Chapter 98

Torches lit their way, encased in cages and flickering, dancing as three forms hurried by, Atlas’s hand ran along the rough stone walls as they descended, her other in her godmother’s hold, pale white from how the woman squeezed, urgent, afraid as they plunged deeper and deeper. Upon hitting the final step, the tight stairwell bled into a larger corridor. The level wore its age on its sleeve, cracks, cobwebs and filth decorating every inch of the way. The doors they passed were heavy, wooden, iron bolts hammered into each one.

There were no paintings, no windows, the only light coming from the primitive torches that pointed the way, it was void of anything homely, anything that might make a person feel at ease. In fact, it seemed to be designed to do the exact opposite. Made to set a feeling of utmost despair to settle in the offenders gut as they were marched to trial, to Courtroom Ten. Reserved for trials regarding the most monstrous of crimes.

But Atlas still did not understand what she had done to be deemed a monster, what she had done to deserve her time behind bars, within a cell of Azkaban. Her legs moved dazedly as she stared blankly upon the ground. The screams of the grown and trapped souls of Azkaban still haunted her, their whimpers and screams echoing behind her eyes as she walked. With each step, the corridor she had left behind faded to mist and the scene in front of her cleared, the blurry screen coming undone.

“This is lunacy, Albus!” Minerva’s voice rang out and Atlas looked up at her, eyes so disoriented she had to squint to make out her godmother’s face. She was angry, afraid, visage contorted with rage. “She has just returned from Azkaban! She is a child, this is too much! To think they’d call her to Courtroom Ten!”

“I understand your anger, Minerva but there is nothing we can do,” Dumbledore had replied, his hands clasped around his front, looking quite calm, eerily so. “They are afraid. What Atlas has accomplished is no mere feat.”

“She is afraid! She is barely 12!” Minerva implored and glanced briefly at Atlas, the girl staring back, eyes void, “she doesn’t understand the weight of what she’s done. It’s unjust to have her tried as an adult!”

“There is nothing –“

“You are Chief Warlock, a Supreme Mugwump! There must be something you can do!”

“I am sorry, Minerva,” Dumbledore murmured as they came to a stop, the barrier between themselves and the courtroom, a dark door, thick with grim and adorned in an immense iron lock. “This is where your journey ends, you must return to the school, or wait for us elsewhere.”

“Albus,” Minerva said, eyes wide, “You cannot seriously expect for me to leave Atlas to those dogs? I am her guardian, she reserves the right to my company!”

“The Wizengamot has declared that only I may bear witness to the trial. It’s a secret matter, after all, Minerva,” Dumbledore declared and Minerva remained silent for a moment, mouth opening and closing, shock, horror and unbridled rage upon her face. “I will let you say your goodbyes, though you will see each other soon.”

“You –” Minerva stopped, taking a moment before turning to Atlas, crouching and taking the little girls hands in her own. “Atlas, my dear…this is where we part.”

“Minnie…” Atlas whispered, voice quiet, small as she kept her eyes on their conjoined hands. “I don’t want to go back to the tower.”

“You won’t, my little darling. You won’t,” Minerva tucked one of Atlas’s loose hairs behind her ear and smiled wobbly when she looked to the girls top button, finding her tie messy, ruffled and undone. “Oh look at you, you can’t go in there looking like that,” she whispered with a small laugh, sniffling as she undid the tie and fixed it all over again. “There we go, my dear.”

“Minnie, I’m cold.”

Minerva grew tense, looking her goddaughter over and observing the dullness of her child’s eyes. These effects were no doubt the doings of a Dementor. The constant chill over a body, the paleness of the skin as if pulled from frozen waters, these were all common signs. Minerva took off her shawl, hooking it around Atlas shakily.

“You’ll soon warm up.”

“Minnie…”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Am I a monster?”

“…no,” Minerva replied, pulling her into a strong, grounding hug to hide the tears that bloomed in her eyes. “What a suggestion…no, of course not, Atlas. Do not listen to those cowards.”

“But they put me away…” Atlas cried, steady tears falling from her eyes as she soon reciprocated the embrace, “they put me with the monsters. With my baba and everyone says he’s a monster. Am I like him?”

“You are not a Monster, Atlas.”

“It is time,” Dumbledore said and Minerva pulled away, pulling out a packet of tissues to wipe away Atlas’s tears. She stuffed the rest up the little girl’s sleeves, reaching up a hand to brush across her cheek.

“Be strong, my dear. I will see you soon.”

“…bye-bye, Minnie,” Atlas murmured, turning to Dumbledore as the man place a hand to her back, ushering her through the open door and into the darker room beyond. She soon disappeared through the veil, Minerva’s words unable to reach her ear through the field so that she was left, totally and utterly alone.

Dumbledore pulled away, moving to take a seat in the spectators stands vacant of any other figures while Atlas slowly moved to the chair in the centre of the room. It was large, far too big for any child, its arms decorated in chain and dark oak worn from use. The court was so quiet even Atlas’s little footsteps created a significant noise, disturbing the stifling silence of the oppressive room.

It was when she climbed into her seat the Wizengamot spoke, their whispers turning to open noise as Atlas’s eyes darted across the place, finding that their harsh words became screams and mutterings that reminded her of her time in that tower. In that box that only monsters belonged to. Everything tripled when cold iron coiled around her wrists, binding her to her chair.

She panicked, vision tunnelling as she pulled at the bindings, confused, scared. What was happening? Her eyes darted to Dumbledore, her only salvation in this room of strangers. But he did not do anything, instead, he mouthed words to her, told her to calm down, to relax. But how could she relax? The eyes had fallen upon her now, they were watching her, wary, scared. They were afraid. Why?

She was just a little girl.

“Private disciplinary trial of the twelfth of October,” that voice, Atlas vaguely knew that voice, but she could not see him, the Minister, she could not see anyone, they had lost individuality and all Atlas saw was a sea of purple. “Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. 

“We are here today to come to an agreement in regards to Atlas Magianima Black’s punishment for performing the Animagi Ritual illegally. In doing so, the accused has obtained the ability to transform herself into…a Dire-wolf.”

The whispers picked up again, the fearful chatter amongst the Wizengamot growing ten-fold as Atlas shrunk in on herself further and further, eyes swimming with tears, wrists throbbing painfully from the force of the chains, growing tighter and tighter with every inch she moved.

“Usually, such a crime would warrant time in Azkaban prison and though the accused has been dealt this sentence, many among the Wizengamot have decided this is not enough,” The Minister declared and Atlas grew wide-eyed once more. “However, as public branding is not an option and an extension of time in Azkaban has been revised, my Senior Undersecretary has proposed an experiment of sorts. Madame Undersecretary, if you would.”

“Certainly, Minister,” a woman, short and dressed in something vividly pink beneath her purple robe stood, bowing, paying her respects to her superior before turning to the rest of the Wizengamot. Atlas remained in her too-large chair, the tissues tucked within her sleeves inaccessible to her hand as she sniffled. “I proposed a test of temperament to the Minister.”

“A test of temperament, you say?”

“Exactly that. The accused must undergo stressful treatment, perhaps that of the physical manner to see what might happen should this beast be angered, or provoked,” The woman nodded, her words followed by some odd high pitched sound, resembling that of someone clearing their throat. “It is clear to me that such a beast must be examined in some way, a loose monster such as the Dire-wolf, wandering with no master would only cause calamity, especially one whose temper has remained unchecked to us.”

“Madame Umbridge, she is a child. A little girl, you should not be referring to her with such blatant barbarism.” That same woman objected. “Let alone with such desire to harm her persons.”

“Madame Bones, it seems you do not see the severity of what this supposed child has done. Yes, perhaps she was not a monster but she has succeeded in changing herself into one, she is no longer simply human after this…amplification. Have we all forgotten the tragedy that almost befell the fine village of Hogsmeade when this ‘child’ awakened her magic? Her hands were almost dyed in the blood of her most closest friends, we all witnessed the injury reports concerning Isabella Krase.” The woman, Madame Umbridge said, turning to the Wizengamot as a whole. Yes, Atlas remembered her from the first trial. “friends of the Wizengamot, to release this beast upon the world would be to invite chaos to our community. We must know whether or not this monster is tame or volatile. Imagine if she were to lose her temper one day, what might happen to those poor, innocent souls that cross her path? I daren’t speak of it.”

“Madame Umbridge is correct! We must see!”

“She is a child, she should not be treated with such animosity…”

“She is a walking calamity! We must see!”

“She’s no older than my own niece…”

“She houses a monster! We must see!”

“She should be supervised. That is all. She is clearly afraid…”

“The blood of a serial killer courses through her! Who’s to say she is not the same?! We must see!”

“Silence in the courtroom!” A loud bang, a noise so harsh on Atlas’s ears she was torn from spiralling, her breath returning to her, ears ringing, senses dialled to their maximum. “We will hold a vote. All in favour of release under supervision?”

Hands rose.

“All in favour of Madame Umbridge’s proposal?”

But those hands were not enough. Not nearly enough.

“It has been decided. The accused will have her temperament tried,” the Minister announced. “As the curator of the idea, Madame Umbridge will take the lead on this experiment.”

“Of course, Minister,” the woman descended from her seat amongst the Wizengamot and entered the field, metres away from Atlas.

Murmurs rose among the court, eyes pierced upon Atlas’s skin, the breath was ripped from her lungs, the feeling in her arms along with it, her vision blackened, her head spun, shook as she buried herself further and further into the too large-chair, fingers desperately reaching for the tissues within her sleeve.

“Please…” she whispered. She was scared.

“You are a monster and you will be dealt with as such. I must make sure you will not disrupt order.” Umbridge stopped in front of her and turned back to the Wizengamot, “I will now begin the trial.”

“Proceed,” the Minister allowed.

Atlas searched the spectators’ stands, desperately scoured the seats for Dumbledore. But he was not there. He had left her alone. All she could do was clutch her tissues tightly, all she could do was sit and wait, all she could do was plead. Umbridge raised her hand, standing over her, that vile expression on her face as the rest of the Wizengamot turned their heads, the purple sea trickling to a river as more and more disappeared from the court. Unable to watch.

Each time she was struck, her magic thrummed within her veins, pulsated within her hands, within her fingertips. The claws that hid beneath her nails threatened to burst forth but Atlas restrained herself, crying, appealing to the crowd, to make it stop so that she would not hurt anyone. 

Because she wanted to hurt everyone.

But nobody listened and Atlas was left alone, in that too-large chair, looking up at a too-large grin, in a too-large shawl spattered in blood.