Chapter 79

They weren’t at Hogwarts anymore.

Atlas felt her feet slam into cool wet grass, her knees buckling under the sudden weight of her body. She wasn’t in the best of states still and her entire being ached, she couldn’t go on, it didn’t matter if she didn’t win anymore, they never said anything about the cup being a portkey, nor did they mention another arena, another secret task. Atlas was done, so done.

Where were they anyway? It looked like an old graveyard, overgrown and forgotten, what Atlas assumed was a church stood far in the back and though she’d never seen one, she didn’t think its dilapidated state was intentional. She pushed herself to her feet going over to Harry and offering the boy her hand so she could haul him to his heels. They staggard, the both of them, when they stood, sharing a small and nervous laugh as they studied the situation they were in.

Just what were they doing there?

There was a hill that rose above them to their left and Atlas could just make out the outline of an old house, a few lights on inside, flickering, sure, but it was a sign of life. Maybe they should go over there. It beat standing around in an old cemetery, with plentiful dead beneath their feet. Honestly, the more Atlas thought about it, the more it disturbed her.

“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” Harry asked.

“Nope,” Atlas shrugged. Harry was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. “Do you think this is supposed to be part of the task?”

“I dunno,” Harry muttered. He sounded slightly nervous. “Wands out, d’you reckon?”

“Yeah,” Atlas agreed. They pulled out their wands and Atlas found that hers seemed to hum excitedly in her palm, as if it knew something she didn’t and though Atlas didn’t understand it, didn’t know what it was saying, she knew one thing. Felt one thing. And it was wrong. They were being watched. She hated that feeling most of all.

“Someone’s coming,” Harry said suddenly.

Peering through the darkness, her eyes golden, Atlas watched as the figure drew near, walking steadily toward them with a sort of smallness that Atlas remembered from somewhere, a sense of familiarity like she’d seen that silhouette a million times before. It was holding something, a bundle of robes with a small withered form inside. And – when the figure got closer – Atlas could see it looked a little bit like a baby, though one that was sickly and frail. She noticed Harry lower his wand with hesitance in her peripheral but couldn’t bring herself to do the same.

Then, without warning, Harry buckled over and fell to the floor, his wand forgotten, his hands over his face with a look that screamed agony, it was similar to how he had looked in Divination and this revelation had Atlas’s eyes wide, her focus immediately darting back over to the approaching figures as she dropped to her knees beside Harry. 

“Subdue the Guard!”

A sudden force was wrapped around Atlas, pulling her up and away from Harry so she was forced to watch the scene, trapped by a cold cloud of darkness that left her entire body feeling numb. She realised far too late just what had pulled her into its grasp and tilted her head upward, feeling a trickle of fresh blood cascade down her face as she saw those pearly white balls of mist within its darker form boring down on her.

This time, however, Atlas was angry, rage coursing through her veins, contrasting the melancholy she had felt those months ago upon seeing it in the Forbidden Forest. She dug her hands into the smoke, surprised to feel warm and human flesh, the further she dug her fingers. And this time, because she could, she put up a fight, throwing her head back, elbowing the Monsters sides and kicking, even biting if she could, all to struggle out of the Monsters grasp.

“Atlas!” Harry cried and moved to run towards her, but he was too slow, too late, the figure Atlas now knew to be Peter Pettigrew had flicked his wand, conjuring vines from the floor that pulled him back and pressed him into a large statue, a centrepiece of a large headstone that resembled the Grim Reaper. Atlas struggled harder at that, watching her god-brothers legs getting further crushed by the tightness of his binds fueling her with an energy she didn’t know she had.

“Harry! Harry!” Atlas shouted, “Let go of me you piece of shit! Peter, you’re a dead rat! I’m going to fucking kill you! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to –“

“You shift and I will kill you…” the Monster said and this time, unlike when she saw it in her dreams and encountered it in the forest, this time it had a regular voice, a female voice that sounded so very familiar.

Peter shook, standing over a large full cauldron – big enough to fit a full-grown man inside – as Harry screamed and cried out in pain, unable to clutch his scar due to the ropes that bound him. The grip the Monster had on Atlas was relentless, strong in a way that rivalled even the giants and Atlas felt the last dregs of her energy slowly draining, as if something was sucking the life out of her. Like a Dementor. She gradually gave up her fight, her attacks becoming sullen and hollow as the Monster tightened its grip around her.

“Hurry!” Came a high and cold voice, the same one that had ordered her capture. Atlas managed to watch through bleary eyes as the contents of the cauldron came to a boil, the whole surface of it alight with sparks, like a vat of precious jewels.

“It is ready. Master.”

“Now…” The cold voice said again and Atlas really, really hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was. At his masters voice, Peter peeled back the layers of cloth, a look of revulsion on his face as the body, shaped like a crouched human child, turned to take in the scene. 

And, Merlin, it was grotesque, that thing was no child, it was hairless, with skin like scales, that gleamed a dark, raw, reddish black. It was thin and feeble, something like a fragile doll that would hold no appeal to a child. It was more like something you’d see in a shop down Knockturn Alley, with its snakelike face and glowing crimson eyes. Atlas physically shuddered, finding the pure magic that wafted from the thing to be highly troubling, so troubling Atlas even pressed herself further into the numb cloak of darkness behind her.

The thing was dependent on Peter; it raised its sickly arms to him and glanced around slowly, taking in everything before, rather suddenly, Peter dropped him into the cauldron, a soft thudding coming from how he sunk to the bottom. Atlas hoped it had drowned, hoped whatever was going on would go wrong, just so she wouldn’t have to see the outcome of whatever was happening before her stricken eyes.

Peter raised his wand to the air and spoke, shaking and frightened. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”

The surface of the grave Harry stood cracked from beneath him and Atlas went wide-eyed, going to call out to him, but the Monster muffled her voice, blanketing the lower half of her face behind its misted robe, muting her entirely. She could not even hear her own words. Then, a bone rose from the grave and fell into the cauldron, turning it a horrid looking blue, sending droplets of thick liquid sizzling against the grass.

Suddenly, the Monster had focussed Atlas’s eyes on the scene once more, forcing them open so she had to watch what happened next, had to watch as Peter pulled out a long silver dagger, so sharp it sang when he unsheathed it, had to watch as he rolled up his sleeve, pathetic and gross tears falling from his eyes as snot wet his top lip. His pitiful sniffles left Atlas’s stomach-churning as she started to cry out her protests, not wanting to see what she knew was to happen next. But the Monster didn’t let her look away, not for one second.

“Flesh – of the servant – w-willingly given – you will – revive – your master.”

And then it was gone, Peter’s right hand had fallen into the cauldron, leaving it severed at the wrist, it was cleanly cut, no tearing at the flesh but the blood that gushed from the opening, the severed nerves and moving tissue would forever haunt Atlas’s night from then on. How the flesh moved, how the red poured and how Peter screamed, his anguished panting piercing through the night. The potion had changed colour again but Atlas barely paid attention to it, trapped in a daze at the violence.

She only really snapped out of it when she saw Peter advancing on Harry, her body moving with renewed vigour as he raised his dagger to the crook of Harry’s right arm — “B-blood of the enemy…forcibly taken…you will…resurrect your foe.” — and then he plunged the knife into Harry’s arm, dragging it down so a long stream of red fell into a glass vial he held beneath it.

Atlas so desperately wanted to get to Harry, the boy now weeping, struggling, still, against his confines. She fought and fought yet the Monster remained strong. Merlin, why was Atlas so weak? Peter poured the blood into the cauldron, peering into it shakily before turning to set his gaze on Atlas, the girl freezing before fighting again, trying to get away as he ambled toward her.

“Magic – of the guards – presented in partnership, you will…strengthen your Lord.”

Suddenly, Atlas was moving forward, getting dragged over to the cauldron no matter how hard she fought. Harry was shouting after her, their eyes locking into a fearful exchanged as, strangely, the Monster moved forward, forcing a layer of its mist into the cauldron and then it raised an opaque hand, Atlas’s wand between its fingertips, the thing humming a high tune that bordered excitement.

“Hey, that’s — !”

The Monster snapped it in half, killing that which survived within her wand, destroying the last truly intact thing she had left of her mother and silencing the lovely tune she had come to enjoy, the singing and the humming that gave her comfort when she fought. It died, with a sharp cry as a slither — a pale white string of something fell into the cauldron alongside the Monster’s mist and then, the wood was tossed to the ground and Atlas watched it fall, tears prickling in her eyes.

“It wasn’t even yours…” the Monster said. Atlas looked up at her, into the eyes of the mist, looking entirely shattered and disbelieving, “…don’t look at me like that, child.”

“It’s done…” Peter whispered and then dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, slumping sideways and laying across the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm. The Monster tossed Atlas aside and the girl lunged for the remains of her wand, pocketing the mundane pieces of wood as she then sprinted for Harry, trying desperately to pull at his restraints.

But it was no use, it didn’t even seem as if Harry himself cared, no, he was too busy, staring transfixed on the blindly white cauldron, watching the being that grew from within and when Atlas turned to look as well, she too couldn’t help but stare. The man was tall, skeletal and moving slowly, rising, dressed in dark robes as he stepped out of the cauldron and stared at the two of them.

Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils Lord Voldemort had risen again and all he seemed interested in then, was himself. He was raking his long pale fingers across himself, basking in his corporeal form once more, his red slits roaming across himself and then over to Peter who he proceeded to laugh mirthlessly at, pulling a wand out of his robe pocket and with a swift flick of his wrist, Peter had been thrown into the headstone Harry’s was tied to, slumping so he sat beside Atlas.

“My Lord…” Peter choked, holding up his severed wrist, “my Lord…you promised…you did promise…”

“Hold out your arm,” Voldemort said lazily.

“Oh Master…thank you, Master…”

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again.

“The other arm, Wormtail.”

“Master, please…please…”

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Atlas saw something upon the skin there, something like a faded tattoo – a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth – the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

“It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it…and now, we shall see…now we shall know…”

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm and he let out a fresh cry of agony. Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Atlas saw that it had turned jet black, while Voldemort wore a look of sick satisfaction as he stared out and across the graveyard.

“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

“I could fetch the deserters if you’d like,” the Monster offered, approaching Voldemort with a surety in her step.

“My dear Achlys, how long has it been?”

“…too long, My Lord,” even still, though the Monster responded, there was hesitance in the way she replied, as if uncomfortable or not entirely used to name. Well, at least Atlas now had a name for the being that plagued her nights, if that was even her name, Atlas noticed Voldemort preferred to call his subordinate names that weren’t their first. “Your wish is my command. I will round them up if you’d like.”

“No, no…if they are true to me, they will come, however,” Voldemort turned to set his red eyes on Atlas, unsettling her deeply. “Do give Junior a visit, he has something that might ‘persuade’ Astraea to our side.”

“My name is Atlas Magianima Black,” Atlas spat, surprised by her own nerve while Peter whimpered beside her and Harry hung limp, in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness. The Monster gave her one last lingering look before disappearing into the night sky, leaving them alone.

“You cannot be a Magianima if you are not Astraea,” Voldemort grinned hysterically. “Therefore, if you insist you are Atlas, you are no Magianima.”

“I’m Atlas Magianima Black,” Atlas gritted, feeling that odd sense of panic coming back. “My mother gave me that name.”

“Your mother stole that name, she is nothing but a petty thief.”

“Oh, yeah. Coming from the prat that rearranged his name to come up with ‘I am Lord Voldemort’,” Atlas snapped and Voldemort’s eyes flashed a bright red as he moved forward, his wand suddenly pressed into her neck, so heavily she could feel the magic of it even as she swallowed. “Thought you…wanted me on your side.”

“…fortunately for you,” he withdrew his wand, his snake eyes falling from her as he shook Harry’s head from side to side with the tip of his wand, watching as it rolled around. “you are invaluable, however, I am not opposed to letting my Death Eaters  have their way with you by means of the Cruciatus Curse, so I would mind my tongue.”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s a shame…I would have preferred you sane. But then again, they’re easier to control when they’re clueless,” He smiled, his yellowed teeth unsightly just as his eyes were. “You are just so remarkably like your mother...“

Harry shook awake, his pale face illuminated by the moonlight as he snapped his gaze up to match Voldemorts, sweating and clammy, the blood still dripping from his wrist. He looked at Atlas who was simply sat beside him, vines around her she hadn’t even noticed were there, not even when they had sprung from the ground, she’d been so caught up in Voldemort returning in the flesh.

“Ah, Harry Potter…here you are, standing upon the remains of my late father,” Voldemort hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool…very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child…and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death…”

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and a form came slithering through the grass, a snake Atlas had yet to notice, she curled her knees to her chest as it swerved by, finding an odd sensation in staring at the creature.

“You see that house upon the hillside, Harry? Astraea? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was…” He sighed. “He didn’t like magic, my father…he left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born. And she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage…but I vowed to find him…I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name…Tom Riddle…”

Still, he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave.

“Listen to me, reliving family history…” he said quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental…But look, Harry! Astraea! My true family returns…”

The sky was suddenly polluted with clouds of black, dark swishing cloaks colliding with the ground. Between graves, behind the yew tree, any place decorated in darkness, witches and wizards were Apparating. They were all hooded, their cloaks embellished and regal, reflecting their wealth. It was a well-known fact that most Death Eaters were Pureblood. The cowards were masked behind silver plates of varying designs, some were horned, others had fangs, few were plain and there was one who bore no eye holes at all, just a slick mask that cascaded an inch past their chin.

The Death Eaters each moved forward, slowly, hesitantly, as if not believing their eyes, not believing their lord had returned to them. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to their knees and kissed Voldemort’s robes, the very ground he walked on. The rest soon followed and Atlas found herself grimacing, inching away from the scene of gross loyalty. It was disgusting, disturbing and Voldemort seemed to sense her discomfort as he turned to her and beckoned her binds forward, forcing her to the ground in front of him. Harry moved as if he wanted to grab her back but Atlas shot him a sharp look, afraid of what might happen.

A circle of black with but a few empty spaces now encircled them and Voldemort seemed to just stare out at them, pleased but with another small flicker of emotions behind the vertical slits of his eyes. Atlas was now at his feet, her back to his legs as she remained on her knees, bleeding from the scars of her face and withholding her grunts of discomfort, she did not want to satisfy the Dark Lord.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,”  Voldemort said quietly and a shiver of excitement seemed to run through the bodies of the cloaked henchmen. “Thirteen years…thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?”

Atlas heard him take a deep inhale of breath through the slits of his nostrils.

“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench of guilt upon the air.

A second shiver ran around the circle but this was different, this was fear and a longing to step away. Atlas knew, because she felt it too, felt it as Voldemort’s leg pressed against her back, his long fingers and palm pressed firmly into her head, as if she were a pet, his pet. Like some dog.

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact – such prompt appearances! and I ask myself…why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?”

No one spoke. No one moved except Peter, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm, Atlas wished he would just shut up. 

“And I answer myself,” Voldemort whispered, “they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment…” There was a nervousness in the air now, a twitch in how the Death Eaters moved. “And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?”

He dug his fingernails into Atlas’s scalp and she grimaced, biting her lip to stop the sob she held.

“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort…perhaps they now pay allegiance to another…perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?”

At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

“It is a disappointment to me…I confess myself disappointed…”

“I returned…”

Atlas inclined her head so that she saw Peter, the man, snotty and pale. Voldemort turned as well and snapped his hand from Atlas’s head, advancing on Peter with speed, his robes billowing behind him. At this, the pressure released from her head, Atlas slumped, her unbound hands planted against the floor as she finally grimaced, just in a way that was unseen to everyone there.

“Out of fear, not loyalty,” Voldemort admonished but then he raised his hand, stroking through Peter’s thinning hair, “you deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” Peter whispered, “please. Master…please…”

“Yet you helped return me to my body,” Voldemort said coolly, watching Peter sob on the ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me…and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers…”

Then he rose his wand in the air and swiftly brush the space in which Peter’s hand once was, a string of molten silver coating an invisible hand. Atlas watched as it formed, a replica of Peter’s hand, strong and metal as it sat on the stump of his wrist. The man’s sobbing stopped, his breathing still harsh and ragged but he didn’t seem to be in any pain, no, he looked to have been renewed, an energy in his eyes that had not been there before. He flexed his moonlit fingers and reached down, trembling still and picked up a small rock from the ground, a chip of some headstone. Then it was dust, falling into a heap at his feet.

“My Lord,” Peter whispered as Atlas stared at it, mouth agape and eyes wide. “Master…it is beautiful…thank you…thank you…”

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes.

“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” Voldemort voiced, in a way that was calm but so threatening Atlas could picture the things Voldemort would do to him just from his tone alone should he betray him.

“No, my Lord…never, my Lord…”

Peter stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his destructive hand, his face wet with tears but now full in a way that Atlas hated. A sudden snap beside her had her head-turning again and she found that Voldemort had returned to her side, now facing the Death Eater whose horned mask was the tallest, and robes most bedazzled.

“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting before him. And Atlas’s blood boiled, she looked up as Voldemort swiped the mans mask away, turning it to smoke. “I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius…Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay…but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?”

Her eyes did not leave Lucius’s face, the hatred so potent in them, so vivid she was surprised they had not yet turned golden, surprised her arms had not yet numbed. She felt that if there was ever a moment she should explode, that her magic should be unleashed, it should be now, and it should be Lucius Malfoy who is injured most severely by her hand. This man was responsible for what had happened at the cup? For what had happened to those nice Muggles who ran the site? And for what had almost happened to Hermione?

“Quickly, Lucius, Astraea here is quite ready to have you killed,” Voldemort grinned, his lips turning twisted as Lucius momentarily glanced down at Atlas, that disdain familiar behind his eye but it quickly turned fearful when he heard the note in his master’s voice, the note that said he just might let her if Atlas let her urges take control.

“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” Lucius excused, tearing his eyes from Atlas and instead, turning them to Voldemort, entirely fearful. “Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -“

“And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?”  Voldemort accused lazily, and Lucius stopped talking abruptly. “Yes, I know all about that, Lucius…You have disappointed me…I expect more faithful service in the future.”

“Of course, my Lord, of course…You are merciful, thank you….”

Voldemort moved on, dragging Atlas with him so that her knees were disfigured by the gravel that mingled with the grass. She grimaced, he stopped, staring at the space – large enough for three people – that separated Lucius and the next Death Eater. Atlas stared also, waiting for what Voldemort might say next.

“The Lestranges should stand here,” Voldemort said quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me…When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honoured beyond their dreams. The Dementors will join us…they are our natural allies and I’m sure if some stray away, Achlys, will be more than capable of controlling their will.”

Yet another shudder wracked the circle and they all seemed to be looking around, looking for someone, for Achlys. She sure had a reputation if she could strike the same amount of fear in their hearts as Lord Voldemort. However, all Atlas could wonder was, if Voldemort already had such a powerful person under his rule why did he want her as well? There was something wrong, something she still didn’t understand and by Merlin, she was sick of not knowing.

“…we will recall the banished giants…I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear…” He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them. “Macnair…destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide….”

“Thank you, Master…thank you,” Macnair murmured as Atlas vaguely remembered him as the man who was to execute Buckbeak. 

“And here” – Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures – “we have Crabbe…you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?”

They bowed clumsily, muttering dully.

“Yes, Master…”

“We will, Master….”

“The same goes for you, Nott,” Voldemort said quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr Goyles shadow.

“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful –“

“That will do,” Voldemort said with but a small hint of disgust in his voice. He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes. He’d dropped Atlas now, the girl had fallen to her side, unable to catch herself for her hands had been bound. She was facing Harry now, the boy staring at her, fearful and so very afraid, she tried to mouth words of reassurance but seeing the look on his face, it almost made her cry. “And here we have eight missing Death Eaters…five dead in my service, among those five, as you all know, were my faithful friends Ekaterina and Mikhail Volkova.”

Atlas went wide-eyed at the names, thoughts flashing back to Zasha.

“One, too cowardly to return…he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever…he will be killed, of course…and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service.”

The Death Eaters stirred, gazes darting sideways toward each other, it seemed not even they knew who he was talking about and Atlas tried to focus on that more than Harry’s face, hoping her intrigue would hide her fear and unease.

“He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our two young friends arrived here tonight…” Voldemort told softly.

Atlas went wide-eyed, looking over at Harry as she recalled her thoughts, her theories she knew to be ludicrous but her gut, her gut told her it had to be him. Moody. But why? How? Atlas had seen him in the Pensieve with Harry, the man was disgusted, he was utterly revolted by the Death Eaters, by Bellatrix and her husband, so what had changed? It didn’t make sense and yet it did, Atlas knew it did because she’d felt it that entire year, felt like Moody was an actor playing the character of his own story.

“Yes,” Voldemort continued, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed first to Atlas and then to Harry. “Harry Potter and…Astraea Magianima have kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call them my guests of honour and perhaps, well, I hope that Astraea here will be joining our ranks.”

It grew silent, dead silent, so silent Atlas heard an owl hooting a mile away. She slowly turned to look up at Voldemort, noticing how Harry stared at her so fearfully in her peripheral. Was Voldemort mad? Of course, he was but he didn’t honestly expect Atlas to join him, did he? But apparently, he did, and he looked to be the only one as the Death Eaters surrounding seemed to grow uneasy.

Just then a cloak of mist entered the Graveyard, it was Achlys and at her presence, a few of the Death Eaters seemed to stumbled, actually backing away as she approached Voldemort, dragging something, someone behind her and throwing him to Voldemort’s feet, a blindfold on, a gag in his mouth. And at the sight of him, Atlas froze, at the sight of him, Atlas’s heart sank, at the sight of him, Atlas almost screamed.

It was Cedric.