Chapter 107

Valentine’s day was always rather hectic for Atlas, the countless boxes of chocolates and shrieking cards she would get, coupled with the poor and unlucky first years forced to deliver letters to her for some coin grew tiresome and tedious. She spent most of the day checking each chocolate for any trace of a love potion before she even thought about eating them and by the end of it, she’d have lost her appetite anyway. So it was safe to say Valentine was one of the worst days of the year for her. Especially now, with Hermione nowhere to be found, Atlas had figured she’d be able to cruise through the day unbothered with the girl by her side. Many were naturally frightened off by her presence for whatever reason but in her absence, many had grown in confidence.

Much to Atlas’s dismay.

Even now the girl was struggling to get to Breakfast, eager to see Harry who would be visiting Hogsmeade with Cho as his date, she wanted to give him some advice at least because she knew the boy was hopeless with girls. Not that she was the greatest but she was certainly better. But her plans had all but flown out the window, suitcases packed when she’d stepped a toe out of her common room and found about six first years stood and waiting with bouquets or aforementioned chocolates and letters. She’d taken everything if only to rid the poor kids of their duties and quickly stowed them up in her dorm room before trying again.

It had not gone well. Atlas walked into the Great Hall with a stack of chocolates under her arm and letters protruding from her pockets, many of them had come from the same sender which mildly worried Atlas. There was a crown of roses in her hair, thankfully pruned of any thorns and an entire bouquet under her other arm. She looked like a stand, ready to sell Valentine merchandise off to some lovesick fool.

Harry and Ron, the two of them appearing rather glum, instantly perked at the sight of her, laughing with one another as she grumbled under her breath and approached the table. Her haul thudded to the table as she dumped them before her and started pulling out letters, frankly unbothered by whether or not one of the senders was in the crowd surrounding. She did not open them and instead reached for some toast, one of the only things left out due to her late arrival, not even her favourite peach jam was left, so she settled for buttered toast, nice but not nearly as good as jammed toast.

“Can we have a look?” Ron grinned, Harry beside him with a stack in hand, ready to read and when Atlas nodded they tore into them, eyes raking the contents eagerly, sometimes gagging, sometimes laughing, other times they even sympathised, grimacing. “What about the chocolates?”

“Didn’t get a valentine, Ronald?” Atlas teased over her toast and when the boy turned scarlet but didn’t respond she shrugged, “help yourself, they’re all untainted, checked them on the way here. I’ve certainly got enough to go around.”

“Honestly, you get enough valentine chocolate to open a shop, I’m surprised you’re not fat,” Ron said, scarfing his face with a handful of heart-shaped treats.

“I had some puppy fat when I was a kid, still attracted more girls than you probably ever will, mind,” she grinned, tilting her head to the side and huffing when the boy choked on a rose sweet.

“Fleur told me you were popular at Beauxbatons,” Harry said and Atlas hummed, nodding simply.

“I had a baby face and a tragic past, what more could a girl want?” Atlas reasoned, “while it’s true the girls were my – er – awakening, I never actually did anything. I was just a smooth talker and Fleur used to say I’d be a no strings attached type of girl.”

“You probably were before you met Hermione,” Harry said and Atlas kicked him, hard, beneath the table. “What! It’s not uncommon knowledge. Ask anyone and they’ll say Atlas Magianima has a big fat –“

“Piss off,” Atlas snapped and was startled when Ron let out a howl of laughter. “What?”

“This — this guy compared your eyes to a murky bog and tried to make it romantic!” He cried, tossing the letter to the table and grabbing another chocolate, “oh Merlin…that was — bloody hell your fans are something else.”

Atlas did not say anything to that and the three spent the rest of breakfast reading over and comparing some letters, the chocolates practically gone by the time the bell rang. Ron excused himself some moments before to venture down to the Quidditch pitch while Harry parted ways with Atlas to find Cho when they’d entered the courtyard where Filch was, signing students with permission out.

That left the girl alone, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot while also being painfully aware of the whispers and glances, quiet giggles and gestures made in her direction. She checked out quickly and stopped a few paces down the path, taking in a sizeable gulp of fresh air before moving again to descend into the village, the gate visible in the distance. Only, a very heavy urgent hand caught her shoulder and Atlas turned to see Hermione hunched over and panting as if recently running a marathon.

“There you are!”

“Here I am?” Atlas asked, her tone one of question.

“I’ve — I’ve just seen Harry,” Hermione huffed and stood upright, grinning, her cheeks rosy red, “do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

“Oh…” Was that not a given? They usually went to Hogsmeade with one another. Or was this something different? It was Valentine’s Day after all. Did that mean Hermione was asking her out on a date? Did Hermione want to be her Valentine? What was going on? Atlas’s brain suddenly felt rather fried. “Yeah…yeah, of course.”

“Great,” Hermione smiled and marched ahead, apparently quite eager to get going. Atlas did not protest and diligently jogged after her.

Occasionally, Atlas’s eyes would wander to Hermione, looking her over quietly, trying to make sense of what exactly this was. The safe assumption would be that it was a simple outing, a regular Hogsmeade trip with no correlation to the fact it was valentines day, the unsafe and more appealing assumption was that this was a date and that Hermione Granger had just practically asked Atlas to be her valentine.

The possibility was dizzying and Atlas suddenly found herself incapable of basic speech, becoming horribly aware of how she walked and conscious as to what her face looked like resting. Atlas didn’t know whether she should ask just to clarify or simply suffer in silence and in honesty, she was leaning more toward the latter. Just to play it safe. Yes, Atlas would play it safe, even if it wasn’t exactly what she wanted.

She sighed and looked off to the Quidditch pitch in the distance where she could vaguely see the red blobs zooming about the place. Apparently, Angelina had grown to be quite the drill sergeant, training the team to the bone and taking up every ounce of spare time the members had, all to make up for the four members now missing from the team, so that they would have even a small chance at winning the cup at the end of the year.

“You miss flying?” Atlas jumped, turning to look at Hermione, confused for a moment before she realised just what the girl had said.

“Not terribly,” Atlas told and it was the truth. Though she did miss the team, she wasn’t as torn up about it as Harry. “I really do enjoy Quidditch, just…I think missing out on it this year is for the best.”

“I understand,” Hermione nodded. They finally arrived in Hogsmeade, the shops decorated with things pertaining to valentine’s, even if it was one thing, like a moving cupid hung on a sign, shooting passersby with glittery and illusionary arrows, or paper hearts taped to window panes, even a fair few of the shops had temporarily changed their dark exteriors to that of pink and red.

It was harsh on the eyes in honesty and Atlas grimaced, tucking her hands in her pockets, though she did especially find it morbidly and ironically funny when she noticed the windows adorned in hearts were also plastered with wanted posters, depicting the twelve escapees of Azkaban. It was a real contrast, criminals scowling upon the occupants of the villages while surrounded by hot pink hearts.

“Notice how there are no Dementors around?” Hermione said bitterly, crossing her arms as they settled outside of a shop, looking at the posters, “hope Fudge is sweating in that stupid bowler hat of his. You told him they would revolt, they’re outside of Ministry control now.”

“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Atlas offered idly, eyes transfixed on the siblings, Edha and Kushaal, that familiarity striking her once more. “Hopefully he’ll be kicked out of office.”

“Hopefully he gets kicked where the sun doesn’t shine…”

Atlas smiled, huffing a laugh and nodding agreeably, “yeah, that too.” 

They moved on, finding that every shop, coupled with pink decorations, housed the faces of those criminals, a promise of a sizable amount of coin for information adorning each one. But Atlas and Hermione did not pay them any mind, opting to simply admire the decorated Hogsmeade, poking around in some shops and browsing the many trinkets in the displays. Couples passed them at every corner, evidently out on romantic getaways, holding hands and occasionally kissing.

Once, Hermione and Atlas had even stumbled upon a couple making out in an alleyway and while Atlas had stopped and openly stared, eyes wide, Hermione had pulled her along blindly, her hand over her eyes. And while Hermione ranted about PDA, red-cheeked, all Atlas could think about was whether or not she should reach out and hold her hand. It wouldn’t be strange, they always did it but then Atlas thought of the implications, the context of the day and what surrounded them.

Those thoughts were the ones that would deter her eventually and she ended up lagging behind quite a bit, frowning deeply and watching Hermione from afar, the girl still blushing furiously as if she had been the one caught in such a heated kiss. If only, Atlas thought to herself, blushing also when she found herself thinking of things incredibly indecent. She coughed to clear her throat and went to speak only to stop before any words fell from her tongue. Hermione had paused and stared over at a couple standing at a stall of flowers. 

“Would you like one?” Atlas asked, moving closer to join her in looking. She inclined slightly, peeking her face over the girl’s shoulder so they were inches apart. Hermione turned to her, apparently startled.

“Oh, no…no, not really,” Hermione smiled tightly, turning away. Atlas was not at all convinced. “I suppose you don’t very much like flowers, you always look quite resentful when you receive any.”

“That’s not true, I like flowers,” Atlas said, shaking her head and standing tall again, “I think they’re very pretty and I do appreciate the thought, however…I guess I’d much prefer they came from someone else rather than those that idolise me one moment and hate me the next.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione offered with a frown.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, sometimes people like to base their opinions on everyone else’s so that they don’t go against the common voice. They’re swayed easily because they’re scared or long to fit in, like Seamus,” Atlas turned to Hermione, grinning, “it’s why I appreciate you so much. You’ve always stuck by my side.”

“Naturally,” Hermione hummed, smiling softly. “Though,” she began, turning up her nose, “I don’t know if I can say the same for you, you run away so often, you see.”

“I promise I’ll always stay by your side from this point on,” Atlas said with a sheepish smile.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good,” Hermione nodded, satisfied. “Let’s go then, we need to go to the Three Broomsticks.”

“We do?” Atlas asked and Hermione nodded again, “all right, well…you go on ahead, I need to get some materials from the crafts store. I’ve run out of wood.”

“Glad to see those tools are being put to good use,” Hermione grinned, “I’ll see you then but hurry up.”

Atlas had not a clue why Hermione was being so adamant about it but nodded regardless, waiting a moment until the girl was a good distance away, out of sight, around a corner before she walked up to the flower stall and greeted the elderly witch kindly and quietly, as to not startle the woman who was busy pruning some plants on the other stands.

“Oh, hello dear,” the woman greeted. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Just a flower for my…my person, I suppose,” Atlas shrugged, flushing in embarrassment. She had not a clue what to say in reality, what was Hermione to her? If this was a date — if she was right in assuming Hermione had asked her out, then that would mean she liked her right? But then again if this was just friendly, strictly platonic she’d look a bit foolish saying anything other than that.

“I see…typically, roses are quite popular but if you’d like something a little less on the nose, how about I wrap up some white and red gardenia’s for you, my dear? The white ones symbolise purity while the red symbolise secret love, they are a quiet way of saying ‘I love you,'” the lady suggested with a warm smile and Atlas blinked, recalling a time she had once given Hermione a singular gardenia. She smiled and nodded.

“Yeah…yeah, they sound nice,” she said and the lady smiled again, walking away a moment and swishing her wand so that many flowers came floating toward her, settling neatly within a nice red and white paper, wrapping themselves up. The woman placed a small strip of tape upon the overlap with slow and shaky movements before moving back over to Atlas, bouquet in hand. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh nothing dear, I do this every year for valentines,” the woman waved off, chuckling quietly. “Helping some youths impress their loves is a wonderful thing.”

“That’s…that’s very kind of you,” Atlas muttered, gently taking the bouquet and regarding them quietly. They smelt very nice. “I — I’ll be going then, thank you for this.”

“It’s not a problem, not a problem at all. I hope your person likes them, dear.”

“Yeah, me too,” Atlas grinned, offering the lady a curt wave before walking off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

She felt sort of nervous on her way, eyes upon her feet as she tried to translate her own rampaging thoughts. The rain that slowly began to fall did not help, eventually evolving into a heavy downpour. Atlas had to take off her coat to shield her flowers, worried for their integrity if they were exposed to the harsh elements of the Scottish weather, which of course, left her soaked through in a matter of moments.

Many couples quickly ran for cover around her, laughing and giggling like lovesick fools who could not go a day apart from their other half, it was sweet, endearing but Atlas did not appreciate how they would splash dirt upon her trousers when they sprinted by. Unintentional, of course, so jumped up on love they were oblivious to the world around them. Still, it was annoying. 

Atlas sighed and squinted through the rain, idly hoping the lady who ran the flower stall was all right even as water dripped from her hair and her shirt steadily grew so slick to her body it felt like some uncomfortable second skin. The Three Broomsticks became clearer in the distance, clearly bustling if the loud chatter she could hear even through the rain was anything to go by but she thought it was to be expected. While Madam Puddifoot’s was the designated date spot for the sappy romantics who enjoyed tea and pink decor, the Three Broomsticks would always remain the most popular bar, even on valentines day.

She had not expected, however, to see Hermione standing just outside, a transparent umbrella above her, extended from her wand. Atlas wondered why she hadn’t thought to do the same and let out a long mournful sigh. As she approached Hermione’s eyes fell upon her and grew wide like saucers, the girl quickly running out to meet her uncaring of the mud that splashed up her legs.

“Atlas! Why haven’t you got your coat on!?”

“Your socks are going to get all soggy,” Atlas said in response, shooing her onto the pavement.

“Hey! Answer the question!” Hermione demanded and looked over her in concern, “Christ, you’re soaked.”

“Oh, right,” Atlas pulled out the bouquet, grinning, “I needed to protect your flowers obviously.”

“My flowers — ? Atlas, you idiot,” Hermione sighed and Atlas’s proud grin suddenly turned sheepish, wet hair clinging to her face and droplets of rain cascading down to her chin. “I said I didn’t want any.”

“Well it was clearly a lie,” Atlas replied, holding the flowers toward her, “come on, tell me I’m the best.”

Hermione’s shoulders drooped and she seemed to give in, shaking her head with a small and soft smile as she took the bouquet in hand, “…you’re the best.”

“Damn right,” Atlas hummed, pleased.

“Now, get your butt inside, you need to warm up,” Hermione ushered, pushing her ahead. Atlas obliged, her hands in the air while Hermione followed soon after, still smiling with the flowers clutched to her chest.

“So, why was coming here so important?” Atlas asked as they headed deeper into the pub, trailing a long line of wet that was mopped up instantly by some enchanted broom. Hermione looked up from her flowers and seemed to remember something.

“Right! It was the whole reason I invited you to Hogsmeade!” Hermione said and Atlas quirked a brow. “It’s regarding that letter I sent a few weeks ago, remember? I finally got a reply and that’s who we’re meeting with.”

“Oh.”

So Hermione hadn’t been asking Atlas out on a date.

“Who — who are we meeting?” Atlas asked, trying to keep up her smile.

“Well…ok, don’t be mad and please don’t run away…” Hermione said, grimacing as they apparently grew nearer to the girl’s table. Atlas looked at her curiously a moment before glancing up, her expression dropping and then forming a moment later into a scowl.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Hermione.”

“Just — just hear me out –“

“Skeeter!?”

At her name the ex-reporter looked up, her bored expression slipping to a grin while Luna and Harry halted their chat. Harry looked over at her, wide-eyed but seemingly a little relieved, Luna simply waved and offered her a greeting to which she did not get a response. Atlas was too busy seething, fists tight and white balls.

“Atlas…” Hermione said soothingly, reaching for the girl’s hand and taking it gently and while it did tame Atlas, her rage dying to a simmer, she still pulled away, rather harshly when she noticed how Skeeter’s eyes dropped to the conjoined hands. She remained unaware of Hermione’s drop in expression.

“Hello, Atlas. Long time no see,” she cooed, wiggling her fingers in greeting. “How are you?”

“Dandy,” Atlas gritted. “Would be better if I’d heard news you’d crawled down some hole and died though.”

“How morbid,” Skeeter pouted, clutching her heart, “and truly hurtful,” the woman eyed Hermione, attention slipping to the bouquet in the girl’s hands, “I assume you’ve just been on a date? A lovely bunch of flowers, I must say. Gardenia’s, symbols of –“

“It wasn’t a date,” Atlas snarled, eyes narrowed.

“The flowers were a friendly gesture then? No strings attached?” Skeeter asked with an air of innocence that made Atlas’s blood boil.

“Fuck yourself, Skeeter.”

“Touchy, touchy. The defensiveness is not helping your case,” Rita said, shrugging theatrically and eyeing a splotch of wet upon the table.

“All right, that’s enough,” Hermione snapped, clutching the bouquet tight in one hand while the other remained a simple fist, angry and tight. She forced Atlas into a seat and sat beside her. “I told you not to say anything stupid, Rita. One more word about either mine or Atlas’s love life and the deal’s off and that’s a promise.”

“What deal?” Rita huffed, taking a quick swig of her drink almost drunken like before wiping her hand across her mouth, eyes narrowed upon Hermione, “you haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days…”

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write more horrible stories about Harry, Atlas and me,” Hermione said, her voice one of cool indifference now as she looked upon the ex-reporter. “Find someone who cares, why don’t you?”

“They’ve run plenty of horrible stories about Harry and Atlas this year without my help,” Rita said, looking over at the boy in question and then to Atlas who stared at her, livid and fiddling with her wand, out and open atop the table. “How has that made you feel, Harry? Atlas? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?”

“They feel angry, of course,” Hermione snapped, voice hard and clear. “They’ve told the Minister the truth yet he’s too much of an idiot to believe them.”

“So you actually stick to it, do you? That He Who Must Not Be Named is back?” Rita said, looking between Harry and Atlas quickly, slinking a hand to that bag of hers Atlas knew to house her Quick-Quotes Quill. “You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore’s been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you two being the sole witnesses?”

“I lost my brother, Rita, to a game he wasn’t even part of,” Atlas spat, leaning forward in her seat. Hermione placed a careful hand on her back. “Why the fuck would I lie about it? Why would we lie about it?”

“We weren’t the only ones there either,” Harry snarled, just as ticked, “there was a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?”

“I’d love them,” Rita practically gasped, eyes blown wide as she finally threw open her bag very openly and grabbed for her materials. It was as if the most magnificent thing had happened to her, while Atlas watched, grimacing and shuffling uncomfortably in her seat. She still had no idea why Hermione had brought her here. “A great bold headline: ‘Potter – Black Duo Accuses…’ a sub-heading, ‘Harry Potter and Atlas Black Name Death Eaters Still Among Us’. A nice big photo of the two of you beneath it, ‘Disturbed teenagers, one, a survivor of You-Know-Who’s attack, Harry Potter, 15, the other, Atlas Black, 16, daughter of the notorious serial killer, Sirius Black, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the wizarding community of being Death Eaters…'”

Yet the Quick-Quotes Quill did not move, remaining stationary in the air as it’s owners expression slowly dropped, once excited and glowing now dull and despondent. Rita’s eyes fell upon Hermione, the girl staring back, arms crossed and face stoic.

“But of course,” she said and the Quill straightened, pointing its sharp end at Hermione who was being subjected to Rita’s harsh glare, “Little Miss Perfect wouldn’t want that story out there, would she?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hermione began sweetly, smiling so that her eyes formed crescent moons. She did not look happy, not happy at all, she looked vicious, poisonous. Atlas had never seen her quite so sharp, “that’s exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want.”

Rita stared at her, eyes wide as her cocktail slipped from her fingers and almost crashed to the floor – some spell had stopped it mid-air and placed it carefully on the table again – Harry was just as shocked, looking at Hermione as if she had suddenly adopted another two heads, Luna, on the other hand, sang ‘Weasley is our King’ faintly and whimsically beneath her breath, staring into her drink. Atlas, however, simply stared, expression indecipherable, it was neither shocked nor entirely knowing, it was something in the middle as if she should have known.

“You want me to report what they say about He Who Must Not Be Named?” Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.

“Yes, I do,” Hermione nodded, briefly glancing over at Atlas who had not stopped staring before turning back to Rita, blinking rapidly as if some look on Atlas’s face had rattled her. “The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Harry and Atlas report them. They’ll give you all the details, tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters they saw there, tell you what Voldemort looks like now — oh, get a grip,” she added with a scowl, throwing a napkin across the table that landed squarely upon Rita’s face, for, much like Ron would, Rita had jumped at Voldemort’s name.

Rita blotted at the Firewhisly upon her shabby old coat, “The Prophet wouldn’t print it,” she said blandly, occasionally glancing upon herself before looking back at Hermione contemptuously, “In case you haven’t noticed, nobody believes their cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks their delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle –“

“We don’t need another story like that!” Hermione snapped angrily, almost rising from her seat but Atlas had pulled her down, her own head levelled after her fleeting fit upon seeing Rita again. “We’ve had plenty of those,” she gritted, face still red but body no longer rising, “I want to give them the opportunity, to tell the truth, and be heard.”

“There’s no market for a story like that,” Rita retorted coldly.

“You mean the prophet won’t print it because Fudge won’t let them,” Hermione replied shortly.

“The Prophet has never been free, not truly, hasn’t been for a while,” Atlas spoke, leaning forward in her seat, staring at Rita so coldly the woman seemed to physically shiver, “there’s no such thing as freedom of the press, not any more and those that did not conform or find enjoyment in ruining peoples lives unlike some people were chucked to the curb.”

Rita looked at Atlas, long and hard, throat bobbing with a hard swallow as she finally averted her eyes, “All right,” she began, voice surprisingly unwavering, “Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won’t print a story that shows you and Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back.”

“I understand that,” Atlas said, nodding agreeably, “people are scared and read the paper so that their anxieties are abated, if only for a moment. To them, the Prophet is the absolute truth, no question. So if it were to suddenly confirm Voldemort was back they couldn’t hide from it or discredit it, as people who have clung to those words for so long, they wouldn’t just be able to toss it aside because the news within it was unfavourable. No matter how they might try.”

“So you see my point,” Rita said, gesturing to Atlas as she looked over at Hermione.

“But,” Atlas spoke again, narrowing her brow and leaning back in her chair. She hooked an arm over the back of Hermione’s and fiddled with the hair that fell over her hand, “it’s no excuse.”

“The Daily Prophet shouldn’t just exist to tell the people what they want to hear,” Hermione added scathingly.

“The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,” Rita snapped coldly. She reached for her Firewhisky but grabbed nothing besides air, Atlas had already taken the glass in hand and wiped its rim, downing its contents. She turned the glass over, slamming it back on the table, bottom side up.

“Watch your tongue,” Atlas muttered, “before I lop it off and you find it on the floor.”

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” Luna said happily, finally chipping in unexpectedly. A quiet plop came from her drink as her cocktail onion fell back into her Gillywater and Luna stared at Rita, eyes wide and almost protruding. “He publishes important stories he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn’t care about making money. He’s the editor of The Quibbler.”

Rita snorted so loudly that the people closest to them looked around, apparently startled.

“‘Important stories he thinks the public need to know’, eh?” Rita jeered, face one of amusement. “I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag.”

“You could also manure your garden with the shit that comes out of your own mouth,” Atlas said quite steadily, looking at a long strand of Hermione’s frizzy hair she had wrapped around her finger before turning back to Rita, tilting her head to the side. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Never mind that, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn’t it?” Hermione interrupted, shooting Atlas a quick pleading look before turning back to Rita, all business and pleasant, overly-sweet smiles. “Luna says her father’s quite happy to take Harry and Atlas’s interview. That’s who’ll be publishing it.”

There was a long moment where Rita simply stared between the four, looking as if she was not entirely convinced this was not all a dream, as if she was counting down the seconds until she woke up in her overly large bed and found herself employed and happy. When it did not come, she started to laugh, almost hysterical.

“The Quibbler!” She said between cackles. “You think people will take them seriously if they’re published in The Quibbler!?”

“Some people won’t,” Hermione shrugged, nodding. “but the Daily Prophet’s version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better explanation of what happened and if there’s an alternative story available, even if it is published in a –” she glanced sideways at Luna, “in a — well, an unusual magazine — I think they might be rather keen to read it.”

Another length of silence.

“All right.”

That was broken by Rita, the woman tilting her head to the side in thought.

“Let’s say for a moment I’ll do it,” she continued, narrowing her eyes. “What kind of fee am I going to get?”

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine,” Luna murmured faintly, opposing her cocktail onion back in her mouth. “They do it because it’s an honour and, of course, to see their names in print.”

Rita rounded on Hermione, grimacing. “I’m supposed to do this for free?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione nodded calmly, rolling around the contents of her glass. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider’s account of life in Azkaban.”

“Or, I can force you into a beetle and crush you under my boot,” Atlas said, smiling sweetly. Surprisingly, Hermione did not scold her for it, not even quietly.

“I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, have I?” Rita said, her voice shaking slightly. She opened her crocodile bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and raised her Quick-Quotes Quill.

“Daddy will be pleased,” Luna said brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita’s jaw and Atlas smiled, genuinely, at the sight.

“OK, Harry? Atlas?” Hermione asked, looking between them. “Ready to tell the public the truth?”

“I suppose,” Harry said, watching Rita anxiously. Atlas simply shrugged, staring at the table. She had not exactly been expecting an interview today and it was not exactly how she pictured the day going when Hermione had asked her to accompany her to Hogsmeade but she couldn’t bring it up now and she couldn’t very well say no when an opportunity to spread the truth of what truly happened to Cedric was presented before her.

“Fire away, then, Rita,” Hermione said, fishing a cherry out from the bottom of her glass and popping it between her teeth.

By the interview’s end, Harry looked utterly spent, Atlas in a similar condition, though more stoic than Harry who looked as if he had taken several bludgers to the chest. It was muddy outside when they left, Skeeter disappearing in the distance with Luna who skipped beside her, leaving the three Gryffindors to their collective silence. Atlas was staring up at the sky, Harry toward the castle while Hermione clutched her flowers tight and stared upon the petals with a frown.

“I…I’m heading back,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes, “I’ll see you there?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” Atlas nodded, looking back at him and noticing how he sent a long look in Hermione’s direction. He turned away a moment later as if it had never happened, disappearing in the direction Luna and Rita had gone. “You still with me, Mi?”

“Yeah,” Hermione nodded and then turned to look up Atlas, “I’m sorry for dumping that on you, I — I guess I underestimated how much you despised Rita.”

“I suppose…it would have been nice to have a heads up,” Atlas said, tucking her hands in her pockets. “Didn’t exactly think I’d be reliving Cedric’s death when we came down here,” she mused quietly and Hermione went a little wide-eyed, clenching them closed again with a grimace.

“Christ I am such an idiot, I didn’t even think…” she breathed, bringing her fist against her forehead again and again. Though lightly, Atlas still grabbed her hand, pulling it away and back down to her side.

“Hey, it’s all right, I’m — I’m doing better, Mi. Not the greatest but I can talk about him, you’ve helped me with that,” Atlas assured quietly, smiling a little, “every time we chat some nights when you ask me a question about him each time just to remind me of who he was in life rather than in his final moments. That helped.”

“Still, I’m — I’m really sorry,” Hermione sighed, shaking her head, “I should talk to Harry as well, I just — I just really wanted you guys to be heard, seen even in the Quibbler, though you seem to be handling it a lot better than Harry I can sometimes tell when it gets to you. When people whisper about last year. About Cedric.”

“And I appreciate it, Mi,” Atlas said, “I really do. You’ve — you’ve really made this easier.”

“Not by much.”

“That’s not true at all, without you, I don’t think — Hermione, I don’t think I’d be…” Atlas frowned and gently took up the girl’s hand, “I think I’d be trapped…a little lost in my own head. You’ve helped me with Cedric, you’ve been patient and Merlin…the shit with Umbridge? Even though I was being such a dick about it in the beginning you stuck through it. I mean, fuck, Mi, I don’t even think you’ve really badly snapped at me, only when I threatened Ron about Quidditch and said something about switching rooms. You’re beyond patient with me and — and I don’t deserve it most of the time, I –“

“Of course you deserve it. Atlas you deserve the world.”

“But that doesn’t mean you should make your life completely revolved around mine, you shouldn’t have to spend all of your time looking out for me,” Atlas murmured, turning Hermione’s hand over in hers and examining the lines of her palm. “It’s not fair.”

“You’re saying it like I’m being forced.”

“Just — just care a little more about yourself. Please,” Atlas said and pulled away.

“It’s not like it’s so totally one-sided, Atty. You look after me too, you always have. It’s mutual,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I mean, you bought me these flowers, Atlas and risked getting a cold just to protect them.”

“You looked sad when you tried to convince me you didn’t want any,” Atlas shrugged, “I couldn’t not get them.”

“Exactly my point,” Hermione huffed and Atlas smiled a little, sighing.

“All right, ok, I get it. We care about each other.”

“That we do,” Hermione nodded and looked around, “so, on that note, did you want to go anywhere?”

“I was just going to go home and get some sleep,” Atlas mused, rubbing at her eye.

“You don’t want to spend a little longer here?” Hermione asked, furrowing her brows.

“No? Why would we?” Atlas smiled, looking at her curiously, “we’ve come here for what you wanted to do, haven’t we? Unless you want to go to another shop?”

“Do you not want to do something?” 

“Maybe get wood?”

“Didn’t you already get some?” Hermione said and Atlas grinned, shaking her head.

“Nope. You see Granger, that was a diversion so I could get you flowers,” Atlas said and while Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes again fondly she quickly grew quiet.

“So, wood. Nothing else?”

“Er — no. No, I don’t think so,” Atlas said and yawned, cracking her neck, “I need to sleep. Oh but you’re welcome to join me.”

“Did you just invite me to sleep with you?”

“Sure, if you’re up for it,” Atlas nodded, smiling as she let out a long breath through her nose, “I’ll be sure to warm you up from this cold.”

“You’re vile.”

“You’re blushing.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re still blushing.”

“You’re — oh for godsakes, of course, I am, you’re being incredibly indecent, you dick!”

“…still blushing.”