Date: October 31th 2007
A dark figure moved silently across London, unseen by anyone. Her once-black hair had transformed into a pale shadow of its former self, now stark white as if all colour had drained from it. As she crossed the street, she couldn't help but glance at her reflection in a shop window. Her face was gaunt and ghostly pale, as if she hadn't seen sunlight in years.
Her eyes, once a brilliant emerald green, now shone with a muted silver, hinting at her inner magic. She knew that when her emotions ran high or she wielded her magic, they would glow with an unnatural blue light. After claiming the Hallows and becoming the so-called "Mistress of Death"—a title she had never sought—she noticed the gradual draining of colour from her being. First, her skin turned corpse-like; next, her vibrant green eyes faded, replaced by the cold silver she bore now. Most striking of all was her hair: once a rich black, it had become almost luminescent white.
Despite the passage of nearly ten long years, she hadn't aged a day since claiming the Hallows. The name that had once garnered admiration throughout the magical world—Azalea Lillian Peverell, formerly Potter—was now synonymous with fear. Branded as the next dark lady, her reputation was further marred by her dark clothing, which she wore not for show but for comfort; her basilisk hide coat and boots provided ample protection.
Before rounding the corner, she pulled on her cloak—the same one Dumbledore had given her in her first year. As the familiar magic enveloped her, she slipped into a red phone booth. She dialed 62442, just as Arthur Weasley had done years ago. A voice echoed, not from the phone but seemingly from the air itself.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
"Azalea Peverell. I'm up to no good."
"Thank you," the cool female voice replied. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."
There was a click, and Azalea watched a square silver badge slide out of the metal chute, reading, "Azalea Peverell, Up To No Good." She pocketed it with a smirk as the voice continued, "Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, located at the far end of the Atrium." The floor beneath her shuddered as she began to sink slowly into the ground.
As Azalea walked through the Atrium, memories flooded her mind of the last time she had been there—back in her fifth year, rushing to save Sirius from Voldemort. She was on the same mission now, not to save someone else but to visit the last place she had seen him: the veil of death, the mystical artifact that had taken her godfather, which she now believed held the key to her own escape.
After months of research, she theorized it wasn't a device meant to kill, but rather a portal to other worlds. If she could just attune it correctly, perhaps she could find a better life beyond. If she failed, she had little to lose; dying on her own terms seemed a far better fate than being hunted down by hit wizards.
Creeping further through the Atrium, cloaked in invisibility, she passed by the grand golden statues in the center of a circular pool. Towering above all was a noble-looking wizard, wand raised high. Surrounding him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf, each gazing up in reverence. Glittering jets of water danced from their wands, the sound of splashing the only noise amidst her muffled footsteps.
Keeping her cloak tightly wrapped, she pressed on. She knew that if she were caught, all hope of escape would vanish—at best, she'd be executed on the spot; at worst, imprisoned for life in Azkaban. Ever since Voldemort's defeat, she had been painted as a dark lady, a threat to the magical world. She recalled how Ron and Hermione, her closest friends, had turned against her, convinced she could only have defeated Voldemort through dark magic. They believed it was only a matter of time before she betrayed them all.
Azalea scoffed at the thought; her family's magic—the Peverells—had been misclassified as dark. Entering the lift, she cast one last glance around, a fleeting desire to burn the Ministry to the ground crossing her mind, though she quickly dismissed it. Adjusting her bag, weighed down with the remnants of her life, she sighed wearily. After nearly a decade on the run, she was exhausted.
She had left her meager possessions to her godson, Edward "Teddy" Remus Lupin, and Andromeda "Andi" Tonks, the only two who believed in her innocence. Before embarking on this final adventure, she wrote them letters—an apology to Andi and explanations for Teddy, detailing her choices and why she had to leave. She had ensured her reinstatement into the Black family was complete, making her head of House Black, and left Teddy letters for every birthday until adulthood, hoping to offer some understanding of her actions. Additionally, she arranged for the goblins to hold her monetary assets in trust for him, ensuring he would never have to struggle if he didn't wish to. She even gifted him a vial of her blood for a potential blood adoption into the Potter family, should he choose that path.
Azalea pressed the button for Basement Level 9. As the golden gates closed, she felt the lift descend, relief washing over her—so far, everything had gone according to plan. When the lift came to a halt, she recalled how, in her previous visit, she had rushed toward the door she had only glimpsed in her dreams. The corridor was illuminated by flickering blue-white torches, shadows dancing in the flames.
At the end of the hallway stood a plain black door. If she hadn't known what lay behind it, she might never have guessed it held one of the most mysterious places in all of magical Britain. This time, she advanced cautiously, glancing left and right to ensure she hadn't been seen.
Standing before the large door, she took a deep breath. All her plans hinged on this moment. Azalea steadied herself, her heart pounding as she grasped the handle, feeling its weight—a barrier to the unknown. Memories of Sirius surged through her: his laughter, his warmth, and the moment he was lost to the veil. She had failed him once, but this time, fear would not hold her back.
With resolve, she pushed the door open, its creaking echoing in the silence. Inside was a large circular room, its walls black and unmarked, with handle-less doors spaced evenly around it. Blue flames burned from the branches of candles, casting an eerie glow that reflected off the marble floor, giving the illusion of dark water beneath her feet.
Suddenly, the circular wall began to rumble and rotate, blurring the blue flames into neon lines. Then, just as quickly, everything stopped. Azalea stood in the center, trying to remember how Hermione had once opened a random door. She chose one, entering the Hall of Prophecies, and marked it with a fiery X as she closed it. No sooner had she done so than the wall began to spin again, this time revealing a great red-golden light amidst the faint blue. She continued her task until she reached her destination, the Death Chamber.
The room was dimly lit and rectangular, with a sunken center that formed a stone pit about twenty feet below her. She stood on the top tier of stone benches that encircled the chamber, descending steeply like an amphitheater. In the middle of the lowered floor rose a stone dais, upon which an ancient archway stood—cracked and crumbling, its age evident.
The archway, unsupported by any surrounding walls, was draped with a tattered black curtain that fluttered slightly, as if stirred by an unseen hand, despite the stillness of the cold air.
As she approached the dais, her footsteps echoed softly in the silence. From her vantage point, the pointed archway appeared much taller than it had from above. The veil continued to sway gently, hinting at a recent passage. Faint whispers and murmurs drifted through the fabric, beckoning her closer.
The room darkened, and the veil hung before her like a tattered curtain, shimmering and alive with unseen currents. Shadows danced across its surface, whispering secrets of those who had crossed through.
As she stepped closer, an inexplicable connection tugged at her. Months of study had led her to this moment. The veil, she believed, was not a death trap but a portal. If she could attune it, perhaps she could reach a new place to call home—or at least find peace.
Setting down her bag, she pulled out her supplies: an inkwell filled with magical ink, a few strands of her hair, and a small vial of her blood. She began painting runes around the veil, runes learned not at Hogwarts but from ancient texts discovered in Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. The only living thing that knew her intentions and supported her quest for a new home.
"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Guide me. Show me the way."
As she chanted a simple incantation, the veil began to shimmer and pulse, responding to her intent. The air crackled with energy, the scent of ozone thick in the air as if lightning had struck nearby. Azalea felt a surge of power coursing through her—intoxicating yet terrifying.
"Just a little more," she urged, pouring her magic into the circle. Her hair whipped around her, and her eyes glowed with an otherworldly blue light. The veil rippled violently, shadows twisting and contorting as if alive. She could almost hear familiar voices calling to her. Her resolve solidified.
But just as she felt she was making progress, a loud crash echoed from the corridor outside. Panic surged through her. Had they found her? Time was running out. She had to act now.
With a final surge of energy, Azalea thrust her hands toward the veil, pouring every ounce of her magic into the portal. The room erupted in blinding light, enveloping her completely. For a moment, she felt suspended in time, the past and future converging around her.
Then, just as abruptly, she was pulled through. The sensation was like falling and flying all at once, racing through a tunnel of light. Was this what it felt like to cross into another world?
Date: ???
As the light dimmed, she braced herself for impact, her heart racing with the hope of a new life. The veil released her, and she landed hard on warm red sand. Gasping for breath, she took in her surroundings.
She stood in a vast crater, charred trees surrounding her, a large stone portal glowing with faint blue fire behind her, reflecting the night sky. Two statues of cloaked men, swords pointed at their feet and glowing yellow eyes, loomed above her. Above them, a carved stone snake coiled, its mouth open as if ready to strike.
But there was no sign of life—only an overwhelming sense of possibility and uncertainty. Had she truly crossed into another realm, or was this a mere illusion conjured by her desperate mind?
Heart racing, Azalea stood tall. She had taken the leap. The journey was just beginning, and she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. A snort escaped her, quickly morphing into cackles as she realized her insane plan had actually worked. Her laughter echoed through the crater, a sound of defiance and hope.
Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses, searching for any sign of life, ready to embrace the challenges that awaited her.
