Lying in bed in her rented room on the second floor of the Leaky Cauldron, Oleandra turned Dumbledore's copy of The Complete Guide to the Trees of Britain, Ireland, and Northern Europe over in her hands, examining the book from every possible angle.
No matter how she looked at it, the book appeared to be exactly what it seemed: a Muggle-authored volume about the various trees that grew in this part of the world. It wasn't for lack of trying that she'd come to this conclusion— Rookwood had used every spell in his arsenal to coax out its secrets, but to no avail.
Perhaps because it had none to yield in the first place.
The author wasn't even a Wizard in disguise— Yaxley had checked for her.
"What is the difference between a tree and a shrub?" Oleandra read out loud from a random page, rolling her eyes. "What a waste of time. If I'd known the old man would still be playing tricks on me after his death, I wouldn't have even bothered."
The sound of creaking floorboards echoed outside Oleandra's door, and she fell silent at once.
You-Know-Who had, for all intents and purposes, already won the war before it had even begun— so there was little reason for him to have a compliant, Pure-Blooded Witch of reproductive age executed. Still, she had to be considered a potential destabilising threat. Despite having pulled the wool over the eyes of Yaxley, Nott and Rookwood, she remained under surveillance.
As had become her habit, Oleandra began nervously twisting the black-stoned ring around her finger, waiting for the shadow beneath the door to shift. Only once it moved away, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor, did she at last allow herself to breathe.
"But maybe I don't have to figure out the puzzle by myself, after all," Oleandra murmured, her gaze falling on the Resurrection Stone set upon her ring. "I can just ask him directly."
A deep feeling of apprehension fell over Oleandra. What if they blamed her for their deaths? But she had no choice but to try, if she wanted to elucidate the mystery of the Muggle book.
Oleandra closed her eyes, and once, twice, thrice, she turned the ring in her hand. The floorboards creaked once again, and fearing the return of her minder, her eyes flew open… and there they were.
Maxwell Greengrass, her father, and Albus Dumbledore, her old headmaster, standing before her bed, more solid than a mere ghost, yet lacking the substance of a living, breathing human being. They were smiling serenely.
"Stop," Oleandra groaned, holding her head. "Don't look at me like that."
"It's not your fault," said her father soothingly. "You know I couldn't be prouder of you."
But it was her fault.
At the start of their fifth year, Daphne had told her that her parents had been taken hostage by Voldemort. But did she listen? Did she temper her attitude in the slightest, or try to distance herself from Harry Potter? She hadn't. She'd even joined two different factions opposing You-Know-Who. And as a result, her mother had fallen into a coma, and her father had been killed.
"I can at least avenge you," Oleandra whispered. "Just tell me their names, Father. I'll send them to you."
But Maxwell simply smiled.
"Your father would not want you to become an avenger," said Dumbledore's shade calmly. "Revenge is a terrible, all-consuming thing. Killing your father's assassin may bring you hollow satisfaction for a time, but it will lead only to more suffering in the end."
"You're the last person I want to hear that from," Oleandra hissed. "How could you say such a thing? How could you not want to get even with Daphne and Draco!? They killed you!"
Dumbledore smiled.
"Whatever. I don't care," snarled Oleandra. "Just tell me why you left me that book in your will, and I might just consider lending your precious Harry a hand."
"Haven't you worked it out yet?" said Dumbledore mildly. "The answer lies within you— you simply haven't realised it."
Dumbledore's shade was beginning to test her patience.
"So, you won't tell me," Oleandra said accusingly. "Is it because I didn't try hard enough to save you?"
That damned smile again.
Oleandra opened her mouth to insult him, but the words caught in her throat as a terrible doubt struck her. She concentrated, and a third figure appeared next to the others— that of an ancient-looking man, wearing robes that had gone out of fashion four hundred years ago.
"Tell me how to create a Philosopher's Stone," she said authoritatively.
"Is that you, Albus?" said the old man, his voice barely more than a rasp. "Is this girl one of your students?"
"Nicholas! Fancy meeting you here," said Dumbledore, beaming at the newcomer. "How is Perenelle?"
Oleandra couldn't believe her eyes. The old men's shades had started up a conversation, and yet… something seemed oddly off about them. The subjects the broached were only surface-deep.
"Professor," said Oleandra hesitantly. "Tell me something only you would know."
Dumbledore's shade beamed at her.
No.
No, no, no.
This couldn't be happening.
There was no possible way she could know how to create a Philosopher's Stone, so Nicholas Flamel's shade could not tell her how to Transmute one!
"You can't tell me, can you?" Oleandra whispered. "Because I couldn't possibly know something only you would know."
The Resurrection Stone was just one, big fraud. It didn't truly fish people's spirits out of Niflheim, the World of the Dead. It merely conjured up images that acted according to the user's expectations and knowledge of the revived subjects. And the shades it produced probably told the stone's holder whatever they most wanted to hear, too.
Warm tears began to roll down Oleandra's cheeks, her chest heaving with quiet, uncontrollable sobs. She had sacrificed everything she had ever cared about, and for what? Viviane's plan to master Death and fulfil the prophecy of Avalon's return had been doomed from the very beginning.
The Resurrection Stone was undoubtedly the genuine article— but still, it was a fraud. And what sort of magical artefact, supposedly granting dominion over life and death, could not at the very least summon the actual spirits of the dead? The Hallows were powerful artefacts, yes, but the title Master of Death was nothing more than that: a meaningless title.
No more, no less.
"The Deathstick at your side— is it not one of the Deathly Hallows?" Dumbledore suddenly pointed out. "And is it not also true that it has not yet reached its full potential in your hands?"
Oleandra gazed at the wise old man with reddened, bleary eyes. She knew it was only her subconscious speaking through the Stone in Dumbledore's image, but she had to cling to something. She couldn't live without hope. Nobody could.
"It is never too late," said Dumbledore softly. "For as long as you have life, the future is limitless."
"Don't give up yet, girl," Nicholas Flamel coughed. "After all… impossible n'est pas Français."
In other words, nothing is impossible for a Frenchman… though Oleandra was neither French nor a man, but that was neither here nor there.
"I know I may not have been the best father, but if anyone can master death, then I believe it's you, Oleandra" said Maxwell hesitantly. "So, go. Fulfil your destiny. You have my blessing."
The crest of the Deathly Hallows— the line representing the wand, the triangle representing the cape, and the circle representing the stone— was engraved on the Resurrection Stone itself. The Deathly Hallows were real, but only together could their full potential be unleashed…