Chapter 116

When Atlas was younger, she caused a terrible thing.

“Hermione!”

An accidental thing but a terrible thing nonetheless.

“Hermione, please!”

It’s a story she’s recounted many times. A story in which she almost destroys a village. A story in which she almost takes her first life.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

The manifestation of her magic. A wild thing, an unruly thing too large for a body that – at the time – had been far too small. It appeared and with it, Atlas’s first cramp, the kinds she gets in her heart, the ones that debilitate her in warning or fear, the ones she had been able to escape. For a time, anyway. Now they are a common occurrence, a week was not fulfilled — it was not normal should she miss those palpitations.

That day she had almost killed Bella, she had almost torn her apart, split her very soul, obliterated it. On her body, she still carried marks, scars that had not faded, that would never fade, purple tendrils that snaked up her legs and stopped short of the skirts Atlas would see her wear. And though they had never talked about it, they had never even broached the topic of that day, Atlas knew what had happened had marked them — connected them on a molecular level. For better or for worse.

“Wake up! Please! Please, wake up!”

Nevertheless, she had exploded, almost imploded and the repercussions for that had been dire, she’d almost lost her friend, her sister – she’d almost killed the villagers of Hogsmeade. They were right, in the end, to avoid her, looking back on it Atlas is surprised they didn’t steer clear of her sooner, it was only when her father escaped did they think to give her such a wide berth. One day, she’d express this gratitude, a certain need for her to do so because against all odds, against the advice of those beyond their little village, they had not abandoned Atlas when she was younger.

At 5 years old Atlas had once sat in the wreckage of a small cottage, plumes of black smoke engulfing her and everything that surrounded her, consuming all that it touched in a plague-like snare. All because she had manifested too much magic at once and it had overwhelmed her, destroyed her, she had lost control, she had panicked and subsequently ruined her childhood home.

Now, at 16, Atlas lay in the ruins of a Ministry department, a large one, a secret one, one untouched by the outside world for aeons only to be destroyed in a matter of moments, columns of mist rising from stone piles, seeping through cracks and pouring over ridge’s to create falls of smoke that looked as if they were liquid – an excretion or fluid. Because her father had died, he had been killed. Sirius was dead and Atlas had heard the echoes of Bellatrix’s laughter and had seen the indifferent look upon Visha’s face – a face that she likened to that of the image she had in her head of her mother.

“Hermione! Hermione! Please! Please, wake up!”

And like the last time, Atlas had hurt someone she cared for. Someone she held dear. Someone she loved with all of her heart and then some.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please!” Atlas sobbed, hovering over Hermione’s unconscious body, the girl’s head slick with blood and face pale from the loss of it. An uncontrollable stream of darkness seeped from Atlas’s skin, the girl’s heart thumping painfully in her chest as she stared upon the unresponsive face of the girl she loved so wholly. “I’m so — I’m so sorry, I can’t — I can’t –!”

Tendrils of darkness licked at Hermione’s skin, prodding at her neck and sizzling upon contact leaving behind a faint mark. Atlas felt her breath catch, she felt her whole world tilt on its axis as she realised what was happening, what she was doing. Images of Bella, the scars that littered her legs flooded through her and the urgency in which Atlas moved increased into an almost erratic state.

She looked up and around, trying to find any way out from underneath the rubble they’d been trapped under but found nothing, they were in complete darkness and the only way Atlas could discern each rock from its neighbour was thanks to her eyes, shining and almost illuminating the small space with the glow they produced. She cried out for help, screaming her voice hoarse as the injuries from every encounter prior hit her in full force. Her vocal cords felt as if they were being ripped to shreds.

“Ok…ok, ok, ok,” Atlas breathed, blinking away the tears in her eyes as she tried to shift only for the rocks around her to crumble further inwards at the motion, so she stopped, swallowing solidly. They’d be found, she knew they’d be found but she did not know how long that would take. And if when they did, Hermione would still be breathing. The pain grew in her chest as her breaths grew shorter and sharper, her eyes flickering and the smoke pouring from her uncontrollably.

Why had Hermione reached out for her? Why had she dashed forward like that? Why couldn’t she have just run away with others? With Remus who had surely tried to drag her along? Why was she here, barely breathing beneath Atlas? Losing more blood with every second that passed? Why was this happening? Why?

“Hermione…Hermione, please, I need you,” Atlas cried, pressing her forehead against the girl’s shoulder, “I can’t do this…I don’t know what to do — I don’t –” she padded her hand around, trying to locate her wand only to remember it had been snapped just moments before. She looked back down at Hermione and realised very quickly that she did not have hers either.

The only wand Atlas possessed was the one split in two, burning her thigh as it rest in her pocket, thrumming, humming and — humming?

Atlas shakily reached down, groaning quietly as something sharp dug into her shoulder with every inch she tried to move. She dug deep into her pocket, reaching in and grasping the two wand halves in her hand.

The smoke pouring from Atlas was limply gravitating towards the cracks of her broken wand, pathetically throwing itself against the warm wood as if trying to merge with it somehow, perhaps in an effort to seal it. Hurriedly Atlas put one half in between her lips and help the other steadily in her palm, forcing the two pieces together for a moment, willing for them to meld back into the other, praying to whatever figure rested above that I worked, that her wand would be fixed and she would be given some chance — a dash of hope to get them out of there.

Dark vapours whirled all around her wand, a tiny – almost unnoticeable – column marking the length of the wood like a twister, there came a quiet, very faint crack and Atlas felt the need for force lessen. The now whole piece fell from her parted lips and she stared, her heart thrumming in her ears over the sharp ring of agonising silence. It was fixed, the cracks sealed with the solidified vapour.

There was no time to marvel, however. She held it firmly in her palm, breathing in — in — in and then out, eyes flicking down to Hermione who remained unconscious, chest rising and resting so terribly slow Atlas almost couldn’t see it. 

But what was she to do? What was her aim in finding her wand? To send up a signal? But there was no gap to release it. To move the stones that surrounded them? She would surely touch the wrong one and they’d be crushed in a matter of seconds. So what then? What should she do? What could she do? 

There was something. Something she could try with no real guarantee it would work. It had never worked before. Not once. No matter how she tried. But she had to. Try that is. Try the unlikely to succeed in the impossible.

“Expecto — Expecto Patronum,” Atlas rasped, swishing her wand lamely. 

It produced not even a spark.

“Expecto Patro — Patronum!” Tears flowed freely from her eyes, as she quietly begged, eyes focused on the tip of her wand, wanting and waiting.

It wasn’t working.

“Expecto Patronum!” Her voice was weak, cracking at every syllable as her throat worked through the strain, the bruise that coiled around it.

Nothing.

Of course, there was nothing, she was faced with impending doom, her father had just died and Hermione was dying. How was she supposed to think of something happy in a situation so bleak? She was sat in all-consuming darkness, her matches spent with nothing to light her way.

“Expecto — Expect…Ex…” Atlas looked upon her shaky hands, the blood upon them, some dried and some fresh, flecks she could see now that the black had retreated to her fingertips, the ends of them still dipped in the darkest of inks. She couldn’t do it. It wasn’t working. But it had to. It had to work.

Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum.

There was a movement beneath her and Atlas stopped, looking past her wand and upon Hermione the girl’s eyes – still closed – squeezing the tiniest, discomfort painting her features just the slightest, she even made a quiet noise, faint and almost unnoticeable but Atlas had seen the words form across her lips. And then the noise grew that bit louder, the questioning sound that sounded suspiciously like a name. Her name.

And Atlas’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened and burned, a fire roaring within her very being. She felt as if – just by that tiny sound, that quiet call of her name – the blood in her veins had turned into that of the ichor belonging to the gods of old. 

She closed her eyes and took in a breath, a deep breath that settled in her bones and rattled them upon exhaling. And she kept them closed, steadying her hands, both of them despite only one holding her wand and she chanted, she repeated the charm over and over, undeterred, no matter how many times it failed, her words remained uneven but that did not challenge the strength in which they were invoked.

“Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum.”

She grasped hold of any happiness she could, any flicker of hope, any ounce of good.

“Expecto Patronum.“

It was hard. It was torture. Because with each happy memory, with each hopeful and good thought, a dozen sad ones clung to her, a thousand woeful ones clouded her mind and million bad ones clawed at her throat.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Sandpaper licked against Atlas’s cheek, wetting the dried blood upon her face so that it smeared across her scars even further. She startled, wand slipping from her fingers before she deftly caught it once more and glanced up, up upon the flickering form, the corporeal body of her Patronus. Intelligent eyes stared back at her, sharp and beautiful, glowing blue and tinted the slightest bit golden, flickering again, in and out of existence as if unsure about the mortal plain it had found itself traversing.

This giant feline, a majestic beast whose whiskers twitched with every one of Atlas’s breaths, whose eyes fell shut very slowly every few seconds, whose tufts of hair flowed in the still breeze, a splotchy mane, not quite full but not quite missing shifting with every flick of its ear. Atlas had never expected anything of her Patronus, she had never thought herself capable so the nature of what it would present itself as was lost to her but if she had to think on it, if she had to stop and ponder, she’d have thought of a dog, a wolf — a dire wolf maybe but not this.

A lion. A lioness.

Just like her mother.

“Help…” Atlas muttered feebly, the shock of it all catching up to her, body shutting down with fatigue as her Patronus straightened at the word, “get help. Quickly.”

Without a second thought, without a lick of hesitance, it turned and bounded into the rocks, disappearing with a plume of blue mist.

And with its absence Atlas collapsed, possessing just enough clarity to avoid falling onto Hermione before her eyes closed and she succumbed to the darkness hoping and praying that even with her departure, her Patronus would still remain.

Behind closed eyes, Atlas endured the horrors of everything in her slumber, from the moment she was born to the here and now. Every incident in her life that shaped her, formed her into the young woman she was would play on repeat in her head, a tragedy, a macabre form of cinema Atlas was forced to endure, unable to wake from no matter how hard she tried. But the incidents in which Visha starred were different, instead of mist there was flesh, instead of anonymity there was her mother’s face, sharper and crueller. 

An extra layer was added to each of these memories, an added heaviness ridden across them because now it was not her monster but her mother that had scarred her, now it was not Achlys but her mum that had restrained her in the graveyard, now it was not Visha that had been the last face Sirius had seen before his death but Amaya. In her mind, despite knowing the truth, the identity of this woman without any other memories to combat it the only glimpses of her mother Atlas pictured in her memories were the ones which Visha haunted. They were tainted.

Atlas thought of that veil, she dreamed of it, the one in the Ministry, the one she had surely destroyed, she thought of how it called for her, thought of the possibilities, what would have happened if she’d gone after her dad? What if she had reached through and grasped for him? She pondered on what she might hear upon returning. Would her father’s screams be there, mingled with the rest? Even now she could hear them despite the silence of his demise. He had not screamed and yet she could hear it plainly in her ear. Reverberating through her mind.

Was that his scream?

No, perhaps it was the scream of Kushaal. Or Dolohov. Or any of the other Death Eaters she had maimed.

Yes. Yes, that would explain the sick satisfaction she felt now, the something that chased away her nightmares. The terror of others settled her aching soul. Her numb fingers. Her breaking heart.

Suddenly she snapped upright, life breathing into her still body all at once and she found herself alert, awake and searching. Wild eyes with pupils the size of pinpricks flitted across the familiar space in a way that was so desperate and sharp she made a mess of the sheets pulled across her body, sweaty from her terrors, nightmares she had not been able to free herself from for however long she had been unconscious. The room was lit by an open hearth, the crackle of the fire agony on her ears as she looked around Minerva’s cottage, the smell of pine tickling her upper lip, redwood sprayed throws draped over her warm body. She threw them off, panting heavily, her throat still aching but lesser than before as her fingers sunk into the cushion of the sofa she had been lying upon.

Working off of some sort of intuition she stood and felt the world shift, her legs unsteady and her entire body tilting this way and that, but it did not deter her, images of the Ministry, images of Death Eaters and Bellatrix – Visha, Kushaal and Edha fuelling some bone-deep instinct to be vigilant, to be ready. Her hands shook as she grabbed her wand, lying undisturbed on the mantel over the fire as anger coursed through her veins, hatred sowing itself into the fibres of her very soul. Her ears were ringing, her vision darkening around the edges as she breathed – panted – hyperventilate. The situation was all too much.

Because she had just been in the Ministry, she had just met the monster who killed her mother.

Visha. Visha. Visha. 

— Possibly murdered her distant cousin.

Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo.

— Took the lives of a handful of Death Eaters.

Serves them right. I hope it hurt. I’d do it again.

— Watched her father die.

Sirius was dead. Sirius was dead. Her dad was dead.

— Almost killed Hermione. Marked her and hurt her. 

Hermione. Where is she? Is she ok?

And yet she wasn’t there anymore despite it feeling as if it had been mere moments. She was at home. At home dealing with the emotional whiplash that was collapsing enraged and awakening overwhelmed, in a different place, miles away from London, from where her father had died, from where she had fought for her life.

There was movement behind her and she turned, wand raised and ready, a spell flying from her lips, voice uneven, vision blurry, throat ripped raw. Whoever had arrived narrowly escaped Atlas’s unsteady aim, frozen on their feet and joined by two others behind them, one in a white gown and the other leaning on a walking stick. Panic captured Atlas’s heart and she went to shoot off another, eyes still glazed over, breaths impossibly short and entire body quivering.

“Atlas!”

That voice, she knew that voice. It was a voice she had not heard in a while. The voice of an old friend.

“Atlas, hey!” Atlas blinked and peered through watery eyes, “it’s me…it’s me Bella.”

Atlas uttered the first letter of the girl’s name lamely, disbelieving of the sight, before her wand slipped from between her fingers and she collapsed to her knees, gasping as she clawed and grasped for air, desperate for a breath, for her lungs to feel full rather than compact and depraved. She shook her head, teeth clenched as she felt her muscles seize, the tension within them so tight she felt her body might snap and contort.

“Woah…woah, hey there sailor,” Bella crouched down to her level, her hands hovering, “hey…hey Atlas, come on,” she bit her lip, looking up at Poppy and Minerva, both women equally as stricken, “I don’t — I don’t know how to –“

“It’s all right dear,” Poppy rushed and bent down to join her, reaching out tentatively at first and when Atlas did not pull back she pressed forward and took the girl’s hand in hers raising it to her chest and placing her own against Atlas’s, “Atlas…Atlas breathe with me. In and out,” Poppy demonstrated, making sure her chest would rise and settle so noticeably Atlas would feel it even in her daze. “In…and out.”

Atlas tried to copy her, grimacing through the terrible agony that pulsated through her body with every thrum of her heart as she did, breathing in – in – in and then out. In – in and out. In and out.

“Five things you see, four things you feel, three things you hear, two things you smell and one thing you can taste,” Poppy said and Atlas took hold of those words she heard echoing throughout her skull, “Atlas, can you hear me? Five things you see –“

“Table,” Atlas interjected, voice raw and hoarse as she blinked, “wand, you, Bella…Minnie,” she breathed, blinking very slowly.

“Very good, now four things you feel.”

“Floor, heartbeat, warmth,” her voice was quiet as she let her eyes fall shut a little longer,  “clothes.”

“Three things you hear and two things you smell.”

“Kettle, fire and rain,” she continued, “pine and — and chocolate.”

“One thing you taste.”

“…iron.”

“Can you stand?” Poppy questioned tentatively and Atlas mutely nodded, forcing herself to shaky legs and sitting herself down almost immediately back onto the sofa, head tilted to the side as she kept her eyes closed. “Sit tight dear…I’ll make you a tonic.”

“Thank you,” Atlas breathed shakily and watched as Poppy left the living room to the conjoined kitchen leaving her with Bella and a very pale Minerva. She looked at them through half-closed eyes, a bone-deep fatigue slouching her posture, “you –“

Her sentence fell flat and she left it unfinished, raising her hand to her eyes as a sob wracked through her. Immediately the pair were at her side, Minerva on her left while Bella settled on her right.

“My sweet girl,” Minerva hushed, pulling the young woman to her side and stroking down her hair. “I’m sorry my dear girl…I’m sorry about Sirius,” she spoke, her aged voice soft and soothing, “that boy…that stupid boy,” Atlas could not bring herself to defend her father, though Minerva’s words stirred something within her, she knew she did not say these words unkindly. She was, instead, speaking in a way a mother would when their child was to injure themselves foolishly but the sadness that laced her words was so much more. “My dear girl…my sweet girl…I am sorry I was not there.”

“It’s okay,” Atlas muttered, pulling away slightly as she wiped at her own eyes, “it’s — it’s okay.”

But no sooner was she pulled back in as more tears began to fall.

It was not okay.

For a while Atlas simply cried, pouring her grief into Minerva’s shoulder, Bella rubbing soothing circles across her back as she sobbed, offering her own quiet words as time went on. Halfway through Poppy had returned with a tonic and Atlas had drank it to chase away the aches that haunted her body, setting down the empty cup by her foot as she mumbled and muttered about her dad, about what had happened and what she had done, who she had seen and what they had done. A majority of it was not news to them but they would not take this from Atlas, they would not silence her in this time of grieving.

“And it was her…again — again it was her,” Atlas sobbed, her voice hoarse as she gripped the fabric of Minerva’s dress between her hands, “she killed my mum and had a part in his death too.”

Visha.

“I’m gonna find her.”

Visha.

“I’m gonna make sure she suffers.”

Visha.

“I’m gonna kill her, even if it’s the last thing I –“

“Atlas,” Minerva interrupted and Atlas went very still, the ringing in her ears subsiding and the numbness that had coated her arms sinking back into her skin, just beneath, waiting once more. Patiently. “Breathe.”

And she breathed again. Breathed so deeply she could smell every scent, every fragrance that lingered within the cottage. The pine burning in the hearth, the hot chocolate that sat on the kitchen side, the perfume on Minerva’s dress, the shampoo Bella used – the conditioner and something that clung to her always, dragons breath. She held on tighter, eyes clenched so tightly closed she saw stars.

They did not ask who Atlas was talking about, they already knew, they’d been informed about what had happened, who this ‘she’ was and what she had done. They also knew what Atlas had done without her confession, the thickness of the blood that coated her skin, how many different types mingled with one another just in the palm of her hand. They did not condemn her for it. Would not. They had no right. They would have done the same.

“Did they…did they find my dad’s body?”

There was silence for a moment, a painfully long moment before Minerva broke it.

“No, my dear.”

“Ok,” Atlas nodded, closing her eyes as she took in a shuddering breath. She repeated the word again, “ok.”

Both of her parents would have empty graves then.

“And the Death Eaters, were they caught?”

“Most of them,” Minerva said and Atlas looked at her, eyes red-raw.

“Most of them?”

“…most have been caught and imprisoned, however…Bellatrix, Kushaal, Edha and the monster Ach — Visha were unaccounted for,” Bella told when Minerva hesitated to speak, “it’s assumed they escaped in the chaos.”

So Kushaal was alive then.

“What’s going to happen now?” Atlas asked, her voice small, brittle.

“The Minister has confirmed he-who-must-not-be-named’s return,” Bella continued as Minerva and Poppy seemed to converse in an exchange of glances, “Dumbledore has been reinstated and the Prophet has been singing your praises, as well as Harry’s.”

“How is he?” Atlas continued.

“He’s…dealing,” Bella offered vaguely but Atlas did not push, her eyes falling into her lap and subsequently catching the inch of skin she could see thanks to Bella’s dress. The purple marks there turned her stomach over and formed a rock in her throat. Those godforsaken scars that peaked out from beneath her skirt, ones she had always forced herself not to look upon, ones she found such immense disgust for she always rejoiced on the days they were covered. She closed her eyes but an image of Hermione with similar markings marring her neck welcomed her.

“Hermione,” she looked up, urgency lacing her eyes, “is she…?”

“She’s awake. She’s — er — she’s been asking for you,” Bella told and Atlas seemed to twitch, angling her foot towards the door again and only just holding back whatever urge she had to rise, “you’ll see her soon, Atlas.”

“I…I don’t know if I should,” Atlas muttered, her body now angling away as some internal conflict battled behind her eyes, “I almost…” she looked at the scars upon Bella’s legs and the girl draped a blanket over them, cursing her decision on wearing a skirt, the cottage had just been so hot lately she’d forgone her usual trousers. “I almost killed her.”

“Atlas…” But Atlas shook her head, telling her she did not want to talk about it, so for now, Bella didn’t.

“Regardless,” Minerva spoke this time, “Miss Granger wishes to see you, if you feel so bad about it you should at least grant her this, my dear.”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess so,” Atlas agreed with a slight nod.

“Be kinder to yourself, honey,” Poppy smiled, her face sort of sad, “come on poppet, let’s get you dressed and we’ll go and see your friends now.”

“Are they –?”

“They’re all right,” Bella offered, “Ginny, Luna, Ron and Neville are there too, got caught in the crossfire between the Order and the Death Eaters,” she added that last part when a flicker of dread fell over Atlas’s face, “the only ones caught in the rubble were those Death Eaters you…apprehended, yourself and Hermione. They suffered injuries from other things.”

“But they’ve healed nicely with a week’s worth of rest,” Poppy assured but Atlas felt her stomach drop.

“A week?” She’d been unconscious for a week? No…no that made sense but at the same time she could not quite believe it. Her father had been dead for a week and she hadn’t even had an hour to process it. Everyone will have moved on, everyone aside from Harry, hell, Atlas wagered no one else aside from those who knew Sirius cared. They probably still thought of him as a serial killer. Merlin, they hadn’t even cleared his name yet. He’d been so excited to walk around as a free man. “That’s…that’s not…” Atlas found her words escaping her.

So she remained quiet, reaching out to grab the clothes Poppy produced, pulling them on with some difficulty. Her body ached and her back still burned, at least the patch had been replaced in her sleep. Poppy must have tended to her throughout the week. Which means she knew what exactly the injury was and who had caused it. Not that she could bring herself to care for the secrecy at that moment. She closed her eyes and imagined every blow she took to her body, every hit she missed and the consequences of each one. She could still feel the mist of Visha’s gargantuan form slipping through her fingers and what happened when the monster had felled her in combat. She’d been too far away from her father to help.

“Ok,” Atlas muttered when she’d finished, forcing her hand through her jacket sleeve. “Ok, I’m good.”

They took a carriage, one pulled by a pair of Thestrals and chatted only idly the entire journey, the three of them could sense Atlas’s fatigue and decided not to broach the topic of her father again. Not for the time being, not when, for the girl, it was all incredibly fresh. They walked the rest past the gates, a slow and arduous thing thanks to Minerva’s condition but Atlas refused to leave the woman’s side, so they walked slowly together.

Student’s bustled around on the inside, venturing to the Great Hall for breakfast and starting openly upon Atlas when they saw her, some waving, some whispering, some glaring but those looks were from those whose parent’s were Death Eaters, those whose parent’s she had hurt or hindered so badly they had been caught. Serves them right. She’d do it again. Gladly. She did not notice when but Poppy and Minerva had slipped away, possibly ahead or further behind, Atlas had not caught on to which one, this left her alone with Bella, the woman just as quiet but the air between them so impossibly loud Atlas found her ears began to ring.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Bella finally spoke and Atlas came to a sudden realisation that maybe the professor and healer had left them alone together for a reason, “I…I hadn’t intended on being so absent.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Atlas said. And it didn’t. Thinking about it now, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Maybe not now…but — but I can’t help but think if I had been here, talking to you and responding to your letters — I can’t help but think I could have helped somehow,” Bella said, slowing so that she was in step with the taller girl, “whether it be with…Cedric –” Atlas winced at the name, “– or the Order. If I’d have known Dumbledore was making you do all of these things I would have –“

“Done nothing,” Atlas interjected, looking upon Bella with tired eyes, “because you would’ve only been able to do nothing.”

“That’s not true…that’s not true at all, if Minerva had known what Dumbledore was making you do she’d have put a stop to it, you know that. Especially with how you suffered,” Atlas noticed the long look the girl left on Atlas’s back. “When — when she saw what Umbridge had done to you in lew of your deal with him…God, Atlas…you should have seen her. She’d only just come back from St Mungo’s and was already tearing Dumbledore a new one.”

“It’s healing,” Atlas waved off and Bella frowned.

“That’s not the point, it shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Bella stated firmly. “Dumbledore he…he’s been coddling Potter. So much so the old man hasn’t been down to check on you, too busy with the chosen one who was practically the reason you all went to the Ministry in the first place –“

“Bella, don’t blame him.”

“…all right, fine,” Bella murmured, looking ahead, “I’m sorry…that was unfair of me.”

They came to the infirmary and Atlas stopped, Bella, continued a few paces before she realised and waited patiently for Atlas to resume walking. It took a moment, a very long moment in which Atlas gathered her breath before she pushed forward and splayed both hands flat against the wood of the door. It opened with an imperceivable creak and every eye landed upon her.

“Atlas!” Ron called from his bed, marks up his arms that resembled tentacles only just fading. Had he been attacked by some strange beast when she’d fallen under?

“Hi,” Atlas breathed, looking over the others, Luna was sat reading Quibbler, completely unbothered, Ginny was sporting a gnarly cast up the length of her leg, the same one whose ankle had been broken, Neville looked fine but Atlas noticed a slither of bandage peaking out under his shirt and Hermione — Hermione had a tendril of purple marring her neck that extended down, past her collar. “How — how are…you?”

“All right, you?” Ron said and Atlas waved his question off, glancing at the others.

“Been better,” Ginny shrugged, eyes flitting between Atlas and Hermione.

“Madam Pomfrey’s mended my ribs,” Neville smiled somewhat nervously.

“I’m exquisite,” Luna offered airily, lowering the Quibbler slightly to reveal a healing gash across her cheek.

“I’m okay,” Hermione said, ending that conversation. Atlas looked over at her for a very long while, brows furrowed before the girl spoke again, “come here.”

And Atlas silently obeyed, casting Bella a brief glance when the lady moved over to where Poppy and Minerva were talking, before sighing and continuing to Hermione’s bed, the girl sitting up and placing a bookmark between the pages of whatever tome she was reading.

When Atlas caught the title, she felt her stomach roll at the word ‘Animagus’.

“Hey…” Atlas muttered, eyes focussed on the purple scarring, “I — I’m so –“

“There’s no need for that, Atlas.”

“But –“

“It’s my own fault.”

“Hermione.”

“Atlas.”

They both fell silent, Atlas’s brows furrowed in frustration while Hermione showed no signs of letting up. Silently, Hermione pulled back the covers and patted the spot beside her, inviting Atlas into her space, an offer she took her up on after taking off her shoes and shedding her jacket. Hermione noticed, however, how Atlas refused to close the gap between them, a feat considering how little space the bed offered in the first place, she must have been practically half off.

“Have you read the news?” Hermione said conversationally, looking into her hands as Atlas leaned her head back.

“No…I woke up a few hours ago,” Atlas offered before clearing her throat, “Bella told me about how they’ve confirmed Voldemort’s back and that Dumbledore’s been…reinstated.” Remembering her thoughts from earlier, “why? Did they mention…anything else?”

“No, they’ve just been answering some questions,” Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes, “and talking about you and Harry.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Hermione glanced up at her before sighing, “he hasn’t visited since yesterday morning.”

“Right,” Atlas hummed.

A silence settled over them all, no one moving to speak as they all seemed to soak up the presence of the other, until:

“Always knew you were a bit of a dog, Atlas,” Ginny spoke, a grin in her words, “didn’t think you would literally be a dog but it makes sense.”

“Ginny!” Hermione snapped but the redhead simply shrugged, smiling as her brother grinned just as wide and teasingly. Atlas looked over at her, a small smile of amusement on her face before she shook her head.

“Seriously, Atlas, why didn’t you tell us?” Ron asked this time as he straightened in his bed, Neville copying the movement.

“Well…it’s — er — it’s not a pretty story,” Atlas offered vaguely and Hermione seemed to catch on, eyes flitting to Atlas’s unseen back before she shot warning looks to the rest of her fellow bedridden brethren.

“That’s enough guys,” Hermione said and smiled conspiratorially after a moment, leaning her cheek against Atlas’s shoulder so suddenly the taller girl flinched, “I don’t think Atty wants to talk about how rude she was eavesdropping on private conversations.”

“Hermione,” Atlas whined, glancing down to Hermione who wore a look that dared her to speak against her. “I’m sorry about that.”

Hermione simply hummed and shrugged. “I don’t mind. Besides,” she picked at the fabric of her covers, “I’ve known for a while…”

“What?” Atlas said, eyes a little wide.

“Ever since I saw the scars on your sides you claimed were from a random pack of wolves,” Hermione cleared, looking up at Atlas with a sly smile, “I’m not stupid, Atlas. I noticed how every time you were injured Frog miraculously bore the same scar.”

“…I see,” Atlas said very quietly, before clearing her throat, “does that mean you’ll drop the Frog stuff, now?”

“Not a chance,” Hermione hummed.

The infirmary settled into casual conversation, Ron and Ginny doing most of the talking as Atlas occasionally gave her own input. She was distracted through most of it, however, whether it be from the glimpse of purple she saw every time Hermione shifted or thoughts of her father – her family interrupting the quiet of her mind. Dousing it in fuel to then set alight when Ron slipped up and brought up the night at the Ministry. The outburst and collapse of the department in which they fought.

Hermione had flinched, Neville had shrunk, Ginny had sighed and even Luna was slightly moved, the girl setting down her Quibbler as the room descended into silence once more. Ron at least had the thought to feel some sort of guilty, offering Atlas a quiet apology as the girl clenched her fists beneath sheets, clenched her jaw and withheld her shaky breaths, calming herself inwardly before it could burst outwards.

She would not think of Sirius. She would not think of her dad. She would not —

A warm hand slid over her own and she relaxed, the rigidity of her body melting away as she closed her eyes a moment and breathed in deeply, moving her hand so that her fingers intertwined with Hermiones.

At that moment the door opened and Atlas looked up to see Harry, the boy freezing upon catching her eye. On instinct Atlas shifted to rise but caught herself at the last moment, staring silently as a million emotions passed over her eyes, though when she felt her hand receive a squeeze of assurance she continued to her feet, slipping them back into her boots.

“Harry,” she greeted, as no one had moved to speak, not even Ron who had straightened at the sight of his best friend. She tied her laces hurriedly and rushed to meet him at the door, gaze flitting over her shoulder to her other friends before she turned and fixed her whole attention on the boy. “How are you?”

“I’m…I’m all right. I just…”

Atlas nodded in quiet understanding, walking over to the exit, “let’s talk.”

“Yeah…” Harry agreed, swallowing solidly as he followed the girl out, the door slipping shut behind them.

They walked in silence for a while before coming out into the empty courtyard, most other students busy with breakfast or lounging about now that exams were over. All of them were blissfully unaware of the impending doom, ignorantly dwelling within the calm before the storm. Oh how Atlas envied them.

“So what happened to Ron?” Atlas started, clearing her throat as she sat on the fountain’s ledge.

“What? Oh,” Harry seemed taken aback by Atlas’s approach but answered her anyway, “he got attacked by one of those brains.”

“Yeah? And Ginny?”

“Kingsley pulled her back from the…the rubble too hard,” Harry offered and Atlas frowned, breathing deeply in through her nose. Without prompting, he continued, “Luna and Neville got their injuries from Death Eaters…”

“And you, how are you?”

“I’m…” Atlas saw the conflict pass over his eyes, the hesitancy and uncertainty. She saw the exact moment Harry decided to lie to her and found she couldn’t bring herself to pull him up on it, she didn’t have the right. “I’m doing okay.”

“Ok,” she nodded and mustered up a small smile, “just remember you can talk to me, Harry. He was — he was my dad.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s voice was oddly strained as he seemed to stiffen, his face adopting that tightness that told of tears being held back. “Yeah, I know…I’m — I’m sorry, Atlas. I should have listened…I should have stopped and –“

“Don’t blame yourself, Harry,” Atlas interjected, frowning. It’s not as if she hadn’t thought the same, not as if she hadn’t entertained the thought that this was Harry’s fault but pitting all of the blame on him would be unfair, it would be cruel. So she kept that fleeting thought to herself, “besides…it’s not like I tried particularly hard to stop you. I was just as convinced. Especially when you told me Kreature confirmed it –” Harry went rigid “– so don’t…don’t blame yourself.”

“He lied.”

“What?” Atlas asked, confused by the anger in Harry’s face.

“Kreature…Kreature lied, Atlas,” Harry said and Atlas smiled disbelievingly, shaking her head.

“What? No, he can’t have lied, he’s not allowed to –“

“Lie to you,” Harry finished and that disbelief slowly fell from Atlas’s face, the colour draining from her cheeks, “he can’t lie to you but — but you weren’t the one to ask him. I was. And he can lie to me as much as he likes.”

“But…how? I mean –“

“Sirius told him to ‘get out’ sometime before Christmas…he took him at his word and — and he met the Malfoys’. They came up with this entire plan and –” Harry took in a shuddering breath as Atlas stared straight ahead, an odd fog over her eyes, ” — and the Malfoys’, probably on Voldemort’s orders, told him to keep Sirius away once I had seen the vision of him being tortured. Then, if I decided to check whether Sirius was at home or not, Kreacher would be able to pretend he wasn’t. Apparently, Kreature had hurt Buckbeak and when I checked in Sirius was upstairs tending to him.”

“Who told you this?” Atlas asked, voice decidedly hollow as she brought a hand to her eyes, catching her silent tears.

“Dumbledore.”

“And — and how did he know?”

“Kreature told him,” Harry said and Atlas heard how the boy’s fists strained, “Kreature told him while he laughed. He was laughing Atlas.”

“That elf…” Atlas murmured, lowering her hands to clutch the stone she sat upon. It cracked and splintered as the tips of her fingers drew dark, “that fucking elf. Where is he?”

“…Dumbledore didn’t say,” Harry offered, looking away from Atlas with something akin to guilt painted across his face. “He’s probably still at Grimmauld Place.”

“I’m kicking him out. Giving him clothes. If I don’t I might kill him.”

“Join the club,” Harry seethed.

“Now, Harry,” a whimsical voice called and Atlas froze, the black seeping back beneath her skin, “do you not remember what I said? Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards.”

“Dumbledore,” Harry acknowledge, straightening as Atlas looked up from beneath a few fly-aways. The old man was already staring back over half-moon spectacles, his expression solemn at least, rather than that smile he always wore. If he had been looking like that Atlas couldn’t promise she wouldn’t attack him.

“I heard you had awoken. I’m most grateful you’ve returned to us in one piece,” Dumbledore said, bowing his head ever so slightly, he turned to Harry, “I apologise, Harry but I’d like to borrow Atlas for a moment. I’m sure you’re most eager to resume your talk but this will only take but a short while.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, swallowing solidly as he glanced to Atlas to offer her a quiet farewell before leaving but not in the direction they’d initially entered, no. The boy looked to be going down to Hagrids. Atlas had not realised the man was back.

“To start, I am deeply sorry for what happened to Sirius,” Dumbledore began and Atlas looked at him, watching him quietly as the man delicately placed himself behind her, whisking his hand so that the cracks Atlas had caused receded. “It was…entirely my fault. Or should I say, almost entirely my fault — I will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger.”

“…you caged him.”

“I did,” Dumbledore agreed and Atlas closed her eyes, shaking her head. “It was foolish of me, I see that now, to try and contain such an untameable spirit. I should have known he would break free sooner or later, especially when it concerned you and Harry. Me merely sending you into the field was enough for him to challenge the bars of his confines.”

“What do you want from this, Dumbledore?” Atlas asked and Dumbledore seemed to consider for a moment, his expression not one Atlas had ever seen.

“I simply wish to say…” he turned to her and Atlas was surprised to see a stray tear fall over his cheek, disappearing into a silvery beard. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s…I — you don’t get to do that,” Atlas said, her expression sort of pained. She stood and backed away, fists clenched, “you don’t get to make sacrifices — gamble with lives and then apologise when it goes wrong.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said, “and I apologise again for this…selfish thing but know I do not seek forgiveness. I understand the things that I have done and the ways I have hurt you cannot be forgiven or forgotten. I only ask that you know I do not enjoy doing such things, Atlas. I cared for Amaya and I cared for Sirius. And I, whether you believe me or not, care for you also. And here lies the problem, I care for Harry and I care for you and so when a decision must be made, when I must offer the correct sacrifice in order to win this war, it hurts me. It pains me.”

Atlas remained quiet, looking upon the man who she had, for a time, idolised and respected. A man who took a part in raising her, teaching her and sheltering her, a man who once showed her care, who would frown when she was injured and smile when she laughed. A man who, over the years, seemed to fade as the idea of war and impending doom took control over his every move. Atlas wondered if he had always been like this, if she had simply seen what he had wanted her to see and if he had always seen her as a pawn ready to be moved.

“I see you are conflicted,” Dumbledore voiced and Atlas blinked from her daze, the ghost of the old friend she had once had in the man before her disappearing in a cloud of vapour. “…I will move on.”

“Just…hurry up with the rest.”

“Harry told me you had a prophecy,” Atlas frowned. “I apologise if this was something delicate. He told me in passing, he was quite hysterical at the time, understandably so.”

“It broke.”

“Did you hear any of it?”

“Fragments,” Atlas offered and swallowed harshly, “Visha smashed it.”

“Visha?”

“Yes, Visha. She is Achlys.”

“Fascinating…”

Atlas scowled and the man seemed to remember himself.

“I apologise, Atlas.”

“We’re related but you already knew that, didn’t you? And you already knew they were one and the same too.”

“You were quite upset when you asked me about your relation to her that day in my office,” Dumbledore said, standing as well. “I simply wished to…prolong the inevitable so as to not aid to the weight upon your back.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Yes, but can you guarantee that that day you would not have posed a detrimental threat to the school?” Dumbledore inquired and Atlas flinched, looking upon her hands that, every time she blinked, glistened with the blood of her enemies and the darkness of her magic. “Know that everything I do is not without reason.”

“Yeah…so you say,” Atlas muttered and looked back at him, a downturn to her lip, “so do you know what the prophecy was?”

“No. That prophecy was not received by me,” Dumbledore said. “It was, instead, given to your mother. So I know not what it was pertaining to.”

“It was made before I was born.”

“As are most prophecies.”

“It included my name,” Atlas stressed but Dumbledore’s expression did not change.

“Your mother’s book is dedicated to you and she wrote that before you were born also,” Dumbledore reminded, “I do not see the significance.”

“How did you know the book was…? Never mind,” Atlas said, shaking her head and bringing her hand to rest atop her brow. “Just…is the prophecy gone forever then?”

“I’m afraid so unless you locate the Seer who made it. However, I am sure they have passed on by now,” Dumbledore told.

“Right — right, well are we done?”

“Yes,” Came the man’s simple reply, his hands behind his back.

“Great,” Atlas gritted, turning on her heel, intent on finding Harry.

“I am sorry, again, Atlas,” Dumbledore called before she could totally leave. She stopped but did not turn, “I am glad to see you are doing well.”

Really, is that what this was? The constant thrumming beneath her skin, the itching for release and cemented stone in her throat was her doing well? Atlas felt brittle — she felt as if she might explode at any wrong move, she saw her dad falling through that veil every time she closed her eyes and heard Kushaal’s screams in the silence. And yet she could not express it for fear of expressing too much. She dreaded the day she would be doing terribly. Tears grew in her eyes that she quickly rubbed away.

Dumbledore continued, “Sirius was truly a spark put out too soon.”

Just like her mother. Perhaps she would meet a similar end.

A grim thought.

Soon enough the time came for the students to depart from Hogwarts. They would go home for the summer, back to the new world that was now clouded by the return of the Dark Lord and come back changed, scared perhaps. Atlas would be staying, however, staying behind in the village with Bella, Dumbledore had granted her this pardon from more training with Moody. He had agreed she needed time to heal.

A strange courtesy, one she could hardly believe when he’d told her. 

Part of Atlas had wanted to take Ron up on his offer to stay at the Burrow but the other part overruled that want, the need to put some distance between herself and her friends if only for a few weeks before she saw them again. Especially after what had happened. She didn’t think she could cope with all of the questions. Whether or not Molly and Arthur meant well by them.

So here she stood, watching from afar as her friends dragged their belongings onto the train, her hands in her pockets and gaze sort of distant, she’d helped them down but had decided to stand back when the train came into view. Lest she changed her mind and climbed aboard without her belongings.

She managed a small smile when they came over to say their goodbyes, everyone from that day in the Department of Mysteries offering her hugs and goodbyes, some expressions of sadness that she would not be joining them.

“Well, I guess…if you’re not changing your mind I’ll see you later,” Ginny said as Ron continued to quietly mumble his complaints, “bye, Atlas…write to me, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you, Ginny,” Atlas nodded, hugging the girl gently.

“See you, Atlas. Gran’ll probably get me to write to you,” Neville smiled.

“As if you’d need prompting,” Ginny teased, walking to the train with the boy trailing behind, blushing furiously in embarrassment. “Love you, Atlas!”

“Safe travels, doggy,” Luna cheered as she skipped after them.

“She does know you’re not travelling right?” Ron huffed, before getting a hug of his own.

“I’m not sure,” Atlas offered in return, “see you, mate.”

He nodded and went after the others and Atlas turned to Harry.

“Write to me, Potter,” she ordered half-heartedly. “I’ll see you in the new year.”

“Yeah…you too, Black,” he hugged her tight before clearing his throat and glancing at Hermione, turning on his heel to board the train.

“…I really wish you’d reconsider,” Hermione eventually spoke, fiddling with the loop of her rucksack. Ah, that’s right, Hermione had also invited Atlas home for the summer, “my parents wouldn’t mind and we could do all the stuff we didn’t last summer.”

“Hermione…”

“You’ve been distant,” Hermione declared and Atlas winced, gaze flitting to where clothes hid scarring, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I don’t think…I just –“

“I told you I’m ok,” Hermione sighed and adjusted so that Atlas’s eyes fell from her neck, “it doesn’t hurt anymore Atlas.”

“I…I could have killed you, Hermione.”

“And it would have been my own fault. Honestly, who jumps under falling rubble?” Hermione said, laughing quietly. She stopped when she noticed Atlas’s unamused expression. “Atlas…Atlas you saved my life, you didn’t endanger it. You cast a successful Patronus charm. A corporeal one! And you fixed your wand through sheer will, Atlas!”

“But your neck –“

“Is fine and so is my shoulder and so is my back,” Hermione assured, smiling softly as she reached out. Atlas flinched but she continued, holding her arm. “Don’t worry.”

“How can I not?” Atlas said with a pained expression, pulling away.

“Just…promise me you won’t avoid me? Respond to my letters, write back don’t — don’t let this pull us apart,” Hermione pleaded, begged really as her hand remained in the air, reaching out, “it was just an accident.”

“Ok…ok, I promise,” Atlas nodded, breaths sort of shaky, “I’ll write.”

“Good,” Hermione smiled and inched slightly forward before pulling back with a small frown. “I’ll see you soon, Atlas. I love you.”

“I know you do,” Atlas huffed, tilting her head slightly to the side as she smiled.

Hermione shook her head, “I do wonder about that.”

Atlas watched her walk away, that smile slowly falling to a frown as she felt a heavy hand clap against her shoulder.

“Yeh should tell her how yeh feel,” Hagrid said, smiling. Atlas reached up to pull a twig free from his beard. It looked like he had yet to groom himself properly after being on the run for so long. She flicked the wood into the brush as the train began to pull away.

“Maybe.”

She turned away, unwilling to watch the distance grow between them.

“But now’s not the time. Not after everything.”

“All righ’ Atlas…let’s get you home.”

“Right…home.”

And yet, they continued walking in the opposite direction.