Note: I do not own anything Harry Potter related, it all belongs to JK Rowling.
Pronouns will follow character usage.
May 2000
Isolt Peverell let a long sigh escape, wincing in pain as her broken ribs shifted as she did so.
Finally, after nine years in the wizarding world, she had accomplished her fate laid out before her by that thrice-damned prophecy, Voldemort's body growing ever colder on the floor of the Great Hall, a scant ten feet in front of her.
Noticing her injuries, and figuring the best thing to do would be to get them healed, she started shuffling her way to the medi-witch in the Hospital Wing on the first floor. As she drew closer to the entrance of the Great Hall, she couldn't help but notice the sheer number of the fallen. Padma Patil, who seemed to catch a dark cutting curse right across her throat; Lavender Brown, entrails ripped apart by what Isolt could only assume was a werewolf; Tonks and Lupin, hand in hand, glassy-eyed and each sporting a four-inch bloody hole in their chests.
The list went on, until, near the very end, Isolt froze, in terror, shock, and immense grief: the entire Weasley clan, plus Hermione Granger, dead. Each of them deathly pale, as if all of their blood had been drained. Bruises covering every visible inch of their skin. Isolt felt like throwing up – her heart now officially shattered, the sight of her two best friends' corpses would surely haunt her, until the end of her days. Briefly, she considered retrieving the Resurrection Stone, if only to say goodbye, yet she knew that that would not be fair to them. The spirits of her parents and Sirius had been in visible pain when she brought them back at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She would let them rest, they deserved it, after everything that she had inadvertently dragged them into.
It took several minutes for Isolt to realize that she had been kneeling next to Ron and Hermione's bodies, tears streaming down her face. She was at least partially grateful that people left her alone in her grief. Looking around, through her tear-filled eyes, she noticed that those present fell into two camps: those grieving and those celebrating. Another sob wrenched itself free, wracking her ribs with a terrible pain, dragging her back to the present.
Pushing off of her knees, Isolt began the climb to the Hospital Wing on the first floor. Luckily, for her and her ribs, it was only one floor up. She took one last glance to her friends, resolving to lay them to rest herself, like she had done for Dobby, it was the least they deserved.
It took a lot of effort, no small amount of pain, and a hell of a lot more willpower, but only twenty minutes later found Isolt pushing open the doors to the Hospital Wing – the domain of one Madam Pomfrey, resident medi-witch, and probably the only person in the world who seemed to remain a constant in Isolt's life, since entering the Wizarding world eight years ago.
The sound of the massive doors opening must have alerted the few remaining tenants of the wing, as Isolt found herself staring at several wands pointed her way, including the Madam's. A tense moment later, the wands all lowered, and Pomfrey rushed over to Isolt's side, already ushering her to Isolt's "bed of honor", as Pomfrey had taken to calling it.
"Come along, Ms. Peverell, let's get you checked out." The medi-witch already casting several diagnostic spells that Isolt had practically memorized and learned at this point. Hell, she could probably cast those non-verbally herself at this point.
Meekly, afraid her voice might betray her, Isolt muttered, "My ribs seem to be broken, any chance you can heal those so I can be outta here? I don't wanna take up bed space, if I don't have to."
Apparently, this struck a nerve with the healer. "And what, pray tell, Ms. Peverell, do you plan to do about the several fractures, dark curse exposure, and cutting curse wounds you have?" The medi-witch's sharp words, and the fact that she was glaring down at her, already weaving healing spells and summoning potions from her potions cabinet, gave Isolt the illusion that she'd already nearly died enough today and that pushing her luck with Madam Pomfrey would probably be foolish.
Fortunately, no one else except Madam Pomfret seemed to bother her, as Isolt laid down on the bed, undergoing her treatments for all the injuries she had, some of them she didn't even know she had. Huh. Adrenaline sure is a hell of a drug. Pomfrey kept casting diagnostic spell after healing spell, occasionally feeding Isolt a potion, muttering something about 'saving people complexes' and somewhat distraught-laden words of 'must that be tied with being injury prone?'. Isolt felt herself give a weak smile as she drifted off to sleep. Pomfrey must have slipped a Dreamless Drought into the potion regiment, because as soon as she closed her eyes, she was out like a light.
It was several hours later when Isolt woke up, instinctively reaching for her wand, when she noticed that the pain she had after her "duel" with Voldemort had subsided. The events of the day flooding her mind. She shook her head, and tried instead to focus on a plan. She was alone now, no one left in the muggle world, no one left in the wizarding one. She had barely held herself together when Sirius was killed, several years ago, and now that her adoptive family and best friend were dead, Isolt felt, for the first time since Hagrid picked her up on her eleventh birthday, that she was truly alone, and that the world cared little for her. How was she going to cope now?
Her spat with Lupin, nearly a year ago now, had the consequence of his offer of being named Godmother to little Teddy rescinded. Not that she minded – she had a war to fight, and didn't feel like she could honor the responsibilities and duties that such a position demanded.
Thinking of the only real father figure that she had known, that hadn't turned out to be a complete dick, she thought of Sirius, and what he would say now. His words at the edge of the forest seemed a complete turn-around from how he was in life. He was, well, serious. Stifling a small snort, and the admonishment she would have received from him if he had heard her assessment, she formulated a plan. 'I did my part, now it's time to get the one thing I desire.'
This world had taken so much from her, and given very little in exchange. The public's view of her, both in and out of school, ranged from "she's the next dark lady" to "she's the chosen savior". Everyone she had come to love had been killed. Even Dobby and Hedwig. The only positive thing she had managed to claw and scrape from the clutches of this cold existence had been her transition, back in sixth year. That seemed a life time ago, when she had gone by that horrible moniker of "Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived". A chill ran up her spine, causing her to shake her head.
She noticed Madam Pomfrey checking on the other patients. There hadn't been many, as most of those who had been hit with a spell had died, victims on both sides of the conflict. She sat up, and Pomfrey turned to look at her.
"Ms. Peverell, while I cannot hold you here as you are fully healed, I do want to thank you. Though you will forgive me if I wish that this means I won't ever have to see you as a patient back in this room?" The matron, whose words were usually stern, had a soft edge to them this time, at which Isolt could only nod morosely.
"Of course, Madam Pomfrey. I've never really been fond of waking up in this room anyway."
"Ms. Peverell, while I don't care much for the sheer number of times you've been my patient, I do care about you. I saw the Killing Curse's residue on you. And while I can't even begin to fathom what happened, I am grateful you came back."
"Oh, err, thank you, I think. I'm still trying to process it myself. Mind if I get some fresh air? I'd rather not be in the castle any longer for now." She waited while the healer thought for a moment, and was afraid she'd be kept here, but the healer relented, nodding at Isolt. She nodded back, with morose determination.
Hopping off the bed, Isolt thought of her plan. If Ron or Hermione were here and knew of this plan, they'd surely be cross and would likely attempt to stop her. But neither of them were here. And neither of them knew the pain she was going through. How her blood had been replaced with shame and guilt, and the air in her lungs with longing. It wasn't fair that they died. She sought death, they didn't. They were the only two that kept her going after Sirius, and she hadn't even properly mourned Hedwig or Dobby. 'Even when I did die, I was manipulated into coming back. Fucking Dumbledore.'
A cold shudder flooded her being, and Isolt noticed that the cloak had materialized around her as a makeshift cloak. A wand made of elder wood in one hand, and a smooth black stone in the other.
"Of fucking course. Can't seem to get rid of you three. Damn things just won't leave me alone and stay out of my life." Isolt sighed, resigning herself to these three items joining her.
She made her way in the darkness of night to the edge of the wards and with a small crack, apparated to the one place where she might be able to find some damn peace.
The streets outside the entrance to the Ministry were quiet at this time of night, so no one noticed as a figure seemed to materialize out of thin air and make their way to a nondescript payphone.
Quickly putting in the correct change, Isolt sucked in a breath as the elevator lowered her into the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. This was going to be tricky. Luckily for her, she remembered her way exactly into the room she was looking for.
As the payphone/elevator finished its descent, and opened its door, Isolt took a look around the massive chamber. It seemed the Ministry had re-decorated since she, Ron, and Hermione had broken in and retrieved the locket. The walls were now a dark black, with green grout, definitely giving Isolt 'evil lair' vibes. The statue at the fountain had been replaced with one of a wizard beheading a goblin, centaur, and house-elf. A clear message to all those who gazed upon it.
It seemed that Voldemort had well and truly taken over the Ministry. No one came up to stop Isolt, not in the entrance chamber, or as she made her way to the Department of Mysteries, on level nine. 'They must have been at the battle, or fled.' Pushing open the third non-descript door on the right, Isolt finally stood in front of her quarry: the Veil of Death.
It seemed to thrum with power, and Isolt honestly could not remember if it had done that the last time she was here, though, it might have something to do with the sheer number of people that had died today. A truly devastating amount of life had been lost. Strengthening her resolve, she slowly made her way up to the veil, one step at a time.
As she got closer, she could feel the thrumming get more and more intense, and it seemed like the Hallows thrummed in response. The cloak on her back, the wand in her holster on her right arm, and the stone in her pocket.
With a sigh, Isolt muttered, to no one in particular, but that didn't matter, at least not to her, "Well this is it. Hope you all have a peaceful life. It sure wasn't for me."
And she stepped through the Veil of Death.