Chapter 101

Something tickled against Atlas’s finger, something soft, gentle, faint, it spurred her awake, pulling her from her sleep as she cracked open an eye, vision blurry and unfocused. The fire flickered across from her, those logs pushed to the sides, crumbling to dust, while newer, fresher ones burned brightly in the centre. She yawned and breathed in deeply, looking upon Crookshanks as he stared up at her, motionless and wide-eyed, she stared back a moment, disoriented until something shifted atop her.

They had fallen asleep, her and Hermione, sat in the Common Room, alone, with Crookshanks to watch over them. Atlas flushed, gaze ensnared by the girl atop her whose face had since scrunched to form something akin to mild annoyance, so Atlas tried not to move, afraid any of her movements might wake the girl but remembered, after many nights of carrying the girl to their tower, that she was not easily woken. It must have been something to do with whatever dream she might be having.

So Atlas made to get up, carefully peeling the arms wrapped tightly around her only to redden and twitch oddly when Hermione’s fingers grazed across the unobstructed skin left bare by her crinkled shirt. She stopped again, put herself to rights and stood, gently laying Hermione upon the cushion. She admired her a moment, let her eyes roam across the girl’s face, brightened by the burning fire before she sighed and turned away, looking over the girl’s work, mismatched and incomplete. 

“What’s the time Crook? I can’t seem to find my watch…” Atlas whispered, organizing each sheet and tucking them carefully inside Hermione’s bag. The cat pounced upon the table, the chain of Atlas’s pocket watch between his teeth as he dropped the accessory before her, tail flicking behind him and unmoving face suspiciously proud. “Clever Crookshanks.”

The compliment seemed to bloat his pride, as the kneazle grew taller somehow, chest fluffy and puffed. Atlas smiled absentmindedly, looking upon the time to see it was past midnight, way past midnight, approaching the early hours of the morning. She frowned and hooked the bag over her shoulder, hovering over Hermione for a moment before bending to loop her arms beneath the girl. It was with well-practised ease she picked the girl up, adjusting her carefully and holding her close, so that the girl’s hair fell against her neck, her breaths fanning across the dip of her throat.

Crookshanks followed dutifully behind as Atlas walked, not rushing ahead or swerving between her legs as he usually did but remaining at her heel, eyes up, trained on the two of them, observing, watching. Atlas silently wished the cat was not gathering gossip for her father, she was well aware of the fact the cat was good friends with Sirius and knew most of Sirius’s information concerning her hopeless crush on her best friend came directly from the cat sleuth. It would only spell her mortification.

Their dorm room was dark but Atlas couldn’t reach the light switch with Hermione in her arms, so she entered blind, eyes flashing gold to see, two little torchlights through the pitch black. Her bed was messy, Hermione’s in order, they were opposites in that regard but everything else was similar, from the way they lay out their nightclothes to their reading material for the night. Atlas chuckled to herself at that and placed Hermione atop her bed, trapped a moment by the arms around her neck and her own unwillingness to fall away.

It was different to see Hermione through eyes turned golden, different from how she saw her as an Animagus and different from how she saw her with regular eyes, she hadn’t noticed it till now but now that she had, she was paralysed, arms locked and head bowing, inching closer to the girl wrapped in a golden aura, something apparently unseen to normal eyes. She was near now, near enough to smell the girl’s peach perfume, see the faint freckles of her cheeks, feel the heat of her face, her breath upon her lips. She was so close, so close she could kiss her if she just —

Atlas stumbled away, hand over mouth, cheeks flushing furiously as she blinked away her golden eyes, rock stuck in her throat, heart beating so wildly she thought her arms might turn numb. She glanced around, sights falling upon Crookshanks, the cat staring at her, unblinking, unmoved. He just stared and Atlas grew mildly uncomfortable, coughing, clearing her throat and wiping her sweaty hands upon her shirt. She just patted herself down, busying her mind and occupying her hands, feeling at her back pocket only to realise she was missing something.

It was a perfect opportunity to leave, to collect herself in private, she would be mortified if Hermione were to wake now. Imagining it brought such a grimace to Atlas’s face she looked physically pained. So she left, moving quickly, swiftly and searched, slowly, for her notes book, the one detailing Astoria’s curse, all of her research. Fruitless as it might be, she was thinking of going through it again that night, hoping some inspiration would come to her. Though she didn’t have very high hopes.

A sudden noise came from behind her, a figure bursting through the painting. Atlas glanced up, tucking the book in her waistband and looking upon the woman, her godmother, Minerva, worriedly. The lady walked with a sense of urgency, her face an odd complexion as her eyes raked over the common area, eyes lightening at the sight of her. “Atlas, dear, Dumbledore is asking for you.”

“What? Why?”

“I do not know why but he has. Please, hurry along, I need to wake the rest of the Weasley children,” Minerva rattled, shaking almost unperceivably. Atlas saw no room to object, nor would she have if there was, instead, she nodded deeply and ran for the portrait, “be swift, my dear!”

And swift she was, Atlas ran as fast as her legs would allow, all fatigue knocked from her body, her bones as she approached Dumbledore’s office, a place she would never have thought she’d run to so desperately. The password was loose from her tongue, the gargoyles jumping, instantly, to the side and the stairs rising faster than ever before. She didn’t knock before entering, bursting through the door, chest heaving as she gazed around the room, eyes settling on Ron and Harry, both boys pale, both shaking, one on the verge of throwing up while the other already showed signs of previously doing so.

“Harry! Ron!” She cried, running forward and placing her hands upon their shoulders, glancing them over briefly before pulling them forward, hugging them both tight. It was strange, however, their reactions, normally, Harry would squeeze back tight, burying his face in her shoulder and Ron would pull away, smiling awkwardly but this time — this time, Harry pulled away, almost as if burned while Ron held her tight, shaking with his face buried in shirt. “Harry?”

“You responded to my summons, I’m glad,” Dumbledore offered sagely, though his eyes held something serious, decided. Atlas resolved not to retort, resorting to a quick nod as she turned back to Ron, rubbing the boy’s shoulder, trapped in the dark, unknowing of the situation. “Arthur has been attacked in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix.”

“What?” Atlas snapped, brows furrowed so deeply she looked the picture of dire. 

“He has been found and taken to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,” Dumbledore explained quickly, “Alastor will inform you of the situation in detail when you arrive, you’ll be on the scene, we need to understand how this –“

“You’re sending me into the field?”

“I’m afraid so, we are short on hand, many of the Order operatives are on missions previously given, they cannot be pulled from their posts for fear of discovery,” Dumbledore told and Atlas swallowed, feeling Harry’s gaze on her cheek, Ron’s sudden tenseness, she pulled away, rubbing her chin anxiously. “You’ll take this portkey –” he gestured to the snow globe beside him, “– Alastor will be there upon your arrival.”

“You’re sending her to where Mr Weasley was attacked?” Harry asked and his voice was hoarse, cracked at every syllable, it was hollow but held hints of panic, incredulous as he stared at Dumbledore, Ron doing the same, the boy dismayed.

“As a member of the Order, Atlas understands the necessary risk,” Dumbledore said and as Harry made to speak, as Ron opened his mouth, outraged, Atlas stepped forward, wand at the ready, face set.

“I’ll go, Moody and I can poke around, I’m assuming you want us to make sense of it all?”

“If you can,” Dumbledore confirmed, nodding deeply and Atlas swallowed, shuffling forward as she reached out, fist clenching and unclenching before her fingers fell upon the glass dome, encasing the snowy scene inside, a scene Atlas focussed upon, eyes narrowing when she realised what inhabited the glass. A great black wolf, with piercing gold eyes.

The door to the office opened and Atlas saw Ginny, Fred and George walk inside, faces pulled up in confusion while Minerva took a moment, staring at her, eyes steadily growing wider before she lurched forward, an arm reached out and Atlas’s name falling from her lips as a sudden lurching feeling pulled behind her navel and the ground vanished beneath her feet.

The rush of wind snapped her from the simplicity of Dumbledore’s office, her stomach rolling as she plummeted to the ground beneath her, the scene was dark, darker than the office but lighter than her dorm room and the floor was cold — cold and hard as she thudded against it, the air knocked from her lungs as she looked around, eyeing the tall metal shelves, the orbs upon each one. The room was vast, larger than Atlas could comprehend as she pushed herself to her feet, her wand ready, her old one broken and pressed against her thigh. She spun around, eyes alight. The chamber was cold, lit only by the lights of select orbs. Some of them dim, some bright, some null and void.

“We’re in the Hall of Prophecies.”

“So it’s real then…” Atlas murmured, turning to look over at Moody as the man slunk through the shadows, his false eye white, no doubt peering through the backside of his head, watching through the darkness, waiting, alert. “Morning.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Atlas replied and the man looked at her, remaining silent, lips pulled to a thin line.

“I’m sorry for that…” he offered quietly, genuinely, grumbling under his breath a moment later, so incoherently not even Atlas could understand him through his dull tones. He turned and hobbled in the other direction, gesturing over his shoulder, “come, we’ve got some investigating to do.”

“Right.”

She followed and they walked in silence, both tense, both peering through the shadows, careful not to bump into a shelf or touch a ball, afraid they’d fall into madness if they did. Moody told Atlas as much, told her she would be driven to insanity by a curse placed on the prophecies by the Keeper of the hall. She’d heeded his warning, moving carefully and quickly though letting her eyes roam, climb the shelves, eyeing each coloured ball, most blue, some black, little of them, gold or red, any other colour sparse or non-existent.

It was a mesmerizing place, one of knowledge, of secrets and whispers that disorientated Atlas, though it was only one, coming from somewhere, behind her or in front, she couldn’t discern, only that there was a voice and it was haunting but incoherent. She pushed the sounds away, frowning as she renewed her chase, fixing her eyes on Moody’s back as their journey soon came to an end and a sudden splash fell underfoot. Atlas looked down, tilting her shoe to the side as she set her sights on the puddle of red beneath her, fresh and spreading. Blood. Arthur Weasley’s blood.

“Be on guard…the snake could still be here,” Moody grumbled.

“Nagini?” Atlas asked.

“That’s right, know of it?”

“Yeah…met her personally,” Atlas muttered, suddenly remembering the graveyard. She frowned, closing her eyes a moment before letting out a breath, “she’s…not a normal snake.”

“I get that. The thing’s too smart…snakes are intelligent normally but she’s something different,” Moody agreed, his fake eye whirling around, “met her during the first war, wasn’t a pleasant encounter.”

“Yeah? Guess she’s not the best at first impressions,” Atlas murmured.

“Could say that,” Moody idly agreed, “how’s your magic been? Able to control it yet? Been doing those exercises I set you?”

“No…” Atlas admitted quietly, “never find the time.”

“From what I hear you’ve got more than enough of that, no Quidditch, no secret club and I know you’re quick with homework,” Moody retorted and Atlas frowned. She had not shown up for a lecture.

“I just — it’s not nice, you know? Making people scared, forcing them to face such crippling fears. Some can’t even face their boggarts and yet, what I make them see — I fear it’s so much worse,” Atlas said, “I don’t like it.”

“There are a lot of things in this world you’ll find you don’t like but it’s tough, you’ve got to live with it,” Moody told and Atlas looked up as the man approached her, motioning to her core, her centre, where all of a witch or wizards magic resided. “And that Fear you have inside of you? You might not like it but it is your greatest tool, your greatest weapon, you just need to wield it.”

Atlas remained quiet a moment, frowning and chewing at her cheek nervously before turning, brushing Moody’s hand away, “how are we doing this?”

“…I’ll take this corridor, you go the opposite, check the door Arthur was guarding,” Moody told, unmoved by the shift in topic. Atlas hesitated a moment, swallowing solidly before nodding. 

They parted ways seconds later, their glowing wands fading to specks in the distance between them as Moody’s entire form was swallowed by the dark, Atlas finding herself, isolated, well and truly alone. Those whispers returned, louder in volume, closer, everywhere, but Atlas cast them aside, ignored the noises and trudged on, mind on the mission, alert, on guard. The sounds she paid mind to were the ones that came as vague scratching, odd whines and writhing against the stone.

Those sounds she twitched at, eyes flickering dangerously with every sharp head turn, fangs growing, ears elongating, a partial shift, so that everything was clear, the images of what belonged to each sound flashing before her, plain to see. The vague scratching of the name tags against metal, the odd whines of the boundless shelves and the writhing — the writhing she could not quite pinpoint. It was not so easily seen, concealed somehow as Atlas came to a stop at the foot of the door she had been ordered to investigate.

She turned, her back to it and eyes roaming, searching for any clues whilst remaining vigilant, that writhing still fresh, still new and near. She crouched, brushing her fingers across the grate beneath her, a liquid seeping between each bottomless square. Blood again. Arthur must have been attacked at the door and followed to where he was subsequently assaulted further and later found. It made her stomach churn, made her hands grow hot, a feeling of dirtiness overwhelmed her as she sought to wipe her palms free of the red.

The grate creaked as she stood again, her senses heightened, every inch of her body covered in goosebumps. She didn’t even know what she was supposed to be looking for, clues, yes, but there was only so much a snake could leave behind, some shedding perhaps but Atlas wasn’t so sure Nagini would stop to drop some shedding in the Hall of Prophecies. It was fruitless, she thought, Arthur was attacked and that was all there was to it, there was nothing to investigate, after all, they knew who drew blood and they knew why they drew blood. So why had Dumbledore told her to join Moody?

Lost in thought, Atlas only just registered how the writhing had stopped, how not even the shelves creaked nor did the tags scratch, it was completely and utterly quiet. And that was not a good sign.

She raised her wand, back straight, incantations, spells and charms — hexes and curses ready to fly from her tongue but nothing came. Nothing quick or swift. Instead, blood fell over her cheek and a form emerged from the shadows, the writhing — no — slithering renewing. Pale eyes stared at her and that familiar and old melancholy sadness washed over Atlas, that rage she felt for Achlys in the graveyard replaced by the despair she felt in the forest. Nagini followed, coiling through the long pillars of smoke Atlas assumed were the legs of Achlys, the snake tasted the air, rushing for Atlas where the girl remained still, suddenly frozen as the serpent twirled around her body, confined her legs and constricted her abdomen.

“Astraea…” Achlys greeted and Atlas felt that familiar turmoil, a whirlwind of panic building within her. The skin of her arms grew numb and her eyes brightened to a new, marvellous and blinding gold. “I see you have your wand.”

But she did not point to the one that lay in Atlas’s hold, instead, the shadow pointed to the impression in her pocket, the broken length of wood split into two.

“I’m…Atlas.”

“So you are…” Achlys nodded vaguely, “my apologies.”

“You…” Atlas swallowed, eyeing the snakehead at her cheek, gazing into those far too intelligent eyes before turning back to the smoke, “you’re not the same as…the graveyard.”

“In body, I am but in mind…I am different.”

“Who — who are you?”

“Achlys.”

“The real Achlys? The real Magianima? Astraea’s sister?” Atlas rattled off, unable to withhold her questions, thoughts so rampant she could not hope to control them, even as she faced the monster that murdered her mother, even as she was constricted and bound, she would ask her questions. And perhaps that would spell her downfall, her ceaseless thirst for answers.

“That is me but not this skin,” Achlys offered.

“Then…who does your skin belong to?”

“The one that murdered dear Amaya.”

“Yes but who? Who is she?” Atlas pressed and winced when Nagini tightened her hold, a warning perhaps. Atlas could feel how her ribs creaked under the pressure and how her lungs grew smaller and smaller until her breaths came out in short bursts.

“Nagini,” Achlys hissed, low and sombre, the snake turned to the mist, some adoration flashing behind those eyes as she uncoiled herself and returned to the dark, disappearing within her shadow. “It has been…truly lovely to see you, my dear sister, but she is returning, so I must go.”

“I’m not your sister…I’m not Astraea, she’s gone you must know this,” Atlas whispered, almost desperately as that panic came hurtling at her full force once again. Achlys regarded her a moment, Atlas’s panic soon replaced by something else, something far heavier, grief and solemness Atlas had only felt for those passed on.  

“This I know…and yet, here you stand.”

“I’m not her.”

“So you say.”

“I’m Atlas.”

“Yes, you have told me this,” Achlys nodded, “yet Nagini is fond of you and that is all I need to know.”

“Fond of me? She tried to suffocate me,” Atlas said, voice wavering, hands shaking.

“She was merely overexcited, she adores those of our kind.”

“I don’t understand…” Atlas should have known better than to ask any questions. She truly never learnt her lesson.

“Perhaps you never will.”

And that was Atlas’s greatest worry, never knowing, forever remaining in the dark, blind though perhaps it was for the best, perhaps her fear instead, should have been understanding, finding out the truth of her and what — who she was. Perhaps she would not be able to handle the truth, there was a reason, after all, why her life was shrouded and concealed, wrapped in such thick mystery.

A shuffle, a shift in the air and Atlas blinked, realising Achlys’s departure, her words trapped in her throat as the shadow moulded with the dark around it and then when she could move, she stumbled and as she fell forward Achlys was gone and Atlas, alone. She caught herself and spun around, looking, searching but nothing, she really was just gone, without a trace. She swallowed, taking in the situation, the information before running, sprinting for Moody, her ribs aching, no doubt bruising.

“Moody!” She gasped out, tumbling down the aisles of crystal balls, careful not to catch the shelves, “Moody!” she shouted again, this time with some rasp, her desperation evident in the call. And eventually, she found him, they found each other, the man ready with his wand raised, panicked just like Atlas. “I saw — I saw Achlys and the snake — Nagini, we need to — we need to go!”

“Calm down, girl! Tell me where they went,” Moody instructed, voice gruff and eyes electric.

“I don’t — they just vanished, gone, I –“

“All right, all right, are you hurt? No bites or anything?” Moody asked and noticed the blood across the girl’s cheek, “she do anything to you? Didn’t lose control of your magic did you?”

“No…no, she was — it was different. Moody, Achlys is two different people but — but they’re in the same body? I don’t know, it was strange,” Atlas told, gesturing wildly. “My magic was fine, it spiked when she called me Astraea but I’m ok.”

“Good…good,” Moody nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder, “I found what I came here for, Dumbledore should be pleased enough, we’ll go. I’ve just got word Arthur is being sought too, he’ll live.”

“Just got word?” Atlas murmured, still shaken, dazed.

“Fawkes.”

“Right…” she nodded vaguely and straightened when a sound, reminiscent of Nagini’s slither, sounded some shelves away. She turned in the direction of it, eyes blown and hand tight around her wand. Moody did the same, reacting to Atlas’s movements.

“What is it?”

“Thought — thought I heard Nagini.”

“I can’t see her,” Moody offered and Atlas relaxed the slightest bit, swallowing solidly. “Come on, let’s go. I’m afraid I can’t take you to your friends just yet, need to take a few detours, so we don’t get caught. You’ll see them later, I assure you, that all right?”

“Yeah…yeah, that’s ok,” Atlas muttered numbly but she was tired, the whiplash of events settling to a horribly ache throughout her body, both physical and mental. And though she nodded along to Moody’s words, she didn’t listen, feeling a phantom slickness upon her fingers, echoes of Arthur’s blood upon her hand, traces of pain lingering around her abdomen, resonating within her ribs.

They left moments later, slipping, unseen, out of the Hall of Prophecy and apparating to a warehouse nearby. They continued this process, spending hours at a time at each hideout, dusting their trails and proceeding to the next one, sometimes close by, sometimes across borders. At first, Atlas had found the shifts in terrain dizzying, disorientating, but after their fifth apparition, she had grown so accustomed to it, she didn’t move an inch as her surroundings warped around her. And after the seventh, she had become so tired, so dazed, most of the time she hadn’t even realised they had changed locations.

The two of them were at their ninth stop of the morning, shuffling through dusty cabinets, checking every room, sweeping the entire place before they dared relax when Moody finally spoke, sitting down and removing his false leg.

“You know…I don’t know why Dumbledore told you to join me,” He began as Atlas rose her head from the depths of a cabinet, turning her tired eyes toward him. “Not that I mind the company — It was just a one-man job.”

“Dumbledore likes to put me through shit,” Atlas reasoned tiredly, standing and brushing herself down. “Probably thinks it builds character.”

“He’s a wise man, I trust his decision usually but…you shouldn’t be here,” Moody said and Atlas raised a brow.

“Thought you were all for me joining the Order?”

“I’ve since…rethought my judgement,” Moody grumbled and frowned, looking off to the bookshelves that lined the room, some odd expression falling over his face, “your mother wouldn’t want you here, she’d have hexed me — cursed me for some of the things I said. Amaya joined the Order, fought in the war so you wouldn’t have to. All of us did.”

“I know,” Atlas nodded, “I’ve read her journals.”

“Course you have.”

“Moody…what was she like?”

“You just said you read her journals. Should tell you all you need to know,” Moody said and Atlas shook her head, sighing.

“No, I mean…who was she? Where did she come from? Did she ever tell you about her family? The rest of my family?” Atlas asked, sitting atop an old chair, a cloud of dust kicking up as she fell against it. “She never really wrote about them.”

“And for good reason,” Moody grumbled, equipping his leg once more, “Atlas, you shouldn’t go digging for so many answers to so many questions at once. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

“I know but — just, is it why she stole the Maginiama name?”

“She didn’t steal it, she made it hers, your mother wasn’t some petty thief,” Moody snapped, “the name was practically entrusted to her. She changed it when she was younger, introduced herself as Amaya Magianima so that no one would know who she truly was. She does not come from a very…nice family.”

“I know that much, I just…who were they? Are they still around?”

“Her father died in ’79 and her mother was imprisoned months after, left with the others, rotting in the highest most heavily guarded cells of Azkaban. Though those others were incarcerated long before you-know-who’s rise to power, however, if they had been free…perhaps this world would look some much different — so much darker,” Moody told, his expression grave, so fearful Atlas felt a chill settle over her. “That is all I will say…if you really must know what you came from, be my guest. But mark my words you will not like what you find.”

“I never do,” Atlas whispered and Moody frowned, standing and holding forward his cane.

“This’ll be our last stop, Grimmauld Place. I don’t think I need to tell you, but where we went and what we did must remain between us, understand?” he said and not even a spike of excitement ran through the girl she merely nodded and placed her hand atop his, gaze unfocused. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Atlas muttered and that feeling that would have once left her sprawled across the floor shot through her like a spell, their surroundings warping from that old, damp room, to that of the pavement, just across from Grimmauld place, the sun high in the sly, birds tweeting their delightful tunes but it was lost on Atlas, as the girl merely pulled away from Moody and approached the home, dirtier than those that surrounded it. 

She didn’t even knock, just walked inside and took off her shoes, not sending a glance over her shoulder, or even a wave as the door shut and Moody disappeared from view, his lingering gaze still burning holes in her back. She waited there a moment, waiting for any sort of acknowledgement, but nobody welcomed her, it seemed as if nobody was even home. So she ventured deeper, unbuttoning her shirt and checking over the bruising that coiled around her stomach, darkened over the hours she spent apparating and hiding.

“Atlas…?” Atlas looked up, snapping her gaze to meet tired eyes that almost mirrored her own, her father’s silver meeting her gold. She blinked, exhaustion setting in as she crumbled forward and fell into her dad’s open arms. “My little girl…when I heard Dumbledore sent you out with Moody — I couldn’t sleep. What is going through that old man’s mind!? To send you out there!?”

“Please…no talking,” Atlas murmured and Sirius obeyed, holding her tight as if she might slip through his fingers. 

They stayed together, in that hallway, in silence for a very long time, so that Atlas’s legs eventually expended the last of her strength and Sirius had had to pull her into the kitchen, sitting her in a high chair while he remained stood, the two of them still in each other’s arms.

“I don’t know why he made me go…there was no point,” Atlas whispered, tears falling over her cheeks and mingling the dried blood on her cheek, pouring salted water into the healing wound so that it stung and burned. “We’ve been apparating from warehouse to warehouse all morning. Dad, it was exhausting.”

“I bet it was, pumpkin…I bet,” Sirius nodded, his words steady, comforting as he brushed a hand down her hair. “I’ve missed you dearly.”

“And I’ve missed you…so much. I’m sorry about snapping at you in the fire, I realise that’s the latest we’ve spoken,” Atlas breathed, adjusting her hold and nuzzling further into her father’s warmth.

“It was justified my dear, truly. I was childish, comparing Harry to James. He just reminds me so much of him,” Sirius sighed and Atlas nodded in understanding, eventually pulling away with a mute sniffle, her tears vanquished by her father’s thumb as he brushed it over her cheek gently. “You’ve just missed him I’m afraid, they all left at quarter past one to visit Arthur, won’t be back for quite some time now.”

“That’s all right, I think I’ll take a nap,” Atlas muttered and stood from her chair.

“Atlas…what happened to your stomach?” Sirius asked quietly, frowning, worried, as he gestured to the thick lines winding around Atlas’s abdomen.

“Nagini…his snake, she was there, she — she was with the monster too, Achlys,” Atlas told and slowly buttoned up the garment, biting at the inside of her cheek. “Did you know mum took the name, Magianima?”

“…I knew it was not her real name but I did not know it was taken,” Sirius said.

“…Achlys’s full name is Achlys Magianima, mum took the name from the family she hailed from, an ancient family from aeons ago,” Atlas said, “and Achlys had a little sister, a little sister named Astraea which is what she calls me. You told me mum told you that if the monster were to ever call me Astraea I was in danger.”

“That I did…your mother told me if that were to happen, it meant you were marked by her.”

“Yes…what did you mean?”

“I don’t know, pumpkin, I merely relayed what your mother told me and it was startlingly little. She was an enigma, your mother,” Sirius frowned and Atlas sighed, rubbing at her eyes tiredly.

“I think — no, I know Achlys thinks I’m her little sister, Astraea. I don’t know why, she just does and that’s why she’s marked me,” Atlas said and leaned against the dinner table, head in her hand, “she kept on insisting I really was Astraea, it was weird and as usual, my magic flared. It always does whenever she’s mentioned.”

“Have you asked Dumbeldore? Your mother told him most things, if anybody knew, it would be him.”

“I’ve been asking him all my life but he insists I’m not ready,” Atlas snapped, frustrated through her fatigue.

“Maybe…” Sirius looked thoughtful, hesitant of his next words, “maybe it’s for the best.” Atlas looked at him, incredulous, “Atlas, sweetheart, Minerva has told me about everything that has happened at school and I know you’re still dealing with many — many things. Adding the truth to it all could perhaps offer some clarity but also spell disaster. What if the truth is ugly? Painful? You’re not capable of dealing with it right this instant.”

“…yeah,” Atlas was tired. “Yeah, ok dad.” Atlas wanted to sleep. “I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Atlas…” Sirius began, looking regretful.

“No, dad, I get it, really. I know it’s probably for the best, I’m just — I’m frustrated because Dumbledore continues to pick and choose what I can and cannot handle,” Atlas sighed, brows furrowed, “he has me put up with a woman that used to hit me and sends me to dangerous places, up against dangerous people who partook in the murder of both my mother and brother but won’t tell me about me...it’s tiring.”

“…who hit you?”

“That’s not the only point, dad, I –“

“Atlas, who used to hit you?” Sirius questioned, his tone harsher, evidencing there would be a bite to his bark. Atlas glanced over at him, frowning. “Atlas.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head, “I was hit, that’s all you need to know.”

“What do you mean, that’s all I need to know!?” Sirius shouted, brows furrowed, “You’re my daughter, Atlas, my little girl, if someone’s hit you, you tell me who! It’s my job as your dad — !”

“You won’t be able to do that job behind bars,” Atlas snapped, that fatigue crawling back to her, “if I tell you who, you’ll go mad — you’ll reveal yourself and find yourself in Azkaban and I cannot deal with that. You said it yourself, I’m not capable of dealing with more shit at the moment, so please — please, drop it.”

“But –“

“Dad, stop,” Atlas whispered, closing her eyes tight, she took in a breath and shakily exhaled, “I got the bruises from Nagini…she bound and constricted me…that’s the full answer to your question from before. Now…now I’m going to bed.”

“…all right, ok…I — I love you, Atlas.”

“Yeah…same, dad.”