Chapter 105

Classes had begun again, their workload tripled with the new year. OWLs were getting closer, the professors had declared while everyone stewed in indignation, it was their apparent reason for the assignments. First day back and their bags were already weighed down by weeks of homework meant for a single night. Atlas shouldered her pack, her final lesson of the day finally over and done with, honestly, she had stopped listening halfway through Binns’s monologue on geese. Muggle geese. Sometimes Atlas thought the man’s true calling was Muggle Studies, she didn’t even think the man enjoyed teaching History of Magic. He was probably only the teacher because he was there for most of what he taught. Atlas shook her head at the thought and left.

Though she paused when she noticed she was not being followed and turned, finding Harry, Hermione and Ron surrounded by DA members, chatting quietly. She watched them a moment, thinking back to her conversation with Sirius briefly before resuming her exit, hand in her pocket while the other held at the strap atop her shoulder, white-knuckled, tight. She wanted to take a nap but decided against it, the weight of her work tugging her down and in the direction of the library. It wouldn’t hurt to get started, then maybe she could have a go at carving a few things later, just to take distract her a bit. Maybe something nice for Hermione. Just to say thank you, of course.

Other students were there when she arrived, nearly all of them fifth-years, sat at lamp-lit tables with their noses so close to the pages they read Atlas thought it a wonder they could even comprehend the sentences upon them. She found a nice empty table, secluded but not so hidden Harry, Ron and Hermione couldn’t find her. 

The Defense Against the Dark Arts homework was the one she started first, hoping to complete it in one sitting so that she could perhaps appease Umbridge as if she were some mighty beast. After all, the woman’s passive-aggressive remarks that morning clearly conveyed she was not happy about their disappearances. Many times she had reapplied her horrid perfume right beside Atlas’s desk and remained there for many long insufferable minutes just to watch Atlas squirm, then she’d stress the fact they were not to use any sort of defensive magic to get a rise out of Harry but much to her dismay, he didn’t budge. The knowledge of the DA’s existence seemed to actually bring a smug satisfied smile to the boy’s face when the woman turned her back.

It was simple enough, the homework, one written with quantity in mind rather than quality as though the questions were many, they weren’t hard, perhaps repetitive to the point of frustration but Atlas knuckled down and answered them to completion. Then, moments later, two figures joined her at the table, Ron across from her and Hermione at her side, tucking her bloated bag beneath the table with a frazzled look.

“Everything all right?” Atlas asked absentmindedly.

“Yeah, sorry about that, we were…wanted,” Hermione said carefully, setting out her equipment.

“They all won’t shut up about when the next meeting’ll be,” Ron huffed, sprawling his arms across the table as Hermione shot him a warning look. She followed it up with a cautious glance at their surroundings.

“Oh yeah?” Atlas muttered idly, busily scratching at her notebook but she wasn’t writing, instead, she had drawn several circles across her page. They’d gone and brought up the DA again and with it, thoughts of the day prior, the conversation with Sirius. She couldn’t shake away the thought this time.

“Are you ok, Atty?” Hermione asked quietly and Atlas looked at her, startled a moment before nodding with a small smile.

“Yeah, just thinking thoughts,” she shrugged and ripped out the sheet. She went quiet and started on her work again, blind to the concerned look Hermione threw at Ron and the shrug she got in return.

“What sort of thoughts?” Ron asked, glancing at Hermione who gave him a discrete thumbs up.

“Just…about a conversation I had with my dad,” Atlas offered honestly and then turned to Hermione, pointing at her History of Magic essay, “Mi, does this make any sense?”

“Complete sense…although Anastasia’s trial was held in 1634, not 1643, that was Walerwhel,” Hermione pointed out and Atlas looked at her sheet, brows knitting together a moment as she scanned the page before she made a noise of acknowledgement and nodded. “Are you completely sure you’re — ?”

Her words came to a complete halt, Ron making some vague noise of alarm as Atlas slowly looked up from her sheet, brow raised in question. She caught the look on Hermione’s face, the restrained annoyance, the stink in her eye, the concealed dislike and then the tint to Ron’s face, purple as if choking, caught off guard. Their eyes were on something behind her so she turned in confusion, only for realisation to fall upon her face as she locked eyes with one insanely misplaced Daphne Greengrass.

“Magianima, a word,” she said and it looked urgent so Atlas mutely nodded, of course, she did, Daphne had just approached her, uncaring of the two blatant witnesses and called her out personally. This meant something urgent, this meant something bad.

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Atlas glanced at Hermione and Ron, “I’ll be back, all right?” her look was meaningful to one and Hermione simply nodded, turning back to her books and motioning for Ron to do the same. Atlas was thankful for it. She followed Daphne silently as the girl led her deeper into the library, down narrower bookshelves and dustier passageways, almost into the restricted section but she paused just outside, down a secluded nook.

Then, it was as if something clicked and Daphne quickly grew a look of panic, a paleness that had not been there before returning as she began to shake, Atlas watched her, eyes suddenly widening. “Daphne — ?”

“Astoria’s not — she’s not — mum and dad have kept her home,” she blurted and Atlas frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean — I mean she’s not –“

“Woah, hey, breathe a second, all right?” Atlas eased, though her words were irregular, telling of her own fright. She took the girl’s shoulders gently and hadn’t expected the girl to rush forward, arms finding their way around her sides. She froze a moment before resigning and hugging back. Daphne wasn’t her favourite person in the world but now, well, this was different. She seemed an entirely different person. “What — what happened?”

“She got worse, you were right,” she shuddered, her words shaky and breaths uneven. “You were — you were right…she couldn’t make the trip, couldn’t even — I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to — why is this happening? I don’t –“

“Daphne,” Atlas called quietly, pulling away to catch the girl’s eye. “Tell me — tell me what happened?”

“She was fine, we — we were having dinner, talking and then she just starts screaming,” she told, looking off to the side, some lost glaze of horror falling over her eyes as she recalled the events. Atlas watched her, holding her arms firmly so that she would not fall should she faint. The girl had become increasingly pale, after all. “She — she just starts…starts…”

“Daphne,” Atlas said again and the girl was back, looking up at her. “It’s ok…just tell me.”

“Ok…ok she was, she was screaming and then she just — just went, out cold, we couldn’t wake her. She looked — she looked dead, Atlas, I couldn’t,” she let out a puff of air, breathing in again, sounding more as if she were gasping. Atlas sat her down and crouched before her. “Mum and dad got their friends in, some Healers they knew but — but when she woke up she was just, she couldn’t walk, she’s not — she’s not right Atlas.”

“All right…all right,” Atlas nodded for she didn’t know what to say, her own bubble of panic brewing within her gut and making a mess of her insides. Something on her face must’ve tipped Daphne over the edge as she soon started crying, sobbing uncontrollably as she muttered apologise, a thousand apologies to the ear of a person a hundred miles away. She was apologising to Astoria. “Why…why are you apologising?”

“Because — because it was supposed to be me…” she whispered, voice cracking as she wept. “It should have been me but — but it skipped me — it — it skipped…” she trailed off, burying her face in her knees, “and now she’s — she’s dying and I can’t do anything about it — nobody can do anything about it!”

“I…” Atlas froze and then fell down across from her, leaning her  head against a shelf of books and sighing, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do — I don’t –“

“Find something, a potion, a cure, you have to!” Daphne said, appearing almost demanding but her eyes soon gave way to the truth, her front dropping in almost an instant as she soon donned a look of pleading, “please…please help her, she’s my sister…my little sister.”

“I’m — I’m trying, I…” Atlas shook her head mutely, mouth still open with unsaid words as she shrugged and vaguely gestured to the air, “I’m stuck — I’m stuck and I can’t…I can’t find anything. I’m doing the best I can, I’m just a student, all right and — and I mean — I mean if some of the best Potion Masters in the world can’t find something, how am I supposed to?”

“Then why did you agree?” Daphne asked desperately, looking over at Atlas with teary incredulous eyes, “why did you promise her? To — to prove something? To prove you can? Why did you agree, Atlas?”

“Because she’s a kid, she…” Atlas shook her head, “I just wanted to help her. I — I wanted to try.”

“And you failed,” Daphne whispered, voice brittle as she stood and left.

Just like that. The devastating silence she left in her wake deafened Atlas as she stared ahead, at the spot Daphne had once been and suddenly, as if freshly inflicted, her arm began to shake travelling so that her body wracked with her despair. She slowly pulled her knees to her chest and held her hands, fingers interlocked, behind her head coming undone to drag down her face as she sniffled. Tears formed in her eyes quietly and fell upon her hands, pressed against her nose and clasped together, as if issuing a prayer to whatever unseen deities rest above. She let out a shuddery breath, habitually running her hands through her hair and fingers over scars.

Part of her regretted it, ever trying to help the sisters. But not because of the time she spent on her research that did not bear fruit or the many sleepless nights she endured, nor did she regret a single moment she spent getting to know Astoria. No. She regretted giving the girl hope, it was a powerful thing you see, hope, it could either make you or break you, leave you worse than you had been. Atlas could not bear the thought, the image of Daphne telling Astoria that Atlas had failed, that Atlas couldn’t help her and that Atlas had broken her promise. She could not — did not imagine the girl’s hope slip to that of despair.

Soon, Atlas found herself crying harder than before, her quiet sniffles growing to that of stifled sobs. She did not know what to do, she was lost with not an inkling of direction. Daphne’s words echoed within her, she had failed to save Astoria. Why they were said with such certainty, Atlas didn’t know. She had not given up, not in the slightest she just hadn’t made any progress. Was Astoria’s condition so bad there seemed to be not a shimmer of a silver lining? Atlas might not have given up, her will was not the issue but time. Time Atlas thought she had. Why was her condition worsening? What had she missed? Could it all have been intentional? Perhaps it had not been a mishap in the preparations for the potions she once took but instead a deliberate attempt on her life?

It hurt. Her head hurt. Atlas registered how her heart clenched but not how her arms numbed nor how the window beside her cracked, a line forming in the glass. There was a heaviness wafting from her form, a darkness that clawed across the ancient flooring, little hands running along the surfaces of that which surrounded her, searching for something, anything that they could induce with horrific worries, nightmares made reality. Fear pooled from her form like rain from the grey clouds above. Induced by the stress of its caster, the anxieties and weight she carried. The little hands had not had a chance to roam since the summer and took liberty in stretching their little fingers.

“Atlas?”

At last, they found something to grasp.

“Atlas, there you are. I’ve been looking for you for ages, Daphne left some time ago, I –“

A shock of crippling fear tickled up Hermione’s spine, her lungs winded, tears stinging her eyes as her knees almost buckled beneath her. She grasped at a shelf for support, blind to the hands, the smoky phantoms that tried to induce nightmares upon her, tried to spook her, scare her into some sort of submission. But Hermione was not affected. By no means was she immune for she found trouble in taking even a single step forward but she did not scream, she did not crumble nor did she collapse into a mess of tears.

Hermione found Atlas by herself, sat down a corridor of books with her face in her knees, body shaking as she sobbed. “Atlas?”

“She hates me — she’s going to hate me.”

This again. Hermione recalled something like this happening once, before the third task after Atlas had accidentally hurt her with a misfired spell. She moved forward, one shaky step at a time, that crippling fear knawing at her once more. Now she knew what to call it all, the so-called Fear Atlas could induce, something Harry had only spoken of in short. Briefly, as if he did not like to recall what he had experienced or seen, though perhaps it was milder, as Hermione did not see flashes of her nightmares made reality as Harry had described.

“Who?” Hermione asked, finally falling to her knees when she found herself close enough, she rose her hands to place them upon Atlas’s knees, but the girl pulled away, looking up now, teary-eyed and panicked. She did seem to notice, however, the terrifying sight she had become. “Atlas, who’s going to hate you?”

“Astoria…” Atlas’s voice cracked and that childlike presence returned, that surety of an easily convinced mind. “I promised I’d help her but she got worse and — and I don’t know what to do. She’s — she’s going to hate me, I’m sure of it.”

“Atlas, no, that’s not…I’m sure Astoria isn’t like that,” But Hermione didn’t know Astoria, not truly so her words fell flat and her assurance became merely meaningless words. “You tried — Atlas, you tried. You did your best.”

“But my best isn’t good enough! I failed and she’s — she’s sure to –“

“Astoria is a good girl isn’t she?” Hermione interrupted, looking upon the girl softly, tenderly so that Atlas could not jump to the conclusion that Hermione might hate her also, like she had done once before. “She has a good head on her shoulders?” Atlas nodded mutely, sniffling and after a moment allowing Hermione’s thumb to caress her tears away. “So there’s no way she would hold it against you, Atlas. If she’s anything like Harry, Ron and I, she surely loves you no matter what. Is she…similar to any of us?”

“She…she likes peach clusters,” Atlas muttered and did not move away when Hermione took the spot beside her, nor did she move when Hermione pulled her into her side and began threading her hands through her hair. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Atty…” Hermione smiled and lightened when the crippling fear vanished and the heaviness Atlas exuded slowly went with it. But there was still a darkness to the girl’s eye, some guilt, self-loathing, even as she spoke of Astoria’s love for peach flavoured sweets. “But, all right, what else does she like?”

“I don’t know…chicken soup?” Atlas whispered and Hermione chuckled lightly, drawing the girl’s eye. “What?”

“I like chicken soup too,” Hermione admitted gently but only smiled sadly when Atlas did not brighten or react. “Hey…come on, Atty. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

There was a moment in which Hermione thought Atlas would not speak and Hermione would not push, content in keeping the girl company but then she did, her voice barely above a whisper as she clutched Hermione’s jumper tight.

“Astoria…Astoria got worse — she’s been kept at home, I — Daphne came to tell me, she pleaded with me that I find a cure…” Her voice grew so quiet Hermione had to lean to catch her words. “But I — I’m stuck and I told her, I says — I said I’m trying, I’m just a student, if masters of the art can’t find a cure how was I supposed to?”

“And then what did she say?” Hermione pressed gently.

“She asked why I’d agreed to help? If I’d done it to prove something…” Atlas’s voice was a tad louder now, she had since stopped crying and her sniffles had ceased, now she simply looked tired. Too tired. “But I said it was because Astoria’s a kid, I wanted to help her, I wanted to try and she…she said — she said I’d failed…just that I failed and I — I don’t know what to do, I –“

“That fucking cow,” Atlas flinched, her hands retreating from where they clenched Hermione’s jumper so that she could study the girl’s expression, she was livid, glaring darkly at an unfortunate book housed across from her. “You tried! You tried and you’ll probably continue trying because you’re a good goddamn person! You’ve lost sleep, Atlas! You’ve — you’ve been stuck with your head in that journal for weeks, even through everything that has happened.”

“Hermione, she’s just –“

“No, I won’t have it!” Hermione said resolutely, turning to face Atlas and taking the girl’s shaking hand in hers, massaging her arm gently even though her other movements were anything but. “I get it, well I don’t, not entirely but I know she’s upset, she’s stressed because her sister is sick and she can’t do anything about it but she has no right to have a go at the only other person besides herself that actually gives a shit! It’s not right. And to reduce you to such a state, one I’ve only ever seen you in once before, it’s — it’s unforgivable!”

Atlas did not know what to say, she couldn’t come to Daphne’s defence nor did a large part of her want to. Right now, all she could think of was Astoria, how she was doing, what she was doing, when she would return or if she would return.

“Atlas? Atty?” Hermione called and clasped her hands over the girl’s cheek, “hey, come back to me.”

Atlas blinked and found herself staring into warm brown eyes, full of care and concern, she nodded and placed her own hands over Hermione’s, “I’m here…”

“Good,” Hermione smiled, “come on…let’s go back, yeah? Harry’s just returned from his lesson with Professor Snape.”

“Already?” Atlas mumbled.

“You’ve been hiding for a while, Atlas,” Hermione frowned and stood, holding her hands out for Atlas to take. She did, after a moment, bowing to meet Hermione’s hand when the girl reached to dry her eyes. “Like I said…” she continued a second later, “I’ve been looking for you for a while now.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Hermione huffed and then turned, pulling the girl with her. “Let’s just go back.”

And Atlas wordlessly followed, only going ahead when Hermione found herself particularly lost. Seemed the girl did not frequent this area of the library, for good reason, the shelves were all precariously stacked and towers of tomes loomed over them, threatening to fall. But Atlas could hear Ron and Harry loud a clear, talking amongst themselves, so she followed their chatter and soon enough the pair were in the main area, still busy with those studious students looking to get a headstart on their works. Though Ron and Harry were stood, apparently intent on leaving.

They both looked over at them at once, Harry quite pale, a subtle shake to his frame while Ron gave her a small awkward smile and a wave, his eyes darting back to Harry nervously. It seemed something had happened in her absence but Atlas didn’t ask, didn’t even think to, she simply stopped and Hermione moved forward, pressing her back flush against her front. She talked to them, her words a pleasing hum to Atlas who did not register them as sentences and then they were leaving, their bags over their shoulders and musings still passed between them. Atlas remained solemnly quiet the whole way back.

However, once arrived at their Common Room that pleasant hum turned into one of chaos, shrieks of laughter and excitement packing the room to its brim; Fred and George seemed to be demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop merchandise, the Headless Hat that had given Molly quite a fright yesterday morning. But, again, Atlas paid them no mind, her quill still in her hand as she stared at her homework, blurry to her worn eyes. Many times Hermione had tried to help her, goad her hand but when her efforts continued to fall flat, she gave up and simply shuffled closer, taking her hand and rubbing idle circles across her knuckles as she focussed on whatever stupid questions Ron inquired.

Instead, trapped in her own head, Atlas repeated formulas, over and over. Equations, ingredients, instructions, all of which she repeated over and over in her head, trying to come up with something, an answer, the reason she kept falling so short. She had so much knowledge, experience with many medications for her childhood had been unkind, yet none of it helped. But she refused to believe she had failed, she wouldn’t give and though she was lost, with not an inkling of direction, she knew there was someone who could help, someone who could potentially give her a hint. Him, Dumbledore.

Rather abruptly, she stood and tugged her hand from Hermione’s, hurrying up to her dorm room and over to her notebook. She grabbed it and tossed it roughly to her desk, practically tearing it open as she flipped through the pages. She would not give in, she would help Astoria for her own words echoed within her mind. If she couldn’t help one little girl, well, she was just a bit pathetic wasn’t she?

“Hey…” Hermione’s soft voice came because of course she followed Atlas when she’d stormed off. “What are you doing?”

“Going over my notes,” Atlas replied hoarsely, eyes not once leaving her findings.

“Astoria?”

“I — I gave her hope Hermione,” Atlas said, turning her head the slightest bit to catch how Hermione tentatively moved forward. “And now she’ll be crushed…far more than she would have been.”

“That’s…”

“You can’t even say anything to fault that,” Atlas muttered, shaking her head, “so I have to continue trying.”

“I know you do, Atlas,” Hermione nodded, sitting on the edge of her bed, incling so she caught Atlas’s eye. “You’re the type to do whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” Atlas echoed, nodding as well. “I’ll — I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Following a lead,” she said and pulled the girl into a brief hug before leaving the room and further leaving the Common area, even as Fred and George tried to rope her into some money-making scheme.

The Lady gave her a quiet greeting when she stepped outside and Atlas idly returned it, heading quickly for her destination and weaving between students turning in for the night. Until she found herself there, the headmasters’ corridor that ended in a pair of gargoyles. She gave the password, words unwavering as she moved past them and held at her shaking arm, growing impatient with how slow the staircase rose.

She didn’t even knock when she reached the top, discarding her formalities in favour of finding herself before Dumbledore as quickly as she could. A want she had never thought she’d find herself having. The man merely looked up curiously when she entered, pale blue’s looking upon her bright gold, something inquisitive in his stare before it turned knowing and almost pleased. Atlas took a moment to catch her breath before she spoke.

“I — I need your help,” she said, the words bitter on her tongue.

“Of course,” Dumbledore nodded, urging for her to continue and it was only now that she was here, in front of him, ready to procure herself a horrible debt did she hesitate, tongue suddenly knotted. Not only had Daphne told her Astoria did not like the idea of Dumbledore knowing but Atlas herself had always despised the idea of approaching the man for any sort of help.

“I…” she struggled to find her words, taking a moment before she took the plunge, “do you know how to make a potion that could potentially slow or cure a blood curse?”

“That I do not,” Dumbledore replied simply and Atlas’s stomach dropped, her throat growing tight. “However –” his continuation had Atlas’s straightening, her posture that of a soldier at attention. She hated the reactions of her body, “– I do recall a dear friend of mine holding a solution.”

“A friend?” Atlas asked, hating how desperation seeped into her words.

“Not only of mine but your mother also,” he said, that twinkle in his eye. “You see, there was a time in which our friend stumbled upon a maledictus, he was a kind man and as such was moved to find a cure. He was, however, unsuccessful, until he found a partnership within a young witch.”

“So what is it? How do I make it?” Atlas pressed, the idea of listening to Dumbledore’s story a fairly unattractive one but it became plain to see the man would not be deterred so easily and diligently continued with his tale.

“Now, Atlas, patience is a virtue, one not many know,” he said quite calmly while Atlas stewed in indignation, the initial shame she felt asking Dumbledore for help replaced with a wave of ugly anger. “That young witch was a lady named Visha.”

All at once, Atlas’s anger abated, her eyes widening as instead, curiosity flushed through her. “Visha?” The woman from that journal, that unreadable journal only Atlas could barely comprehend. “Then — then the boy? Was he –?”

“Newt Scamander,” Dumbledore finished, smiling lightly. “Have I earned your ear?”

“I…” Atlas grit her teeth, “I just wanted to know if you knew something and — and now that I know you do can you please just tell me or — or show me what you know,” she had cast a brief look to the cabinet she knew to house the mans pensieve. 

“The pensieve is not needed,” Dumbledore assured and then peered upon Atlas quietly a moment before he rose from his chair and rounded on a cabinet far behind him, full of trinkets and little metal machines, all moving in some way, magically Atlas would have supposed but her attention was wholly on the man, watching as he returned with a familiar box, one with intricate markings, patterns that Atlas knew well. “I feel you will find your answers inside.”

It fell against his desk with a quiet thump and Atlas reached for it, movements hesitant as Dumbledore returned to his chair, eyeing her, intrigued, blue eyes sparkling. But then Atlas pulled away, arm still out but significantly further from their goal, she looked at the man.

“If this is a cure…if this truly works, why wasn’t it distributed amongst the wizarding community? Why is it here?” She questioned and Dumbledore waited a long moment, simply watching her before he gestured to the box.

“Atlas, do you not think blood curses are given for a reason?” He asked, it was an innocent question, no implications behind it, but Atlas frowned either way. Cursing innocents for what their ancestors did was wrong. Atlas knew first-hand the abuse those related to apparent monsters faced, she could not imagine being truly cursed because of it, she felt that way without it being true. “Let me expand. What I mean to say is, do you really not think the release of such a cure would not cause an uproar?”

“Why would it?”

“Do you not think that perhaps, families that have faced hardship because of the family that bears such a curse would think it wrong to cure them of it?” Dumbledore said and Atlas frowned further. “Curators of potions so powerful are hunted, Atlas. They are condemned for releasing so-called terrors of their punishments.”

“But those that bear the curse are not responsible for what their ancestors did,” Atlas argued, thinking of Astoria. Kind Astoria. “Just because they are related – because they share blood, that does not mean they deserve to share their fate. It’s — it’s stupid.”

“Newt and Visha would certainly agree with you,” Dumbledore said.

“And they’re right to!” Atlas snapped, brows narrowed, “do you not?”

“I do, I agree,” Dumbledore nodded and Atlas relaxed, her shoulders, once taut with tension, slackened. 

“Right then…” she breathed, subtly smoothing down her shirt. She eyed the box again and soured. “So…what do you want of me in return?”

“Why would I want something of you, Atlas?” Dumbledore asked and Atlas glared again.

“Drop it. I know you want something and I don’t like to keep debts to you unchecked.”

“As you wish,” he nodded, bowing his head lightly as he stood, his condition falling from his tongue, the wish Atlas would carry out. And the girl steadily frowned, face paling as her order was relayed until she was mutely nodding, throat tight, hand tense around the box she now held firmly in her arms.

And then she was moving for the door, his expectation hanging over her head, pulling her down. Yet she still had a question. One final question.

“Did Newt cure the maledictus?” She asked quietly and Dumbledore turned to her, remaining quiet for a moment.

“No, he was too late.”

Emptiness welcomed her when Atlas found herself in her dorm, alone, only Crookshanks within and he was fast asleep, curled up in the middle of Hermione’s bed. The girl was nowhere to be seen, probably roaming the corridors by now on prefect duty, so Atlas sat and she fiddled with the box, listening to each click as it slowly came undone, the instructions manual sat open in her lap. It took a while, a very long while for every time she messed up the mechanics would reset and her shaky hands did nothing but hinder her. She wished Hermione was there to massage them away.

Finally, it came unbound and the pieces fell apart, leaving its innards bare to the room. Atlas peered inside, afraid of what she might find only to notice a small vial, upon it, a note, scrawled in almost ineligible writing. She plucked it between gentle fingers and held it in her open palm, turning it over to watch as the thick opalescent liquid sloshed around, almost as if some sort of vapour. She read the name upon it, the descriptor beneath it, inked in black:

‘𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓽’
𝓣𝓸 𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓽’𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓼, 𝓪 𝓭𝓻𝓸𝓹 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓭𝓸.

-𝓥

And there lay her answer. Her final ingredient. So easily found, sat, all those years, within Dumbledore’s office, untouched, unmoved. All she had needed to do was ask, take a plunge, dive and make a deal with a man who dealt crippling debts. She slumped and laughed, one of fatigue and despair, hysterical almost manic. She would keep good on her promise to Astoria and in turn, would fulfil another when the time came. A promise she would keep but unwillingly. Atlas clutched the vial tight, not so much that it would break but to verify that it was indeed there, that it was real and not a figment of her addled mind. It felt surreal, finding it so easily after months of nothing. Almost too good to be true. 

However, she would not think on it, she would not let her mind wander to all that this meant, the events that would play out and the cards that would fall undoubtedly. Instead, she stood and grabbed her notebook, the kitchens her destination with a list of ingredients in hand, she read them over as she took the steps down from her dorm, her common room, three at a time. She was blind to the world around her, uncaring of who found her, be it Umbridge or Mrs Norris there was only one thing on her mind.

When she came to the portrait, the fruits unchanging within their bowl, she hurriedly tickled the pear, stepping inside and looking over the elves within. Fobbo sat at a desk, shoved out of sight at the very rim of the room, reading over his favourite book. Atlas went straight for him and watched as he looked up, eyes blowing wide as a hurried and very excited greeting scrambled from his throat, he hurried to his feet and rushed forward eagerly. A large toothy grin split his cheeks when Atlas handed him the list, muted, face expressionless and he seemed to take a moment to read it all over, nodding after a moment, troubled by a few of the ingredients.

Atlas had expected this, quite a few of them were rare things, but she had faith in her friend, just as he had had in her. She read over them as well, checking for the nth time she had gotten everything correct, the amounts and measurements, tools she would use and then, he was gone with a click of his fingers, leaving Atlas alone to prepare. She moved over to an unused table, flipped over against the wall and quickly arranged it, rolling up her sleeves and placing the vial of Mist atop it, all the while muttering the sequence to herself.

It would work – she assured herself between takes – it had to work.

Hours passed before Fobbo returned, the other elves of the hall had all turned in for the night while the wee hours of the morning crept ever near. He was near frantic when he showed, apologising for the wait profusely while Atlas checked over everything he had gathered, checking off each thing. He’d done it, gathered everything perfect to her order, she thanked him quickly after that, essentially interrupting his pointless pleas of forgiveness as she turned to her make-shift station.

“Get Daphne, Fobbo,” she ordered hoarsely, dumping the snow, recovered from the highest peak, into her cauldron to bring it to a boil. The elf instantly obeyed, disappearing with a snap of his fingers as Atlas got to separating heads of vervain from their stalks.

The cutting knife Fobbo had found for her worked quickly, gliding through stems and effortlessly twirling through her fingers, even through the jitters of her hand, the shakes of her arm. She dumped the six vervain heads within the cauldron, stirring once between each flower and moved for her cluster of lavender, tying the eight pieces together with a string of Caladrius leather before dipping, first, the scented heads and then slowly slipping the rest inside over a few minutes.

Translucent liquid quickly turned purple and Atlas wiped her forehead upon her shirt, sniffing as she blinked away her fatigue, eyes dry from the heated vapour and nostrils burning with the smell of lavender and vervain. There was a crack behind her and a body approaching her side. Atlas spared only a glance in the direction, finding Daphne at the other end, clearly freshly awoken but alert enough to understand the situation. Daphne nodded in greeting but Atlas merely turned away, unwilling to acknowledge the girl as someone worthy of her hello and grabbed a vial of dark red, the thick blood of a basilisk writhing within. She flicked off the cork and poured the entirety of its contents within the purple so that it spiralled with her ever-moving spoon and bubbled violently, hissing with each plume of steam.

“What are you using?”

“The base is boiled snow, retrieved from the highest peak of the world, so tall it is uncorrupted,” Atlas spoke shortly, as if conversing with the girl was painful, irritable, “vervain is a protective plant, its pure — lavender is the same but coupled with the Caladrius skin, it obtains a healing property…the basilisk blood slows blood flow, combined with the other three elements it isolates the curse and these,” she held up a handful of bezoar stones and dropped them inside, “are a necessity in any cure.”

She continued, adding ingredients that would fight specific effects. The heart of a Stone Troll to combat the emptiness of Astoria’s chest, a dozen Glacial Golem scales to battle her fever and a bottle of Wisteria Sap to promote long life amongst many, many things. Atlas remained silent, face that of concentration concealing her anxieties and paranoia shown only through the instability of her arm, betraying her attempts to look calm. 

Then, after a very long while, she looked up, soot smeared across her cheeks and sweat dripping down the sides of her temples, she held out her hand to Daphne and cleaned her blade on her thigh, looking expectant.

“What are you doing?”

“I need your blood,” Atlas told urgently, “it’s cursed but dormant unlike Astoria’s.”

“Right…” Daphne nodded, quickly putting her hand forward with furrowed brows, eyes remaining transfixed on Atlas’s glinting blade. “Make it quick.”

Atlas didn’t respond and pulled Daphne’s hand over the cauldron, slicing her palm open in one swift motion so that she let out a short cry. Tears pricked at her eyes as the red dripped from her palm and turned the potion clear and calm once more.

“Is it done?” Daphne asked breathily, teeth gritted as she cradled her hand. Atlas shook her head and took the vial of Mist in hand, looking it over a moment before unscrewing the pipet attached.

The next few moments were slow, torturously slow as Atlas hesitated with every movement, hovering the pipet over the cauldron and squeezing faintly only to pull it away at the last moment, conflict in her eyes. She was placing a lot of trust in Dumbledore, trust she never thought she would ever give to that man and it was dizzying to the point her vision tunnelled and her breathing grew quickly erratic, the girl desperately grasping onto her consciousness, her calm and her sanity.

A pearl of opalescent liquid dripped from the pipet and clouded the potion. Atlas pulled the Mist away and capped it again, tucking it safely in her pocket as she waited, jaw taut, the intensity of the room suffocating as her vision brightened and her erratic breaths subsided. It took a minute, a painfully long minute before it changed and the entirety of the cauldron’s innards adopted that very same pearly sheen.

“Is it — ?”

“Yeah,” Atlas nodded, breathless as she furrowed her brows, blinking in shock as she collapsed into her seat. She couldn’t believe it, not one bit, her accomplishment felt underwhelming in a way, just because it was so unbelievable. A lone witch, a mere sixteen summers old procuring something most potion masters could not hope to accomplish even in their most dizziest daydreams. It felt too easy, even though it had not been, the number of sleepless nights, the number of days she spent pouring over books, the pain of not knowing, all of it was still fresh in her mind, yet it was all still too easy. Because she had gotten her answer so quickly after asking.

She was not used to it, so the excitement of it all fell flat.

“You’re — you’re serious?” Daphne breathed, looking at Atlas and the cauldron again, just as shocked as she.

“I am,” Atlas nodded, voice dull, “though if you do not believe me, assure Astoria she does not have to take it if she doesn’t want to risk it.”

“I…I don’t –” Daphne shook her head as Atlas cradled her face in her palms, eyes closed.

“Fobbo, could you bottle it all, please,” she muttered while the elf made some vague noise of acknowledgement and quickly got to work, leaving Atlas to her thoughts and Daphne to her shock. It did not take long for the elf to finish and he handed Daphne the box of twelve bottles, all clinking pleasantly.

“There you go Miss Daphne,” Fobbo smiled as the girl blinked, tears still sitting at the edges of her eyes while she stared upon Atlas’s hunched form.

“Atlas…I’m — I’m sorry about what I said in the library, you…you’re amazing, you’ve –“

“It doesn’t matter,” Atlas interrupted, voice very fine, quite brittle, “just go…make sure your sister gets them, she should take them once a month.”

“Right,” Daphne nodded, swallowing and staring at the girl, still unsure, still in shock, “I owe you, Atlas…seriously, I –“

“Go.”

Daphne froze and nodded again, shifting to leave with her head bowed, something akin to guilt across her face as she turned to look over her shoulder at Atlas where the girl remained, with her head in her hands looking completely and utterly spent.

“Thank you.”

Atlas did not respond and listened to the painting shut, a weight lifting from her shoulders she could not bring herself to acknowledge nor celebrate. She returned to her dorm that morning, finding Hermione awake and waiting and cried of both relief and misery within her arms.