnt his lesson about calling her by her first name without permission in the last Wizengamot meeting of March, using wandless stinging hexes every time he used her first name. “Please sit. Lemon drop?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have just had lunch with Charlus and Dorea.” Melanthe smiled at the memory.
“Getting to know the family?” Dumbledore was curious now.
“Yes. The Potters are quite innovative, always have been, it seems.” Melanthe’s expression soured slightly. “But it’s a bit of a 50/50 on the Gaunts. Morfin’s moods – when I find the time to visit Azkaban – oscillate rapidly between extremes. And I am not even going to try with Riddle. He can come to me himself.” She shook her head. “The Blacks are another thing entirely. I cannot stand Cygnus, but the rest are varying degrees of perfectly acceptable. Although it is sad that Lady Black died so abruptly.”
“You are related to the Blacks?” Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yes. Sixth or seventh cousins with Phineas Nigellus.” Melanthe’s smile was polite. “But that is quite enough on non-business matters, as I have a meeting with several architects at two o’clock over another property.”
“Right you are, Lady Peverell.” Dumbledore was wary of that smile. “So, may I ask why you wish to take up the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?”
“It is twofold. The first reason is that I have always wanted to teach, but cannot take a position at Dumstrang due to the controversy around my family crest and its association with Grindelwald. The second is that I heard that there is a curse on the Defence position, and I wish to try my hand at breaking it.” Melanthe’s smile softened slightly.
“And if you manage the latter?”
“I would continue teaching afterwards, until I no longer wish to.”
“Your qualifications, Lady Peverell?”
“Three Masteries. Ancient Runes, achieved under Mistress Eurydice Michelakis. Dark Arts, achieved under Master Michel Battenberg. Defence Against the Dark Arts, achieved under Master Angelo Bertolini.” Melanthe’s smile was slightly sad. “I was Eurydice and Michel’s last student, and Angelo’s third last.”
“Hogwarts does not have a Dark Arts course,” Dumbledore started, then second-guessed himself. There was no reason to not bring it back. Melanthe was an immigrant, with qualifications from the best Dark Arts Master in Europe, and had so far been the only person to point out the flaws in many bills due to an outsider’s perspective. She had also pointed out that it wasn’t the Dark Arts themselves that rendered individuals unstable, but a lack of training and guidance in how to safely use them. “But it does not mean that it cannot be brought back on a trial basis. What age groups would you suggest?”
“An elective course, starting in third year, and covering only theory until fifth year.” Melanthe sighed. “Starting practical lessons before then could be disastrous. For any interested upper years, I would do a test of their knowledge first and work from there. It would also partially back up my Defence lessons, because the Dark Arts course would explain why certain types of magic are not to be used lightly.”
“Which books would you suggest?”
“For Defence, The Dark Forces by Quentin Trimble for first and second year, The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts by Arsenius Jigger for third to fifth year, and Confronting the Faceless for NEWT students.” Melanthe had to think hard about books for the Dark Arts course. “For Dark Arts, The History of the Dark Arts by Michel Battenberg and Safe Practicing for Dark Novices by Isaac Haydon for third and fourth year, The Basics of Dark Casting by Imogene Blackwood for fifth year, and Advanced Dark Casting by Imogene Blackwood and The Obscure Dark Arts by Minerva Paola-Peverell for NEWT students. Grandma Minerva goes into better detail – including warnings – than the idiotic author of Secrets of the Darkest Arts, who couldn’t be bothered to add warnings or risks.”
“That is quite the comprehensive list.” Dumbledore decided this might just be the better approach than keeping it banned. “What will you cover in each year?”
Melanthe sighed. “Let’s start with Defence. For the first years – as they’re new and will have me as their first professor – I will start with the basics, what is Defence, why is it necessary, and similar things, and then move on to practical defensive magic, and then creatures. For second years and up – at least for this first year – I will test what they have learnt, and then go from there. It will largely focus on the same things as first year, but it will steadily get more and more complex, with decreasing theoretical classes as time goes on. NEWT level Defence will focus primarily on practical lessons – with one or two theoretical lessons each week – as most students that take NEWT Defence wish to be Aurors. There will be a focus on teamwork and duelling skills for that very reason.”
“And Dark Arts?” This was something Dumbledore was concerned about.
“We will start with covering the history of the Dark Arts, the positives and the negatives, as well as the classification of various spells – unfortunately including the Unforgivables, but know thy enemy – and the subcategories of Dark Arts in third year. In fourth year, I’ll move on to creatures specifically, such as origins and differing cultures, and – if there is time – also start with a basic theoretical explanation of necromancy – unless the opportunity is also presented in the third years. Fifth year will start incorporating practical lessons for the more harmless spells and rituals, and more in-depth explanation of necromancy’s basics – it takes multiple years to cover every aspect of necromancy, because it branches out into almost every other branch of magic imaginable. Soul Magic is only a topic for NEWT level students, since I hope 16 and 17-year-olds will have some common sense, and even that is pure theory. I honestly don’t think that there will be many practical Dark Arts lessons, but I’ll apply for a teacher’s exemption, just in case.” Melanthe hoped she didn’t blow it.
Dumbledore was deep in thought for a long time. Yes, Melanthe showed enthusiasm for the topic, which made him think of Tom Riddle, but her entire lesson plan for a Dark Arts course was largely theoretical. And she had reserved the more dangerous topics for NEWT students, which was a point in her favour. “Would you ever do a practical demonstration of Necromancy?”
“It depends on the year level,” Melanthe answered promptly. “If it was the younger years, then I would never demonstrate beyond the most basic runic rituals that are used to commune with the dead and do not take much power. For the upper years, golem creation is a possibility, as well as animal Inferi – human Inferi fall into the Mastery Level category – if asked. Resurrection rituals are not going to happen, they can go wrong incredibly fast for master necromancers, never mind teenagers.”
That convinced him. He pulled out one of the blank teachers’ contracts, tapping his wand to several blank spots to fill in the course names and any additional clauses, before taking a quill and signing with a flourish, and then pushed it over to Melanthe.
She read it carefully, surreptitiously casting a revealing charm to uncover any hidden clauses. Once satisfied, she signed in the indicated spot.
Dumbledore smiled. “Welcome to Hogwarts’ Staff, Lady Peverell.”
Melanthe hummed, seemingly thinking, before standing. “If we shall be having a professional relationship outside the Wizengamot, then you may call me Melanthe.”
“You may call me Albus.” He smiled. “Do you wish to try the Sorting Hat? Most of our staff were Hogwarts students themselves.”
Melanthe was curious to know what the hat would say if she landed under it again, and so she agreed. A minute later had her under the hat.
Ah, Melanthe Potter, or should I say Melanthe Peverell? We meet again. How do you find this time?
It’s alright. I feel rude that I didn’t ask your name before.
Few do. My name is Sancus.
After the Roman god of Loyalty and Honesty, I see.
Indeed, Melanthe. Now, where to put you?
I’m not a Potter anymore, and my background is that of a foreign immigrant Lady.
Cheeky, cheeky. Well, you certainly are ambitious, Mistress of Death. You’ve become more of a Slytherin as you aged, and I shall not be argued with this time. You are a SLYTHERIN, and that is final.
Melanthe laughed as she removed the hat.
Albus was puzzled. “Slytherin?”
“According to Sancus – that’s the Hat’s name – I am rather ambitious, enough to disqualify any house except Slytherin.” Melanthe gave him an awkward smile.
“Maybe it is time for an old man to revise his personal biases,” Albus conceded. “You may go, Melanthe.”
Black Castle
Melanthe had agreed to tag along on a shopping trip with Dorea and Euphemia after her meeting with the architects, and they were waiting at Black Castle for the other women.
“So, how did the interview go?” Dorea was burning to know, but hid it well.
“Brilliant!” Melanthe’s hair went a bright sky blue. “I somehow managed to convince him to bring back the Dark Arts course. I mean, it’ll be largely theoretical, because my trust in teenagers is nil, and an elective, but it’s still a win. And I tried the Sorting Hat afterwards.”
“Let me guess, Slytherin?” Dorea smirked.
“Got it in one. Ambitious is certainly a word to describe me.” Melanthe chuckled.
“What is your greatest ambition, then?” Euphemia smiled at Melanthe’s uncharacteristic hair colour changes.
“Disconnecting the association between Grindelwald and the Peverell Crest, gaining a few more masteries, rewriting Secrets of the Darkest Arts because it is poorly written and incomplete as well, and reverse-engineering the spellwork on Charlus’ cloak, because that is intriguing.”
“People have tried. It’s at least a thousand years old at this point, and no one knows how it doesn’t deteriorate despite its age.” Euphemia shook her head.
“Interesting…” Melanthe frowned, but couldn’t say more as the other women had arrived for their shopping trip.
29 July 1972
Black Castle
Arcturus was surprised when the Floo in his study flared and Dorea’s face appeared. “Yes, Dorea?”
Dorea sounded concerned. “Melanthe hasn’t been responding to my attempts at Floo calling for two days. Normally, she would send a letter or a house-elf to tell me she’s busy after three calls, but nothing has been received so far.”
Arcturus frowned. “Do you know where she lives?”
“Yes. Peverell Manor, in Cumbria.” Dorea hummed. “Bring Orion and the boys, Mel has been suggesting we visit for a while. And it is easier to Floo over from Potter Manor, as the original wards here were set by a Peverell.”
The four Black men – Arcturus, Orion, Sirius, and Regulus – made their way through the Floo to Potter Manor several minutes later.
Potter Manor
Arcturus raised an eyebrow at a frustrated Charlus and Fleamont. “What is going on?”
“No one is able or willing to tell us what Peverell Manor’s Floo password is.” Fleamont sighed loudly.
“Have you tried asking Iolanthe or Lilian?” Henry finally suggested from his portrait, looking at his sons in exasperation.
“Iolanthe isn’t in her portrait, and I can’t find Lilian’s.” Charlus scowled.
“Oh, for Circe’s sake,” a voice said as he pushed Henry to the side while entering the portrait. “My apologies, Henry.” He looked at Charlus and Fleamont. “The Floo address is Grimshaven, and the password – linked to Potter Manor’s Floo wards – is Mors est vetus amicus.”
“Thank you. And you are?” Charlus raised an eyebrow.
“Corvinus Gaunt. Melanthe has been out of touch because she was fixing the wards around Gaunt Manor – in her own words, it was a bloodbath inside them due to the ward collapse – and then she had an issue with an influx of mail upon her return.”
“Should we head through?” Dorea was concerned.
“You can. I think she would appreciate it.” Corvinus nodded once, before leaving Henry’s portrait.
The occupants traded looks, before shrugging and heading through the Floo.
Peverell Manor
They managed to pinpoint Melanthe’s location due to her shockingly loud swearing as soon as they stepped through, and followed the sound to a study. Melanthe was sitting on the floor, surrounded by what could only be described as a mountain of mail, with her hair an angry red colour.
“Merlin’s beard, what is that?” Fleamont had never seen such a massive number of letters.
“A lot of betrothal and marriage offers, and most of them are just…” Melanthe did the wand movement for the killing curse with her finger.
“Just how furious do you have to be to cast the Unforgivables?” Orion kept his sons behind him.
“Compare me when I’m angry enough to cast an Unforgivable and a cranky, hungry, half-mad, thousand-year-old and sixty-foot-long basilisk, and you’ll find there is very little difference,” Melanthe grumbled. “Tilly.”
A house-elf popped in. “What can I do for Lady Melanthe?”
“Tilly, take James, Sirius, and Regulus to the Quidditch Pitch, and supervise them, please. And please keep them out of the dungeons, I’m still cleaning up Duncan’s mess.” Melanthe’s tone was surprisingly polite for someone spitting mad.
Tilly took the boys, and Melanthe waited until they were well out of earshot before she let loose. “I cannot believe the utter audacity of some of these dim-witted arses that call themselves Lords or Heirs. Their repeated insistence that I cannot possibly know how to manage my own Circe-damned estate and need a man to do it for me because it is not a Lady’s job to manage an estate has nearly the entire blasted Light faction on the verge of being on the receiving end of a blood feud, as well as Carrow and Travers. I had a bloody Ancient Runes Mastery by 19, and I studied Defence and Dark Arts at the same time, requiring constant all-nighters of research and frequent apparation on little to no sleep, and I was in the top fifth percentile in the end. And if I see the sentence You will surrender your positions upon marriage, and take care of the heirs full-time – in any variation – one more time, I might give in to the part of my magic that wants to go proto-Dementor on the presumptuous bastards.”
Orion couldn’t help himself, and started laughing. “I swear I am not laughing at you, Mel,” he managed to get out once he calmed down. “But you are terrifying. I fear for whoever gets on your bad side.”
“Orion Arcturus Black, are you trying to say that you find me hot when I’m angry?” Melanthe went for the jugular on that one.
Orion – at least – had the grace to duck his head. “Yes.”
“Kinky bastard,” Melanthe muttered under her breath. “Mind helping me burn the lot once I have all the letters set aside? I’d rather not burn the manor down.”
Two hours later, the group were settled in the garden, watching the boys play Quidditch. Well, the Potters and Blacks were watching. Mel was sitting cross-legged on the grass with her eyes closed, meditating behind her silencing ward. She was taking slow, deep breaths, but her magic was visibly coiling and swirling through the air.
“Am I the only one that thinks she’s hiding something big?” Dorea asked quietly.
Orion shook his head. “I do too. But I feel it would be rude to pry before she is willing to tell us.”
3 August 1972
Peverell Manor
It turned out that they didn’t have to wait very long, because it was less than a week later when Melanthe invited the entire group over, and indulgently allowed the youngsters to go and play quidditch under Tilly’s strict supervision. Once they left, however, Melanthe visibly sagged. “I am playing a very dangerous game here, showing you this, but I hope you’re willing to hear me out first.” She gestured to the pensieve, before entering it.
The Potter-Black group traded looks, before following her inside. They landed in a dimly-lit room.
»Memory 1 – 31/10/1981»
Lily stood in front of the crib, shielding her children with her body. “Please, not my children.”
“Stand aside, silly girl.”
“Not my children. Take me instead.”
“Stand aside.”
Lily shook her head, squaring her shoulders.
“Stand aside.”
Lily shook her head again.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The flash of green was blinding, and two-year-old Melanthe tilted her head as Lily’s soul left her body. She saw another flash of green being rebounded by an invisible shield, and the body disintegrate when it was hit.
»Memory 2 – 31/10/1985»
“If you burn the bacon again, girl, I won’t stop until your arm is burnt to the bone. Understood?” Vernon’s voice boomed through the small kitchen of Number 4 Privet Drive.
“Yes, Uncle Vernon.” Melanthe’s voice was completely dead, as was her expression. Her left forearm was covered in third-degree burns, but she wasn’t crying.
“Now clean up the mess,” Vernon spat at her, “and the kitchen better be spotless when we get back.”
“Yes, Uncle Vernon.” Melanthe waited until she heard the car leaving, and then pushed magic through her arm, withering the burnt skin before applying what was essentially a glamour to make it seem freshly burnt. Only then did she clean up.
»Memory 3 – 01/09/1991»
Melanthe watched the sorting, paying attention to everyone’s faces, names, and houses.
“Potter, Harry.”
Two minutes later, the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Melanthe didn’t have much time to applaud him, because McGonagall called her up next. “Potter, Melanthe.”
She was aware of the deathly silence in the hall as she walked up to the staff table, letting the hat slide onto her head.
Tricky, so incredibly tricky. Brave like a Gryffindor, certainly, but also patient like a Hufflepuff. Cunning and shrewd, like a Slytherin, most definitely, but also innovative and witty, like a Ravenclaw.
Melanthe’s expression changed slightly. Not Gryffindor, and not Slytherin. I’d be overshadowed in the one and loathed in the other.
And that, Miss Potter, is why you are shrewd. Not Hufflepuff either, that’s for sure, so that leaves us with… “RAVENCLAW!”
»Memory 4 – 01/11/1992»
“Voices in the walls, you say? Talking about blood and killing?” Melanthe gave Harry and his friends a deadpan look.
“Mel, I’m not kidding, I swear.” Harry pleaded.
“Gryffindors sure are obtuse. Was the floor wet?”
“Yes. What does that have to do with anything?” Hermione scoffed.
“Because it narrows down the list of creatures capable of petrification, Granger.” Mel raised an eyebrow. “Wet floor and petrification… Yeah, it’s a basilisk.”
“Can’t be. Basilisks’ gazes kill, not petrify,” Granger vehemently denied.
“Reread that chapter, Granger, because you’re only half correct.” Melanthe’s smile was sardonic. “A basilisk’s direct gaze will kill anyone that isn’t a Parselmouth, while its indirect gaze will petrify you. And indirect means anything from a reflection in water or a mirror, through a ghost or a camera, the works. And it’ll petrify ghosts, because they’re already dead.”
»Memory 5 – 07/06/1994»
“Bloody buggering fuck, Harry, what in the name of Merlin, Morgana, Circe, and all the Gods were you three thinking?!” Melanthe had grabbed Harry by the shoulders and was shaking him lightly. “Are you trying to kill me from worry?”
“Hey, Mel, none of us intended our shenanigans last night.” Harry tried to placate her.
“Okay, you got accosted by an escaped convict, nearly mauled by a werewolf – twice! – faced a hundred blasted dementors with a Patronus you weren’t sure would even work – nearly losing your soul in the process – but it’s all fine because it was not intentional?” Mel threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “You’ll be the death of me before I see 40, I swear to the gods.”
»Memory 6 – 31/10/1994»
“Harry Potter.”
Melanthe froze when Harry’s name was called. This was going to be bad, very bad. The Tournament had a massive death toll to begin with, and introducing a teenage celebrity with people after his head was just begging for disaster.
Whispers floated around the hall as Harry walked to the antechamber, and Melanthe’s heart was gripped by an icy dread.
»Memory 7 – 10/12/1994»
“Potter, you heard me.” Daphne sounded exasperated. “Do you want to go to the ball with me?”
“Is it allowed?” Melanthe blushed furiously.
“They can shove their opinions somewhere dark and small, I don’t care what they think.” Daphne’s eyes sparkled. “Will you?”
“Oh, for Circe’s sake, Greengrass, yes!” Melanthe smiled.
“What colour are your robes?” Daphne raised an eyebrow.
“Midnight blue. Yours?”
“Silver. It’ll work.”
»Memory 8 – 02/08 and 03/08/1995»
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Melanthe swore violently, forcing Dudley’s soul back in his body as soon as the Dementor left. “Rennervate!”
He woke up, and they made their way back. Melanthe’s mannerisms changed as they drew closer to Privet Drive, her eyes and face going eerily blank. She remained quiet for the entire day as she waited for the Order to show up.
She wasn’t impressed by Grimmauld Place, or by Walburga’s portrait, but she was impressed by many of the other portraits. She let Harry have his outburst, settling into a room as she daydreamed about the new school year – and Daphne.
»Memory 9 – 01/09/1995»
“You too, Potter?” Daphne teased when Melanthe showed up in the Prefects’ Carriage.
“Well, I’m more surprised that you got it, since Parkinson was crowing that she would for the entire last week of term,” Melanthe snarked back.
“Pfft, as if.” Daphne snorted. “Her grades slipped, badly, and her parents decided she did not deserve that kind of authority until she had her responsibilities straight.”
“Brilliant.”
Melanthe and Daphne traded looks over the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables at Umbridge’s speech.
“Well, it’s lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me! I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends! The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”
Flitwick was scowling, Snape looked ready to use her in experimental potions, McGonagall was scowling as well, and Sprout was keeping a vague smile on her face as Umbridge continued speaking.
“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’ sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation, because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.” Umbridge’s sweet smile made Melanthe hold back a gag, and fight to keep her hair from going vomit green.
»Memory 10 – 02/05/1998»
“Greengrass?”
“Yeah, Potter?”
“When the war’s over, and if we survive, will you marry me?”
“For a Ravenclaw, you have the subtlety of a bludger to the cranium, Potter. But yes, I’ll marry you. It better be an Old Ways bonding, or else.”
“Where else would I get a chance to use traditional Celtic vows, Greengrass?” Melanthe laughed, sending a spell flying towards one of the masked Death Eaters.
“Only you would pop the question in the middle of a fucking battle, Potter.” Daphne sent another spell flying.
“Peverells don’t do things by halves, Greengrass.”
“I hope that holds true for our NEWTs,” Daphne snarked.
“Oh, ye of little faith…” Melanthe laughed again.
»Memory 11 – 01/05/2000»
“May your hands and wands never be raised against each other in anger, and may your union be blessed,” Astoria’s voice sounded through the hall.
“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.
You cannot command me, for I am a free person.
But I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.
I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.
I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup.
I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.
I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine.
I shall not slander you, nor you me.
I shall honour you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in private, and tell no strangers our grievances.
This is my wedding vow to you.
This is a marriage of equals.”
The magic hanging in the air became thicker, almost cloying in its intensity with Daphne’s vows, but when Melanthe repeated them, it became tangible, converging into a blue and silver ribbon around their wrists – the same blue and silver of their fourth-year robes – before the magic sank into their skin and the cords came undone.
“I now pronounce you bonded, Daphne and Melanthe Peverell-Greengrass.”
»Memory 12 – 19/12/2180»
Melanthe stared down at Daphne’s 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.”
The magic of the estate swirled around her, even as she sank down to her knees and sobbed.
»Memory 13 – 28/12/2380»
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 the last two Greengrasses had both died young, ending an illustrious line. 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, since she had 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, tears streaming down her face. “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, and the snow was red. Mel pulled the elder wand from its holster, looking up at the red sky, and raised the wand to her heart. “Avada Kedavra.”
Her body hit the ground, and the world went black, only to turn bright again.
“Why, Mistress of Death, you lasted much longer than I thought you would.” Melanthe opened 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?”
“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?”
“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 shrugged.
“I admire that sentiment. Do you wish to go now?”
“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.
»End of Memory Sequence»
They were spat out of the pensieve, and Melanthe studied them silently.
“No wonder you were so pained when Rodolphus and Bellatrix’s marriage was announced,” Orion said quietly. “You not only witnessed their downward spiral first-hand in your original time, but your grief was still raw.”
Melanthe nodded, tears leaking from under her lashes. “There are no words for how much it hurts. Beedle partially altered what he heard from one of the Peverells to make it more dramatic, but the Tale of the Three Brothers is mostly accurate. Antioch wasn’t murdered for the wand, he committed suicide because his wife died, and it was stolen from his grave. Cadmus didn’t go insane because of the ring’s influence, he went insane because he could still see his wife, and thus couldn’t process his grief properly – the same way I did. Ignotus’ is the only unaltered one.” She shook her head. “After Daphne died, I couldn’t understand how anyone could wish to live forever. Everything hurt. In a way, coming back actually helped, because it rewrote everything except my memories – which were merely added to – and I could finally stop seeing the dead wherever I looked.”
“When dementors get close, what do you see?” Charlus asked quietly.
“It depends,” Melanthe closed her eyes. “Sometimes, Samhain 1981. Other times, 36-year-old Sirius falling through the veil because the administration kept dragging their feet on giving him a long-overdue trial, forcing him to stay in a house he loathed. Most of the time, though, it’s not what I see, but what I feel. Specifically, the sheer emptiness of the Potter and Greengrass family magics crying out towards the end.” She couldn’t stop the flood of tears. “There’s no word for just how much that hurt. It hurt to breathe, to think, to just survive. Every heartbeat brought that stinging emptiness back, each worse than the last.”
Dorea wrapped Melanthe in a hug. “You poor thing.”
Melanthe sobbed into Dorea’s shoulder. “The blasted Cruciatus hurt less than that emptiness. Hell, even the curse on the ring or getting bitten by a basilisk hurt less. There’s no word to convey just how much it hurt.”
Orion and Arcturus traded looks. This not only explained so much, but it also gave them a sneak peek into what shaped her into the person she was. Orion eventually sighed. “What would have happened if you hadn’t come back?”
“You would’ve been a puppet for Pollux and Walburga. Sirius and Regulus would have an irreparable wedge driven between them. Regulus would end up joining the Death Eaters under intense pressure from Walburga, and then would die at the tender age of 18 in 1979, with you following three weeks later. There would be practically nothing left of the Black Family by 1993, just Sirius – who was falsely accused and thrown in Azkaban without a trial – Bellatrix – also in Azkaban for using the Unforgivables on the Longbottoms, along with Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Barty Junior – Narcissa, Draco, Andromeda – who was disowned by then – and Dora. And Harry and I, I suppose.”
Arcturus flinched violently at Melanthe’s words. “By Dagda… What happened after 1993?”
“Barty Jr died in June of 1995, Sirius in June of 1996. Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, and Dora died in the last battle. Dora had a son, Teddy. Sweet boy, quite mischievous too.” Melanthe smiled sadly. “Andromeda died in May of 2048, and Narcissa followed two weeks later. Teddy in 2110, Draco in 2112, most of the Weasleys between 2120 and 2150. Harry and Ron in 2155, Hermione in 2156, Astoria in 2158. Harry’s children all died by 2165. Daphne in 2180, and most of our generation’s children by 2200. I can’t detail the rest.”
Euphemia studied Melanthe. “You wouldn’t have come back without a reason, would you?”
Melanthe shook her head. “It was alluring, the chance to meet people who I only knew as portraits.” She chuckled. “But Corvinus is ridiculously observant. He knew I’d fallen hard and fast before I did.” She gave Orion a lopsided smile.
“Alright, Arcturus, pay up.” Charlus held out his hand.
“You were betting?” Orion raised an eyebrow at the two older men.
“Anyone who bothers paying attention to you two in the Wizengamot can tell you two fell hard and fast for each other within a month, but danced around it for another four months,” Charlus said with a smug smile.
“Now that the cat’s out of the bag, what are you going to do about it?” Melanthe directed her question at Arcturus.
“I took the liberty of drawing up a betrothal contract, but Melania would have my head if I signed anything without her present.” Arcturus pulled it from his pocket.
“My Floo is available for your use; I’m going to read this,” Melanthe picked the contract up.
Melania had long arrived and been served tea before Melanthe put it down. “This is by far the least insulting contract I have received. And considering how high that bar apparently is, that is high praise.” She picked up her contracts quill, sliding it over to Melania with the contract itself.
Half an hour later, it was signed and filed, and Orion had rejected every ring suggestion put forth. Or, at least rejected every suggestion until a bored-looking ancestor drawled from the portrait in the study, “Onyx, emerald and silver,” and caused Orion to jump and Melanthe to giggle.
“Could you please repeat that?” Orion asked carefully.
“Onyx, emerald and silver,” the painted man drawled.
Orion thought it over, before nodding. “That is an excellent suggestion. Thank you, Lord…”
“Deimos Peverell,” the newly-identified Deimos drawled.
Melanthe, Charlus and Fleamont traded commiserating looks as Deimos started making suggestions, and Fleamont muttered, “So that’s where our stubbornness came from.”