Chapter 138

The sand was moist beneath her feet, it pushed between her toes and her trousers became soaked through where she sat, chilling her legs, it was a comforting pressure, grounding at least. Atlas stared out at the sea, at how the foam lapped at the shore and listened to the soft calls of the jabberknolls nesting in the rocky outcrops that jutted out of the cliffs. There was a graphorn running along the sand with its young, and Atlas found her gaze drifting over to them, a bitter ache blooming once more in her chest.

She heard him before she saw him, the slow footsteps in the sand and the swish of that long, dark peacock blue ulster of his catching in the sea breeze. He stopped a distance away, staring at Atlas until she offered him a small mercy and turned to look at him. Newt’s smile was crooked, the dimples around his cheeks now wrinkled; he looked an unassuming old man, a retired wizard visiting a beach. He blinked oddly before resuming his approach and stared at the jabberknolls.

“Did you know that…jobberknolls mate for life?”

“I did,” Atlas replied, her voice rough as she glanced down into the sand and dug her fingers into it to retrieve a pebble. “When their mate dies, the one left behind soon follows,” she swished her want, carving away the rough edges until she was left with a smooth, thin, skipping stone. “Heartbreak.”

With a flick of her finger, she sent the stone soaring through the air. It skipped a half a dozen times before sinking with a gurgling thunk as it hit the invisible edge of the Vivarium. Atlas watched the spot for a long while before picking another stone and carving it again. There was no escape from this place; nothing existed beyond the sky.

“Amaya would like to speak with you,” Newt said, shoving his hands into his pockets and peering at Atlas out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t great at talking, as if the complexities of Atlas and Amaya’s relationship had him on uneven ground; he much preferred the company of his beasts. “But I suppose…you wouldn’t like to speak with her.”

“What gave it away?” Atlas said bitterly, her brows twitching as she flung the next rock so hard it skipped only twice before hitting the boundary.

“The Graphorns require feeding; my grip isn’t what it used to be. You’ll hold the meat bucket,” Newt said and began walking away, searching all of his pockets and retrieving little vials containing each beast’s dietary supplements until he found one for the Graphorns. A little bowtruckle popped out of the back of his collar and stared at Atlas, gesturing for her to follow with its little twig hand.

For one stubborn moment, Atlas resisted before standing and brushing the sand from her behind. She caught up to Newt quickly, her strides far larger than his aged ones, and found herself holding out a finger for the bowtruckle to cling onto. It happily crawled up her arm and nestled against her neck, tucked under the collar of her fleece. Newt had been far too happy when he had seen how taken all of the creatures had been by Atlas over the past few days; the first meetings seemed as if they were simply reunions, and in a way, Newt had said they were.

He hadn’t elaborated, merely shifted his gaze and told Atlas it was Amaya’s story to tell.

But Atlas didn’t want to listen.

Not yet. And with the outside world inaccessible until someone on the outside repaired the doorway, she had plenty of time to stew in the bitter betrayal she felt every time she looked at her mother. She hadn’t wanted to listen to her excuses — she knew if she did, some part of her would understand, and she didn’t want that; most of her just wanted to be angry. So she let herself be angry until the anger wasn’t enough.

A metal bucket of meat was handed to her, and blindly, she accepted it, nose curling at the smell of it, magical in nature, probably synthetic, with no way of procuring fresh meat from the outside. It meant having to feed the animals almost triple the amount, which poor old Newt found hard to manage. Atlas was handed a second bucket, and then they began walking back to where Atlas had been sitting.

Newt called out to the Graphorns, hands cupped around his mouth as he let out a cry into the wind. The effect was instantaneous; the sand began to shudder, and air seemed to shift. The Graphorns came running, four adults and half a dozen cubs kicking up a sandy mist behind them. They seemed to treat Newt with care but showed no qualms in butting their heads against Atlas, jostling her back and forth. She was younger, stronger and more spry; they could sense it.

“There’s enough to go around,” Atlas said and held the buckets aloft, her arms aching. The cubs nipped at her knees, sitting up on their back paws as they tried to reach the meat. Their parents watched, two of them bothering Newt with their uncomfortable tentacle kisses. “Hey, down. No biting.”

They listened, clambering over one another to sit and wait. Atlas smiled slightly and dumped the meat of one bucket out in front of them before placing the other by Newt’s feet for him to feed the adults. The cubs were ravenous little creatures, squeaking and purring almost, using the tentacles around their mouths to guide the food down their throats like tiny hands.

“Miss Atlas!” Atlas turned to see Fobbo limping over to them, his crutch sinking awkwardly into the sand with every step. He was still getting used to his new leg; it was wooden, hand-carved by Amaya. She’d sculpted a slot in the kneecap for a magic core, enabling it to move much like a real leg. Atlas stared down at him, her brows twitching in lingering bitterness.

Fobbo had been sent to Atlas by her mother when she was a child. He had known her mother was here, and yet he hadn’t told her. 

Still, she crouched down and steadied him before he could tumble, “Fobbo, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Miss Amaya said Fobbo could,” Fobbo said, panting as he steadied himself on his crutch, “Miss Amaya is asking, she is. To see Miss Atlas.”

“No.”

“But…if Miss Atlas would only –“

“No, Fobbo,” Atlas said and began to walk away. It was cruel, really, considering Fobbo couldn’t exactly follow her. He tried, though, stumbling over himself, crutch sinking into the sand as he used every ounce of effort he could afford to try and keep up. His soft pleas eventually made her stop, and he stumbled into the backs of her legs. “Stop following me.”

“I is Miss Amaya’s elf first! Fobbo thinks — he is thinking that Miss Atlas is mad at Fobbo because he is withholding truth for many years,” Fobbo suddenly blurted, and Atlas turned to look down at him, “But I is only…only guilty of obeying my master. Miss Amaya says not to say anything to Miss Atlas. That is what Fobbo did. Fobbo is a good elf.”

“So she’s to blame again,” Atlas said, and Fobbo shook his head quickly, his ears flopping.

“No, Miss Atlas!”

“Unless she’s fixed my way home, I’m not talking to her.”

“Fobbo does not understand, Miss Atlas cried as a little Atlas, for Miss Amaya,” Fobbo whined, unable to understand the complexities of their relationship.

“Exactly, Fobbo! I cried!” Atlas snapped, and as Fobbo cowered, she couldn’t find it within herself to comfort him and instead turned, marching away.

She found herself in the forest, climbing the steps up to one of Newt’s many shacks filled with things for all the different beasts. He’d put this one in a tree to look after the small winged creatures, and Atlas found herself staring at the window, half expecting to see Kalo landing with his weightless thud. But he was out there in the real world.

Oh, and he, too, belonged to her mother.

Traitorous fiend. They all knew. Nothing was hers. Nothing but Hermione, and she was out there, too. Without her.

Atlas slumped against the cot, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing her hands down her face. For the first few weeks, she’d thrown herself against that invisible boundary every morning and night, pacing, trying to get out, hoping someone had repaired the corridor, but time was a complete construct in here; there was no telling how much time was passing outside. School was probably out; no one besides the ghosts and a few other teachers resided during the summer.

Though Atlas doubted anyone would stay after Hogwarts had been infiltrated. Dumbledore would. Merlin, had he known? If he did, surely he would fix the room.

There was a light knock on the door, and Atlas sat up, her expression guarded as she saw her mother in the doorway. She was holding a plate of food and placed it on the desk nearest to the window. In the next moment, however, a fwooper swooped down and scooped up whatever was on the plate in a flash, leaving it empty. Amaya looked slightly defeated.

“Well…I brought you lunch, but –” she gestured to the retreating figure flying up through the trees. Atlas stared and then picked up a pebble from the ground, flicking it through the air. It phased through Amaya’s chest, rendering her, for a moment, a rippling translucent form, and hit the wall behind her. “Don’t do that.” Atlas ignored her and grabbed a handful, trying to land them in a hole in the wall from a knot in the wood. “Atlas, I want to talk.”

“Nearly,” Atlas murmured to herself, tossing another that sailed through the air, destined to land its mark, but Amaya caught it before it could phase through her chest, and Atlas scowled.

“Atlas –“

“You had plenty of chances,” Atlas interjected and stood. She was taller than her mother, something Amaya had marvelled at when they’d reunited. It was not, however, something Atlas had let herself think about too much because then she’d think about how young her mother looked — how Amaya couldn’t be more than five or six years older in appearance. “You had chances to make yourself known.”

“I couldn’t expose my existence, I –“

“Did Dumbledore know?”

“No…not officially, but nothing escaped that man.”

Atlas scoffed; she knew it was true. “Of course.”

“The knowledge I possess, Atlas. It’s too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands.” Amaya continued, and Atlas felt biting words rise to her tongue, words she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.

“So why didn’t you stay dead?”

The effect was instant. Amaya flinched, hurt, her throat bobbed, and she stepped back. Atlas held her ground, staring at Amaya with a detached sort of gaze to shield herself from the conversation.

“I am…I did — I am dead, Atlas,” Amaya said, her voice catching, and Atlas’s brows wobbled, the muscle in her cheek ticking as she stopped herself from hurting at the reminder. “I’m not really alive.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Atlas said very quietly. She closed her eyes now. “I don’t want to see you.”

“It’s why I couldn’t see you, sweetheart.”

“Stop it, I don’t want to hear it,” Atlas covered her ears like a child because she knew that if she didn’t, she’d listen, she’d learn, and she’d understand, and she didn’t want to understand why her mother had abandoned her.

“Atlas, you need to listen to me.”

“I don’t — I don’t need to do anything.”

“So you’re going to avoid me until you get out of here?” Amaya said, her brows furrowed and her hands gesturing around at the room, “You’re going to stay up here and not even let me talk?”

“What’s it been? 16 years?” Atlas blurted, anger wrought across her face mixed with an old hurt that had never healed, now torn open again, “I haven’t had my mother for 15 years, nor my father, who – by the way – spent 12 years in Azkaban, wrongfully accused and then died because of your sister. He didn’t even know about her! All he saw was you, his wife, and he paid the price for dropping his guard!”

“Visha is –“

“I don’t want to know!” Atlas snapped, her chest clenching; she grasped it and steadied herself at her desk. Amaya rushed forward to hold her, but her hands fell right through, her entire body rippling like a mirage. Atlas felt the loss and hated how much she craved her mother’s embrace.

“Atlas, baby…you need my help. I can fix this,” Amaya whispered, her voice calming and tender. “I can fix it.”

“You can’t,” Atlas rasped and stumbled back, trying to push her mother away, but it didn’t work; her hands fell through as if she were trying to grasp smoke. She hated it. “Don’t come near me.”

“Atlas…”

“I don’t want to…” Atlas whimpered and stumbled to the door, taking in deep breaths as her hands began to blacken and her vision swam with the agony in her heart. She tripped down the stairs, catching her shoulder on the tree bark as she reached the bottom. Amaya was calling for her through the window, begging for her to stop, but Atlas ignored her, pushing on further into the forest.

The swamp was moist, the air smelling distinctly of mud and moss. Atlas’s feet sank into the bog as she waded through it, stumbling and gasping for air. She slumped against a boulder and sank to the floor, her eyes closed as she tried to steady her breathing. The palpitations had become more and more persistent, triggered by even the smallest spike in her emotions: anger, sadness, happiness, anything that made her heart race made it hurt.

She winced and let her head fall back against the rock, resting her eyes to calm the lingering ache.

When she jerked awake after what felt like a mere moment, she smacked her head against a low beam and slumped back, groaning low as she cupped her tender forehead and, much more carefully, sat up. She was in Newt’s main workshop, a billywig hovering in front of her face. She idly wondered if she should let the bugger sting her just for a few hours of giddiness. But no.

“That’s how addiction starts,” Atlas murmured to herself as she watched the billywig fly off. Newt was hunched over his desk, crushing up vitamins and potion ingredients in a pestle and mortar. “Scamander.”

“Careful of the beam,” Newt said distractedly.

“Right,” Atlas said, staring at his back with a very red forehead. “Now I know how Harry felt.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Why am I here?”

“You almost drowned in the bog,” Newt said and turned, his eyes made huge by the magnifying glasses over his eyes. He blinked and then blinked again, clearly trying to focus on Atlas’s face through a solid inch of glass. “Merlin found you and dragged you here, you see. Nundu’s are excellent retrievers.”

That explained the slobber on the back of her shirt and the dried mud soiling her trousers. 

“‘Maya told me you had a disagreement,” Newt said and returned to his crushing. “She is right. Though perhaps fix is the wrong word, she can help you. We both can.”

“I don’t need it.”

“That seems wildly illogical,” Newt said and tilted his head to the side as he gathered the crushed ingredients into a vial and labelled it ‘Sugar’. “Your magic is seeping throughout your body; it’s growing quicker than you are.”

“I became an Animagus. A dire wolf. You’re saying my magic is too big even for that body?” Atlas said, her expression incredulous. Newt went quiet, avoiding her eye; he kept searching for other things to do.

“That’s something for your mother to talk about.”

“I don’t want to talk to her.”

“She’s worried,” Newt said, and Atlas bit the inside of her cheek so hard it bled. “She loves you. Truly.”

The problem with being stuck inside of a pocket universe, other than the obvious, pressing uncertainty of not knowing what was happening outside, was that nothing had a deadline; there was no timeline to anything and therefore no expiration date on her grudge. So she avoided her mother, or rather, continued to do so. Amaya tried valiantly; she cooked where she could, washed and ironed Atlas’s clothes and even made herself practically invisible, giving Atlas all the space she could need. 

For some reason, it irritated Atlas. 

The knowledge that Atlas’s lifetime of questions could be answered right here and now if only she swallowed her pride wasn’t lost on her. And that irritated her even more.

She sat on the beach once again, the endless horizon a tease of what she couldn’t have and fiddled with her latest olive branch; it was a small contraption, a puzzle box her mother had made for her, the soft grooves of the wood dug into the tips of her fingers, humming with a soft magical thrum deep in its centre. It was familiar; she’d seen the diagrams in her mother’s journals, pored over them back when she’d made a hobby out of wood whittling. She froze then, a sudden sense of deja vu washing over her. A puzzle box.

For a brief moment, there was anger, and then there was a fresh wave of betrayal. She stood, clutching the box so hard it creaked and ran. The journey was a blur; Atlas raced through biomes of ice and lush green before finding her mother’s workshop where the corners of each environment met. She didn’t knock. 

“Atlas!” Amaya looked up, an excited twinkle in her eye that promptly dimmed as Atlas tossed the box onto the table.

“‘I thought you’d like this back,’ that was you?” Atlas snapped, her fingers twitching. Amaya frowned, and Atlas’s shoulders tensed, her entire body rigid with anger. “So you couldn’t risk contact, but you could send me a fucking doll?”  

“Atlas –“

“How did you even get it!?”

“Kalo brought me a handful of things from the house,” Amaya explained and shook her head, “I sent it because it was your favourite.”

“What?”

“When you were a baby,” Amaya said softly, and Atlas shook her head, utterly bewildered.

“Why? Why did you wait so long?”

“I didn’t wait,” Amaya said and ran a hand through her hair, “I’m…I’m not real, Atlas, I’m a memory. I’m a culmination of who Amaya Magianima was when she was alive. This…this place is like a painting. I am the portrait.”

“Clearly you spent too much time with Dumbledore in life, talking in riddles — stop pissing about!” Atlas snapped, and her heart flared with pain; she covered it by sitting down, crossing her arms tight across her chest.

“When I was at Hogwarts I…grew close to a painting,” Amaya said and rubbed her palm with her thumb. She began to pace, and Atlas noticed a dozen or so bowtruckles following her feet. “She told me that she used to be someone and she’d forgotten who. I don’t remember why, but her story compelled me, and I sought to help her.”

“The Fat Lady.”

“Yes…though I called her Elizabeth,” Amaya revealed, and Atlas tilted her head to the side, “it wasn’t her real name, but I always thought she looked like an Elizabeth,” she chuckled softly, “she let me; it was better than being named after her size.”

“What the fuck does this have to do with my doll?” Atlas said, her voice deadpan.

“You have a foul mouth.”

“Apologies, I didn’t have a mother growing up to teach me right from wrong.”

“You…you had Minerva.”

“Oh, I suppose that’s all right then, is it?” Atlas bit, though she didn’t know why she was throwing Minerva under the bus; Minerva hadn’t been perfect, but she sure tried to be, and she was a bright spot better than some other mothers out there.

“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have said that,” Amaya murmured and fidgeted with her hands. She let out a steady, controlled breath. “I never recovered her memories and found out that most paintings are never quite fully themselves, so I…researched.”

“With the Slytherin girl.”

“Yes…the Slytherin girl,” Amaya said and glanced away, “I found a way to memorialise a person in a portrait, to attach the entire memory to a painting. It takes a while…and rather than losing memory over time, the painting gains it. This place, the entire Vivarium, is my painting; for 15 years I’ve been growing. In the beginning, I couldn’t touch anything. But I practised, and I tried, and the first thing I touched was that doll…I thought — I just wanted to return it to you…”

“Well, thanks, I was pretty vulnerable when you sent it, almost made me spiral, I had to convince myself Dumbledore sent it,” Atlas snapped bitterly, and Amaya frowned, fidgeting again. She looked so young. The thought pained Atlas. “So what, you can’t leave this place?”

“No, I can’t. I sent Fobbo to watch you and keep me updated, and Kalo to protect you.” Amaya said, her gaze fixed on her feet. She swallowed hard and looked at Atlas, her eyes shining with such affection it made Atlas burn with longing; she wanted to sink into her mother’s arms, bury her face against her and cry from the exhaustion of living her life, but she stubbornly relented. “I didn’t want you to know I was still…here. If people found out, you would have been in danger –“

“So you said.”

“But…I was also afraid. I’m not here, I’m not alive, I can’t offer you anything.”

“Your presence,” Atlas said, her voice cracking, “your face…your warmth, your love, everything…I missed you — I missed you, every day. I had to learn about you through journals; I memorised every fucking entry!”

“I’m sorry, I — I made a mistake.”

“Sorry…sorry isn’t…it’s not good enough,” Atlas rasped and shook her head, “it’s not…”

Amaya approached, her expression wrought with guilt, her hands hovered, her eyes wet with tears, and as she tried to pull Atlas into her arms, her hands sank right through. “My baby…I’m so sorry, it’s not enough — I know, it’s not…” she gasped softly, her hand to her mouth as Atlas cried. All she could do was watch, sinking to her knees at Atlas’s feet, her hands balled into fists, resting tight in her lap.

It wasn’t Amaya’s fault; that wasn’t lost on Atlas; it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less. She had been right, as well, in thinking that if she listened to her mother, talked and exchanged words, she would surely understand, and now, Atlas could no longer bring herself to feel angry at her, only at the world.

Atlas talked more to her mother in the following days; she was still guarded, still bitter sometimes when she became too aware of herself, but they talked, and that was a miracle in Amaya’s eyes. There was still much to discuss, from Visha to Atlas’s magic, but once again, that was the thing about being in a pocket dimension: right now, nothing had a deadline, and for the first time in her life, Atlas had decided for herself she didn’t think she was ready to hear it all just yet. She was far too tired and far too fragile. 

They had time.