Chapter 2: Curtains
Laurel knew she was being selfish, and the deepest, most honest part of her gloried in that knowledge. In her bottomless bag, she carried more tomes of wizarding knowledge than any single person had ever possessed before. She had taken the cumulative works of the Black, Potter and Peverell estates, besides everything from the Chamber of Secrets and whatever she could buy. She carried enough potions, ingredients and enchanted artifacts to outfit a new wizard colony if she wished. It seemed the height of selfishness to risk so much lore and so many notable artifacts on a mad gamble, but Laurel had had quite enough of prostrating herself before the 'greater good'.
She smiled grimly as she recalled how satisfying it had been to close her accounts and empty her Gringotts vaults of every last galleon earlier in the day. The goblins had gnashed their teeth in fury at losing so much treasure, because Laurel was the lone survivor of several ancient and most noble houses. Anticipating their interference, she had done this at the end of the day when the Ministry of Magic switched over to a skeleton crew. She knew that the irate goblins wouldn't be able to get through all the red tape and achieve a hearing with the minister to complain until she was long gone. It had always irked her that the wizards gave the goblins total sway over their treasure, not realizing how illogical it was to cede economic control to a race that hated and resented them and periodically started bloody wars, but logic seemed to be anathema to most wizards.
Laurel had prepared nearly everything well in advance. She gazed speculatively at the vial of Felix Felicis that had been dearly bought from Draco Malfoy, who had earned his potions mastery after the war. She had made a deal with him to return his wand and sell Grimmauld Place to his mother for a pittance. She knew that she had lost a fortune on the deal, but had needed to dispose of the house quietly without the Ministry's interference. And it was not as though just anyone could brew liquid luck either. With a sense of awe, she unstoppered the vial and drained the golden draught to the last drop. Smiling triumphantly, she felt the magic flow through her, clearly mapping the path before her.
She had a great store of Muggle money and clothes hidden away, and all her letters written—not that there were many to send. Even before the war with Voldemort had ended, she had begun to realize that something fishy was going on. By fifth year, it was more than a shadow of suspicion in her mind. So many circumstances didn't add up. She had felt so isolated as a child, and once she discovered magic and her celebrity status, wondered if wizards had been responsible for it. She had never received any wizard mail or visits from child services, even though she was the very picture of a neglected, starved, abused child. Several times a concerned primary school teacher had complained to the muggle authorities about the Dursleys, only for the inquiry to be dropped and forgotten by all parties, even her aunt and uncle. The too-curious teacher was always displaced to another school.
She had not known about her wealth and position in the wizarding world until she found out by accident when she was sixteen and slipped her Dumbledore-appointed guards to visit Gringotts, which she had conveniently been kept away from for most of her schooling. She finally realized why all the purebloods seemed so disgusted with her. Her ignorance truly was inexcusable for an heiress of an old family.
The evidence continued to mount and her rage to build. Dumbledore had been manipulating her from the beginning. She had allowed herself to be molded into a martyr that would lay down her life for the greater good without question or hesitation. Why should she hesitate, after all? She had never been taught to value herself, and she was pretty damn sure that no one else valued her. The press and student body had always gotten away with saying horrendous things about her, and never once been called to account. She had not even been able to defend herself because Dumbledore had refused to allow her to contact a solicitor or to make any kind of exclusive arrangement with a reporter. None of his teachers had ever chastised the hordes of students wearing 'Potter Stinks' badges. In fact, now that she thought about it, no one had ever protected her or put her first. At the end of her first two school years, she had approached the old fraud-hat in hand, so to speak—and begged not to be returned to the Dursleys. He had just twinkled at her and told her she must be exaggerating their treatment.
Her godfather, Sirius Black, who had supposedly had such an epic bromance with her father, had never made any attempt to clear his name and get custody of her. He had taken Dumbledore's word that nothing could be changed, although the old man had been the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot when he had been tossed into prison without a trial. All of her trust in her former headmaster sickened her now. But she had had few options, and even though she had tried to peel herself away slowly from his influence as she grew older, it had been a nearly impossible task. She had not missed the guards stationed outside Privet Drive from her fifth year onward. And since the blood wards were supposedly so impenetrable, why had Dumbledore's people been there? And if they were not needed to keep threats out, then she could only conclude that they were there to keep her in. Confined, helpless, untrained and ignorant until they had need of her. Her heart bubbled hot with hatred even now when she thought about it.
She had chosen the wrong allies—although when she thought back to Hagrid's Dumbledore-glorifying introduction to the wizarding world and Molly Weasley's dubious appearance outside the train platform screaming about Muggles, she wondered just how many of her choices had been engineered. That easy, uncritical belief, she thought, was a mistake she would never make again. She would be more discriminating in her choice of allies in future—find someone with loyalty and ability to match hers. Someone she could learn to trust.
After a dying Severus Snape had finally tipped Dumbledore's hand, revealing that she had always been marked for slaughter, her eyes were fully opened, and all the little things that had seemed strange at the time fell into place. She had never been given a chance to choose her side, because Dumbledore had known that if Voldemort discovered she housed his horcrux, he would value her above all other living creatures, and then the blasted prophecy would remain unfulfilled. But once Laurel finally had all the information she needed, it was far too late to turn back, and she didn't much care for survival at that point anyway, so she had marched into the forest with a taunt on her lips and her head held high, and the Dark Lord had obliged her with a streak of fatal green light. At least, it should have been fatal. When she discovered later that she had become master of the Deathly Hallows, she had laughed for a long time, her laughter tinged with hysteria. Everyone had fawned over her when she finally struck Voldemort down, but she had gently extricated herself from all of the overly familiar, repulsively clinging arms and apparated away.
Laurel had tossed away the Resurrection Stone and snapped the Elder Wand, but at midnight, as she sat staring into the hearth at Grimmauld Place, all three Hallows had appeared before her, haloed with light and throbbing with untapped power. As they approached her, she had panicked and shouted out that Death could have them, but at that pronouncement, they had glowed even hotter and one-by-one entered her chest. It had felt like waves of warmth and potential washing over her, and when it was over, she knew that she was changed. She was something more than a witch, but less than a goddess. Perhaps she was immortal—certainly much more powerful than before-and she had already been the most powerful witch of her generation.
For the next seven years, Laurel had studied magic. She earned masteries in defense and transfiguration and found she could concentrate better than she had ever been able to before. She took up the ladyship of her houses and explored her new powers. She had become very reclusive, and the press was beginning to clamor for her to marry and have an heir.
"No doubt the Ministry is behind this outpouring of public 'concern'," she had thought viciously.
Minister Shacklebolt had wanted her to be the poster girl for his reforms, but Laurel would never again allow herself to be used that way. She knew that his administration, filled with Dumbledore loyalists, wanted to bind her to the British wizarding world, and was currently drafting inheritance, marriage and immigration laws with her in mind.
Three years ago, she had made a fatal mistake when she had blurted out in company that she wouldn't mind resettling somewhere less backward than wizarding Britain. She really should have known something was up when Greece had refused to renew her visa. Her request to take additional classes after she'd finished her transfiguration mastery at the School of Athens had been denied, and so she had reluctantly made her way back to London, not yet realizing that the noose was tightening. But it became obvious that something was afoot when none of the best schools for enchanting would grant her entry. She hadn't been able to travel anywhere since then…legally. Her applications kept getting lost, delayed, and refused on technicalities. She suspected that her dear friend Hermione, who worked as head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, had "let slip" that Britain would frown on any attempts by other countries to acquire the Girl-Who-Lived.
But now that Laurel was reaching her potential and enjoying a taste of freedom, she would rather have gnawed her own legs off than wind up in someone else's power again. She had traveled a bit incognito, but was so well-known in every wizarding community she visited that she had no peace. No matter how clever her glamors, her 'friends' and agents of the British Ministry had always unmasked and embarrassed her sooner or later. There were only so many wizarding enclaves in the world, making it very hard for someone of her power and talent to remain unnoticed for long.
The constant bleating demands for her to serve 'the people' had sickened her over time. She hadn't known better as a child, but now she resented the intrusion, their desire for her to become their mascot—the stuffed sacrificial lamb paraded about on a pike—a mutton kabob for the masses.
The disaffected witch entered the atrium of the Ministry, making herself invisible with a thought, now that Death's own cloak had fused with her magic. Laurel thought she would feel nostalgic as she looked about this world for the last time, but all she felt was a clawing desperation to get away. She detested her place in this wizarding community, where she was alternately scapegoat and sacrifice—depending on the needs and disposition of the many.
When she approached the Veil that had swallowed up her godfather, she didn't feel the same heartbreak and nameless terror she had experienced in its presence before. The Resurrection Stone had given her some closure at least. Now she eyed the archway speculatively. She had a growing suspicion that she was unable to die as Master of Death, and if this was true, whither would the Veil send her? The possibilities were limitless. She could float deathlessly in a void until madness took her, be sent straight on to the afterlife, be relocated to another point on the globe, or another time, or another planet or universe. Or perhaps she would die after all. But Laurel had always been one that trusted her instincts, and hers whispered that this would be the best thing ever to happen to her.
The witch wanted to leave a message for those that had hijacked her life, do something dramatic enough to rival Fred and George's firework-filled escape from Hogwarts during her fifth year. But she was tired and didn't want to go to the effort. She didn't need anyone's guilt, amazement, outrage, or any other emotion that could be temporarily manufactured. And so in the end, all she did was take a deep breath, shake the metaphorical dust off of her metaphorical sandals, and step through the curtain.
