Chapter 118

A soft breeze eased through the trees, carrying the smell of oak and the evening dew along its swirls that rustled the brush, hues of orange had crept up on the forest scape, sunset imminent as the nocturnal life that inhabited the lush wood readied themselves for the night. It was time to leave, Atlas knew, time to go home to her cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade to a warm meal Bella had undoubtedly procured, that had been the woman’s way this summer. She’d refused to return to work and they’d let her off on leave, she’d come up with some excuse but Atlas knew why she’d remained, it was apparent and she was sure even Bella knew her excuse was flimsy. She’d simply wanted to look out for Atlas.

She knew this but she could not bring herself to walk away from the three boulders before her, names etched in their stone as the flowers she had placed swayed gently in the wind. Dead ones hung limp within her hand, wilted and brown, missing petals and all of their previous vibrancy. One was older than the others, cracked, mossy and halfway reclaimed by nature, Atlas didn’t clean it, she thought her mother would prefer it that way, all overgrown and covered in the natural flora of the forest, her father’s was, of course, newer and cleaner, as of yet, unnoticed by the forest, that would change, possibly by her next visit. The third was Cedric’s, Bella had suggested they made him one, his was similar to her father’s in condition but different in what surrounded it – Bella had taken to decorating it in the boy’s personal effects he had left her with, ones Atlas intended to mirror this time with three keepsakes she planned to leave atop each of their graves.

And so, as she could not walk away, she stayed, she stayed until the orange darkened to deep bronze and until that deep bronze turned to darkness, form unmoving, unchanging save for her eyes – still trained on the graves of her parents and brother – florescent and golden, with her legs tucked beneath her and bawled fists in her lap. She did not cry for them, she had done that, frequently and as such she found she had none such tears left to shed but she did mourn, quietly, many times over the summer she had pondered when the grief would fade, as her mother’s death, Cedric’s death, every lost life still weighed her down, she carried the grief wherever she went and it did not get lighter, instead, it grew heavier. A mountainous weight only aided by her father’s passing. She wondered when she would feel whole again.

Familiar footfalls called to her attention and Atlas momentarily glanced to her side when a figure joined her, dropping to their knees and clasping their hands together, eyes shut as they offered a silent prayer. And Atlas watched, she waited, eventually turning back to the graves in front of her and resuming her silent vigil.

“I brought stew,” Bella murmured, eyes still closed and one hand still up in prayer while the other reached behind her and produced a closed pot of steaming stew. “Eat it.”

Atlas said nothing and accepted the meal, popping the makeshift lid off of the bowl to look upon the innards of it, it looked like lamb, carrots and leek poking up through the gravy and Atlas was instantly warmed from the smell, her throat burning when she brought it to her mouth, chewing any of the larger bits but swallowing the rest in haste. She had underestimated how hungry she was.

“I said eat not inhale,” Bella huffed as she finished her silent well wishes and turned, dropping her hands into her lap as she smiled, “how was training?”

Right, Atlas had managed to forget. The beginning of the summer had been fine, Atlas had been allowed a moment of reprieve, far more than she had when Cedric had passed, Dumbledore had not bothered her once and yet, two weeks into her solitude Moody had shown. On Dumbledore’s order. They had resumed their training from the year prior, going out on a few missions. It had been hell.

This session had been the worst, though.

“Fine,” Atlas offered, voice cracking with idleness, “not much happened.” A lie. “We worked on defence.” A half-truth. “Moody said I’d improved.” Another lie, Moody hadn’t been able to speak when she’d left him.

“Did you work on…that?“

“No.” Her third lie. “I didn’t want to.” She didn’t much have a choice. “Besides I can’t summon it on command.” She could but she could scarcely control it.

“Care to explain why Moody looked pale as a sheet when I saw him earlier, then?”

Because Atlas had let it leak, she’d let too much out and she’d forced the man under, to fight his fiercest fears and darkest dreams and a person like Moody, well, he’d seen a lot, faced a lot, he was scared of a lot. She’d almost broken the man.

“…no idea.”

Bela knew she was lying. “Ok Atlas,” she stood, dusting herself down as she kissed her hand and pressed her palm to the stone of Cedric’s headstone, “we have…a visitor, waiting for us.”

“Who?” Atlas muttered, burying her hand in her pocket to retrieve her mother’s old locket which she placed atop the dirt before her headstone.

“Dumbledore.”

Atlas didn’t flinch she did not falter and instead pulled out a ring, fiery and red, a gift she had been intending to give her father this summer, it was warm, not cold for it had not been paired with the man’s heart. She was thankful, almost, for the feeling as she set it down before her father’s name. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know, Las…” Bella sighed, still touching Cedric’s headstone.

“All right then,” Atlas nodded, she unclasped her necklace and with a great deal of hesitance, slid the cold onyx ring from the rope, holding it in her hand for a very long while. She’d told herself she’d never take it off, told herself she’d carry Cedric with her always but over the summer, she realised with or without the ring he’d be there, with her, for better or for worse. “Let’s go then.”

Besides, she’d always wanted to give it back to him.

She placed it down and warmth rushed back into her palm, the cold instead infecting the floor. As she stood to leave she muttered a protection charm so that none of the local residents or fauna was able to snatch the sentiments away.

They ventured back to the cottage in silence, Bella holding up the rear just in case Atlas decided to wander back to the graves while Atlas mindlessly continued walking, gaze ahead, lips a thin line and jaw taut despite her loose expression. She ended up sensing him before seeing him, the familiar air penetrating even the hardwood and brick of the cottage. She breathed in deep before pushing open the door, finding Minerva cosied up on the sofa with a closed book as she stared the old man down, brows furrowed. Minerva didn’t quite hate the man as Atlas did despite everything but she did not like him either, simply revered him as a great wizard who had earned her begrudging respect.

“Atlas,” Dumbledore greeted, his hands behind his back as Minerva flicked her wand toward the empty bowl between Bella’s palms over to the kitchen, “there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Privately?”

“No, this isn’t quite so sensitive,” Dumbledore supplied and Atlas slackened. if it could be said in front of Minerva, she was ok. “It’s regarding your father’s will.”

“Merlin, Dumbledore she just got back from his grave,” Bella snapped, taken aback by the man’s rashness.

“I apologise for my tardiness, Miss Krase but this is important,” Dumbledore persisted and Atlas lightly tapped the back of Bella’s hand with her own.

“It’s ok, Bella,” she muttered, looking back at the man, “so, what about it?”

“It seems Sirius has left everything to you, which is, of course, to be expected,” Dumbledore offered sagely and Atlas furrowed her brows, “this, of course, includes the Black family fortune and all of its assets as well as Grimmauld Place.”

“Great, merge it with my mother’s vault and keep Grimmauld Place for your headquarters,” Atlas said casually, expecting that to be the end of the conversation, only, Dumbledore moved to continue.

“While that is infinitely kind of you, Atlas, though his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it is simply passed to the oldest male and next in line,” Atlas frowned at the complications of it all. She simply wished to bathe and sleep, yet she was here, talking to this fool, “but, of course, as there are no males left of the Black family, this means it would go to the eldest of Sirius’s living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“She’s a Lestrange now, I’m a Black, plus my blood is richer,” Atlas snarled, feeling some sort of distaste when she had referred to her blood as better in any way but any care she had in minding her tongue had long since vanished.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore’s eyes had flashed at Atlas’s ire but it had disappeared far quicker than it had shown, “fortunately there is a simple test, as you had previously seemed to think, if you inherited the house, you would have also inherited –“

He flicked his wand and with a crack, a house elf appeared. And was not Fobbo, nor was it Dobby or Winky, no it was Kreacher. Atlas felt every muscle in her body seize, hands flexing as her claws subconsciously extended, fur sprouting across her body, as her teeth began to ache.

“Kreacher,” Dumbledore finished.

“Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!” The grotesque thing cried, stamping his feet as Minerva rose and Bella backed away. “Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to her, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won’t go to the Magianima brat, Kreacher won’t, won’t, won’t –“

“Atlas, I ask that you give him an order,” Dumbledore said as Atlas’s vision darkened, “as I’m sure you’ll understand I do not wish for you to grant him clothes as he knows all of The Orders secrets, so please, give him an order.”

Kreacher’s cries echoed throughout the cottage, Bella wincing as they grew louder and shriller while Minerva kept a watchful eye on the elf, Atlas frozen and staring, breathing in and out through her teeth as she sheathed her claws, canines still sharp and sinking into her lip.

“Please, Atlas.”

Kreacher continued to cry and stamp, lights flickering overhead as Atlas’s ears rang.

“Atlas.”

He cussed and screamed, cursing Atlas and her mother, Sirius too as she wished for Walburga, Bellatrix one of those pure-blood fanatics.

“We must know if he is yours, Atlas. Order him to –“

“Kreacher, shut up,” Atlas snapped and the elves mouth clamped shut, face darkening as he fell to the floor and writhed around, clawing at his throat. It was an awful sight, rather violent in how he threw himself around, throwing his fists into the hardwood and kicking so bad blood appeared beneath his toenails. Atlas continued to watch as Minerva gasped in shock, Bella frowning deeply as she observed Atlas.

“Atlas,” she eventually called and the girl seemed to silently regain her senses, straightening a little as she blinked but she did not revert her gaze.

“Kreacher, stop,” she ordered and the elf’s muscles seized, his violent tantrum over while he was forced to simply stew in indignation, going quickly purple in the face.

“So it is as I expected,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, smiling so that his eyes turned to crescent moons, “It means that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher. You may do what you wish with him.”

Atlas looked the elf over in silence for a while, the occupants of the room turning to her in varying degrees of emotion, Dumbledore calm, Minerva reassuring, Kreacher disdainful and Bella — well, if Atlas were to look she wouldn’t know what to name the emotion, perhaps something scared, worried, apprehensive for something.

“Could I send him to work in the kitchens?” Atlas asked and Dumbledore quietly nodded, seemingly pleased even as if he was going to suggest it if she hadn’t. “Kreacher,” she began, finding it hard to keep the hatred from her voice as she looked upon the little beast, “I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens, be kind to the other elves.”

There was a moment in which Kreacher simply stared, frowning deeply as he raised his blood hands, standing to even bloodier feet to flick them and disapparate but Atlas stopped him, pulling out her wand.

“Wait,” she called and the elf halted, Bella’s frown deepening as she took a hesitant step forward, hand raised to stop whatever she had thought the girl would do, “episkey,” she muttered and the elves open wounds sealed, the blood remaining put halting in its flow, “clean yourself up when you get there…and don’t hurt yourself, again.”

The elf mumbled under his breath, something that sounded a lot like an insult to her father and Atlas felt her hand twitch forward, grabbing the rag that acted as the elf’s clothes, pulling him slightly forward.

“Kreacher, know that what I’m showing you is a kindness and practically a privilege,” Atlas seethed, eyes wide and sort of wild, Bella – who had lowered her hand when Atlas had healed the elf – stepped forward again, halting only when Minerva sent her a sad look and shake to her head, “you murdered your master. I don’t care what you thought of him, Sirius belonged to the Noble House of Black and yet you sentenced him to death. You’ve betrayed the house, Kreacher. Walburga might’ve banished him, she might’ve loathed him openly but you cannot deny the nights she whispered her regret to the empty halls.”

Kreacher fell silent, a truly euphoric look of despair falling across his face as he took in the girl’s words. She had been right, Walburga banished Sirius, she’d been the one to burn his face from the tree, she’d forbade any of the family from contacting him, helping him, she hadn’t even taken him back when he’d married another Pureblood, not that he’d asked to be taken back, no, in fact, he remained as free as the day his shadows failed to darken the halls of Grimmauld Place. And that fact had always fueled Walburga’s disdain for her eldest son.

And yet, Atlas had heard it, in the dead of the night how Walburga whispered to herself, mourned rather bitterly the loss of her son, as if she abhorred the fact she still cared. It didn’t matter if it were in the only way she knew how, in negligence, coldness and control. She cared to some capacity, whether it was healthily or not.

“You’re a bad elf, Kreacher.”

The cloth came free from Atlas’s hand and the elf stumbled back to the floor, cradling his head in his hands as he muttered through some crisis. And Atlas simply watched, sort of detached not exactly satisfied nor dissatisfied.

“Is that all?” Atlas asked, prying her eyes away for them to fall back upon Dumbledore.

“Not quite, there is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak.,” the man continued, unbothered by the sobbing elf at his side, “he is currently under the care of Hagrid, however, he is rightfully yours after Sirius passed –“

“Kreacher, go to the kitchens,” Atlas finally snapped, growing irritated by his cries. The elf was gone with a crack and she let out a quiet sigh, “Hagrid can keep him,” she continued and made a motion as if to say ‘anything else?’.

“Well then, finally, I would like to request your company,” Dumbledore smiled and Minerva straightened, a stern look on her face that had the man chuckling lightly, “it is nothing of that sort, Minerva, I assure you. I merely wish for Atlas to accompany me in collecting Harry, I’ll be taking him to the Burrow and I thought seeing her might soothe him. As a matter of fact, I thought Atlas might enjoy seeing the Weasleys’ as she has not yet had the chance to visit their home, perhaps she could stay there for the rest of term, Moody has recently come to me and sung her praises. Se even suggested she take a break, a rare thing.”

“I’ll go,” Atlas agreed readily, tucking her wand into the holster on her thigh as she turned to look at Bella, the woman stood staring at where the quivering elf who had been vigorously apologising to a painting miles away from where they stood once was. “Bella,” the woman snapped her gaze upwards, blinking rapidly and Atlas regarded her for a very long moment, mouth open as her own eyes flicked to where Kreacher had been, a sense of unease in her gut at the expression she had seen upon Bella’s face.

Had she been too cold? Too cruel? What had Bella seen in her expression when she’d spoken to the elf for her to look so…apprehensive? Scared? No — no, perhaps it was unfamiliarity she was seeing in Bella’s eyes as if the woman didn’t quite recognise the girl Atlas had been moments ago. Atlas sought to soften her expression but found it took a great deal of effort on her part. The realisation startled her.

“I…” she coughed to clear her throat, blinking as she mustered up at least a small smile, “I’ve been grateful for your company these past few weeks, really. You’ve — you’ve taken care of me and I don’t think I could ever thank you enough, will you still be here by the time the school year starts?”

“…I don’t know,” Bella offered, that look falling from her eyes as she gave an easy smile of her own, “but I’ll try, promise. They’ll have to wrestle me back to Romania. And don’t worry about it, staying here with you was the least I could do after everything and I’m glad we talked about him. A year too late but…I’m still glad.”

“Me too,” Atlas agreed and pulled the woman into a hug, “I’ll see you, Bella.”

“See you, Las. Say hi to Harry for me,” Bella winked, pulling away as she knuckled the girl’s shoulder, “love you lots.”

“Yeah,” Atlas hummed and turned to Minerva, “I’ll see you at the beginning of term too, I think I’ll be taking up that offer of staying at the Burrow for the rest of term.”

“Very well, my dear,” Minerva nodded, kissing the girl’s crown when the girl bent to receive the gesture, “have fun.”

“I’ll try,” she murmured and approached Dumbledore, the man holding out his hand, the one not blackened and ashen. Atlas had caught glimpse of the limb a few times in the past but never had she been this close, it looked burnt, charred unlike her own burn that had been healing quite nicely thanks to a salve Poppy had concocted, it would never quite disappear but it would lessen in severity, however, it seemed not even Poppy’s salve would be able to ease the irritated look upon the old man’s skin. In fact, it looked as if it were dying. Or rather, already dead.

“Shall we go then?”

Atlas gave a small nod and took it, flashing a brief smile to Minerva and Bella, taking a deep breath as something pulled at the back of her navel and contorted her oddly, the room seemed to collapse in on itself in a whirl of warm colours, distorting in and out as the innards of Minerva’s cottage became more modern, more hard and metallic rather than wooden and soft. It was loud too, thundering tubes speeding by, trains of course but unlike the Hogwarts Express these were lacking in anything charming, cold hunks of metal with no discernable front nor end.

They’d apparated to a station, one Atlas had never been to before judging from the sign Surbiton across the tracks, she glanced around, eyes settling behind her to an advertisement, blinking owlishly at the depiction of a woman looking rather seductively upon those passers-by, for an instant she thought she saw her move, gesturing to the picture of a perfume bottle on her right but chalked it up to withdrawal from all the papers she had been reading. Though she did end up examining the spray, reading the bold print in the centre. 

Tonight Make A Little Magic With Your Man

If the advertisement had actually moved to subtly nudge her in the direction of perhaps buying the perfume, it had her tastes completely wrong. In more ways than just one. She turned away and stared back across the tracks, freezing when she noted a familiar figure inside the cafe and moving forward without really thinking when she got over her initial shock. With a startling nonchalance, she hopped down onto the tracks and jumped over each rail, ears buzzing with a faint ring of electricity as she passed the third but otherwise remaining untouched by any evidence of an oncoming train.

Dumbledore didn’t bat a lash and simply watched as Atlas climbed up on the other side, brushing herself down and rubbing her hands on her jacket as she pushed into the cafe, a bell tinkling above her. There was a girl talking to Harry inside, a tall and stunning girl, with an afro and an apron stained in what appeared to be coffee, she was smiling prettily at the boy. And Atlas thought, quite deviously, that she was entirely out of Harry’s league. Despite that fact, they were both very obviously flirting with one another.

“Atlas!” The boy had just caught sight of her, jumping out of his seat in shock at her appearance, a reaction that seemed to miscommunicate quite a number of things to the pretty girl who looked instantly awkward, glancing between the two.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she looked at Atlas, “I didn’t know he was…”

“He’s my brother,” Atlas waved off with an assuring smile and tilted her head, “besides, I’m not really into…his kind.”

“Oh?” the girl said with a slight upturn of intrigue to her mouth. “That’s bold of you but I wouldn’t say things like that so loud,” at Atlas’s look of confusion, the girl gestured to the lady at the counter behind them, “some people go round the twist when someone who likes…the same gender, exist around them,” when Atlas didn’t say anything the girl continued, “Sharon’s homophobic.”

“It has a name?”

“What? Hating the gays or Sharon?” The girl asked and Atlas shrugged.

“Both,” she offered and the girl laughed into her hand. 

“You never heard of homophobia before or something?” The girl grinned, clasping her hands behind her back as she leant her hip against Harry’s table, the boy utterly bewildered by the turn of events.

“I didn’t know it had a name. I know what it is and that it exists, it’s just, where I’m from, we call it ignorance,” Atlas said and the girl hummed, nodding as she looked to her feet.

“Amen.”

“Sorry to interrupt but Atlas…what are you doing here?” Harry called and the girls turned to him, the waitress smiling at them before muttering something about ‘getting off at 11’ and returning to her work. Atlas took the seat across from him, sparing his Daily Prophet a glance before turning to look a the boy properly.

“First, how have you been?”

“I — I’ve been good.”

“Right, and I guess you’re here in the dead of night just to sightsee?” Atlas questioned and the boy shuffled in his seat, “I’m not even going to ask how far away we are from your Aunts house right now.”

“I like going around on the trains,” Harry defended, flicking his newspaper shut, “keeps my mind off of things. Besides, why are you here? Sightseeing too? I don’t even know how far away we are from Scotland…”

At his tone, Atlas furrowed her brows in concern only for the boy to shoot her a small smirk. He had been teasing. She smiled slightly and shook her head, leaning back in her seat as she gestured to the window that faced Dumbledore, the man still waiting, now admiring the advertisement Atlas had seen upon first landing.

“Dumbledore brought me along to pick you up,” she told.

“Pick me up? Where are we going?”

“To the Burrow but there’s no way he’d be doing all this just to escort us there,” Atlas said, theorising quietly, “he probably wants something else of us but he told Minerva it wasn’t anything of ‘that sort’ and I kind of have to believe him if he said that to Minerva. If it had just been to me I’d be inclined to think he was lying but after last year Minerva had made him promise her not to send me into…dire straits.”

“Right then,” he nodded, looking unsure as he stood and collected his paper, “don’t want to keep him waiting any longer.”

“You should probably say bye to your lady friend,” Atlas teased but the boy sent her a withering glare.

“After your little conversation, I’m pretty sure she’s more your lady friend,” Harry sighed and Atlas blinked, frowning slightly as she followed out after the boy but heeded his word by hollering a quick goodbye to the waitress who looked quite lost at their sudden departure.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m pretty sure you just accidentally but successfully set yourself up for a date,” Harry told as, instead of jumping onto the tracks, he took the more civilised route and went for the stairs that led to the other side, “one you’ll miss and she’ll probably mourn the loss of.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Atlas murmured.

“I know,” but Harry’s tone wasn’t one of understanding, it was more out of annoyance, a whine as if he were frustrated by Atlas’s ability to woo that girl unintentionally. “Although, now it makes sense, the fact you didn’t even know you were basically chatting her up. I thought you liked Hermione.”

“Harry,” the girl warned but the boy continued, an easy smile on his face as he spoke about her crush, not teasingly, rather it was fond as if he was excited about it and though Atlas found she would honestly do anything to chase away the darkness behind Harry’s eye, she couldn’t quite commit herself to it when it came to Hermione as a topic.

“It’s great, the way you — Atlas?” He muttered and the girl shook her head, “oh…I’m sorry — er — I won’t bring her up if you don’t want but…I mean, have you talked to her?”

“Of course, I have,” Atlas said as a bright yellow light flickered overhead, they were on the other platform now, approaching Dumbledore slowly, “we exchanged letters all of the time.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“…I just,” Atlas blinked, a flash of scarring flitting across the underside of her eyelids, “it’s nothing,” she sped up and settled by Dumbledore’s side, Harry following after momentarily pausing in his step. “I got him.”

“Hello Harry,” Dumbledore smiled, pulling his eyes away from the perfume advertisement, “thank you for joining us.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry nodded, “I’m sorry sir but…just what are you doing here?”

“I’m sure Atlas has told you of my plans to leave you at the Burrow,” Dumbledore said wisely and Harry nodded, casting Atlas a look that the girl ignored, remaining to stare upon the tracks, “and I’m also certain she has theorised, quite correctly, that there is something else I have asked you both here for.”

“Er…yes sir,” Harry confirmed and Dumbledore smiled again.

“Unlike Atlas, you have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,” he said.

“No, sir,” Harry nodded as Atlas shot Dumbledore a sideways glance.

“He isn’t seventeen yet,” she said and turned her full body to them both, she couldn’t help the spite in her next words, “you know…when a kid usually takes the test?”

“The insinuation isn’t lost on me Atlas and I apologise profusely for all that I have asked of you in the past,” Dumbledore said sagely and Harry looked awkwardly between the two, “but you cannot deny its uses.”

“I cannot,” Atlas agreed quietly and sighed, “where are we going then?” she said grabbing Dumbledore’s good arm and holding her hand out for Harry to take.

“To visit an old friend,” Dumbledore offered vaguely as Harry took Atlas’s hand with a quizzical look.

“Hold on tight, you don’t want to lose your grip,” Atlas warned and his hold tripled in tightness, a look of trepidation falling across his face, “and take a breath, you can’t really breathe all that great during an apparition.”

“It’s as Atlas says,” Dumbledore mused and looked ahead, “well, here we go.”

Once again Atlas felt that pull somewhere behind her navel as the train station disappeared, the fibres of her very being folding in on themselves and reconstructing, on many occasions she had to grasp Harry tighter, the boy slipping from her fingers as he struggled to make it through his first apparition but she did not let go, no matter what. 

And when the world returned to normal, albeit different in what surrounded them, Atlas noticed how Harry heaved, bent over with his hands braced atop his knees, eyes wet with tears of exertion, she was surprised he hadn’t been sick. But mostly proud. As he got his bearings she looked around, eyeing the large metal statue in the middle of the square and the vast number of quiet buildings lining the streets, they were in a village, one which appeared abandoned as no lights shone within windows. It was more than likely, however, that they were all simply sleeping.

Atlas huffed a brief laugh to herself.

“This way,” Dumbledore directed after checking up on Harry and led them down a lamplit street, talking idly with The-Boy-Who-Lived while Atlas held up the rear.

She didn’t really listen to their conversation, catching bits about Harry’s scar not hurting and the sacking of Fudge but otherwise she ignored them, keeping some distance between herself and the pair. Instead, she pulled out her wand and kept it firmly in hand, peering through the shadows with all-seeing eyes, her ears perked and waiting. It was silent, ominously so, the odd dog barking in the distance and faint buzz of electricity ringing from overhead lamps the only sound Atlas could hear. And yet she remained tense.

The church clocks chime in the distance made her jump and she muttered an obscenity just beneath her breath, shaking her head as she decided she should probably catch up with the other two, settling into a light jog before stopping on Dumbledore’s left side. She caught the topic of their conversation and decided to listen in.

“On the leaflet, it said something about inferi,” Harry was saying, what leaflet he was referring to, Atlas didn’t know, “what exactly are they? The leaflet wasn’t very clear.”

“They are corpses,” Dumbledore told simply, looking straight ahead at a house they were steadily approaching. “Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard’s bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful…he killed enough people to make an army of them, of course.”

“Like a zombie?” Harry questioned and Atlas shook her head.

“No, zombies are native to South America and possibly The Republic of Haiti,” she told, eyeing an odd speck of light over in a distant treeline, she frowned but ultimately pulled her gaze away and to Harry when she couldn’t discern what it was despite her eyesight, “Inferi are products of Necromancy, it’s nasty stuff, Harry. Most of them would have once been Muggles but a handful were witches and wizards once too.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore hummed but his eyes were ahead, this time narrowed as he pulled his wand from within his robes. Atlas looked to what he had noticed and frowned, the door ahead had been ripped from its hinges, “wands out you two and follow me.”

They pushed through the gate that cut them off from the neat path beyond, Atlas melting back to the rear as she kept an eye on what might happen behind them as Dumbledore and Harry stepped through the threshold of the home.

“Lumos.”

Atlas needn’t glance back to see Dumbledore had ignited the tip of his wand, descending deeper into the darkened ruins of the house. When they’d settled inside, Atlas quietly fixed the door with a wave of her wand and finally turned to face the innards of the house, namely the sitting room where Dumbledore and Harry had disappeared to. 

Inside lay a battlefield, books were strewn across the floor, fine china pounded to dust into the carpet, a handsome grandfather clock disfigured and dismembered, parts of it dotted all about the room, a chandelier that had once presumably hung proudly upon the ceiling sat limp and sad in a pile of its own glass atop a toppled piano. The piano whose keys seemed to be majority missing like the teeth of the old wizards who lingered within the Hogshead inn back home. It was a terrible sight, coupled with the dark red and thick blood that spattered up the walls, it truly screamed devastation.

Atlas approached the blood-stained walls and swiped a finger across the surface of it gathering a sizable blob atop her finger, she heard Harry make a strangled noise behind her and turned, rubbing the substance between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Your verdict?” Dumbledore called and Atlas, much to Harry’s apart disgust, took a whiff.

“It’s not human,” she wiped it back into an unstained part of the wallpaper, “dragons blood.”

Something in Dumbledore’s eye seemed to twinkle as he flicked the ball of light from his wand to sit in the air, instead, aiming the tip at an overturned but mostly unharmed armchair. Harry, who had yet to catch on, looked around tensely.

“Dragons’ blood? How does that even happen?” 

Atlas ignored him a moment, joining Dumbledore and pointing her wand at the piece of plump furniture. “It doesn’t just happen, Harry,” she eventually replied, “it’s a decoy.”

Dumbledore prodded his wand deep into the upholstery of the armchair, earning himself a high-pitched yelp of pain.

“Merlin’s beard!” A man’s head popped through the fabric and the chair stood, the sounds of springs snapping resounding around the room, “no need to disfigure me, Albus!”

“Well I must say you make a very convincing armchair, Horace,” Dumbledore said as the once armchair stuck his leg out, his knee cracking in a way Atlas felt was incredibly relatable. She huffed in amusement and lowered her wand, she knew who this man was.

“It’s all in the upholstery, I come by this stuff very naturally – what gave me away?” Horace questioned, wiping down his front so he looked less bloated. Not by much as the man was naturally plump but enough for it to be noticeable.

“My dear Horace,” Dumbledore smiled, seemingly amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house. That and the Dragon’s blood, of course.”

“I knew there was something…” Horace muttered, rubbing the spot between his brows and heaving a great sigh. “No matter, I wouldn’t have had the time anyhow.”

“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” Dumbledore offered politely.

“Please,” Horace said, nodding deeply and Dumbledore sent Atlas a sideways look, the girl rolling her eyes as she raised her own wand also. The three of them moved back to back, one lofty and thin, another short and plump, the third tall and athletic, while Harry gravitated back to the doorway to watch, eyes perpetually wide as the three began waving their wands in identical sweeping motions.

Everything flew back to its original place, Dragons’ blood melting from the walls and forming a flowing line as it settled back into its bottle, china coming back from its powdery state, the handsome grandfather clock reclaiming its beauty and the glimmering chandelier returning to its rightful resting place above them all, different furnitures returned to a state as good as new, feathers returning to pillows and plants to pots and finally, being the last to fix itself, the piano regained its keys, playing an almost happy chord to confirm its new life.

“Hmm. Bit dusty,” Horace murmured as he inspected the bottle the Dragons’ blood had returned to, frowning at the sediment mixed within it. “As a matter of fact, how did you discern the type of blood I used, Dumbledore?”

“Ah, that’d be thanks to my friend Miss Magianima, here,” Dumbledore smiled as Atlas approached the man, taking the bottle from him and raising her wand to it, she muttered under her breath and smiled slightly when the particles of dust pulled themselves from the blood and flew across the room, settling into the very fibres of the wall once more.

“Marvelous,” Horace breathed, taking his bottle back and capping it as he tucked it into his robe, he looked at Atlas with large round eyes, flicking them to Harry who still stood behind her, examining him closely, “oho!” He exclaimed, cheeks flushing red as he continued to peer between the two. “Oho!”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, taking Harry by the shoulder and guiding him over to stand beside Atlas, “Atlas, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn. Horace, I’m sure you’ve heard of my friends here.”

“Naturally,” Horace nodded, giving the two a very long look, one more meaningful than the other but silent while Horace’s gaze upon Atlas came with words, “I hear you saved Amelia Bones.”

“With Alastor Moody’s aide,” Atlas nodded, remembering the mission briefly and the image of Madam Bones lying in a pool of her own blood, barely breathing and on the brink of death. Any later and she’d have taken the hand of the Grim Reaper. Although, any earlier and Atlas might’ve met Voldemort face to face once again. She furrowed her brows, swallowing the bile in the back of her throat, it had been quite the gruesome scene, even to Atlas who had bitten off the limbs of many Death Eaters and tasted their blood upon her tongue, “she is still in her coma, however, and…and I fear maybe we were too late.”

“Nonsense girl, a breathing witch is better than a dead one,” Horace said, waving her off with a laugh that bordered nervousness.

“I do wonder about that,” Atlas muttered, mostly to herself but it was plainly heard by the occupants of the silent room.

“Regardless you did the Ministry and Madam Bones’s family a great service, Atlas,” Dumbledore said, his hands behind his back, “I’m sure Susan Bones will agree upon your return to Hogwarts this September,” he looked to Horace and smiled briefly, “do you mind if I use the loo?”

The sudden question startled even Atlas, the girl snapping from her daze as she looked over at the man, Harry looking similarly startled, Horace on the other hand took it in his stride and waved his hand in, presumably, the direction of the toilet.

“No, of course not,” he murmured and Dumbledore nodded, taking his leave in silence, “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re here Albus! The answer is still no! Absolutely and unequivocally no!”

The loud shout left the silence particularly deafening and so Atlas shuffled over to the piano in hopes of filling some of the silence while Harry remained stood stiffly by the lounges, looking around mindlessly. She pressed a few keys, no real sequence to them but not so oddly pressed it sounded awful, it was rather pleasant actually.

“Don’t think I don’t why he’s brought you,” Horace said rather abruptly and Atlas’s finger slipped on a key that didn’t quite match her improvised song, the girl glancing over her shoulder at Harry who had seized at the accusation in the man’s tone. 

“Well, you’d be more in the know than us,” Atlas replied, sitting on the arm of the sofa Harry stood beside.

“Hmph,” Horace huffed, not entirely convinced as he looked Harry over, “you look very much like your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” Harry said, crossing his arms as he leaned his hip against Atlas’s propped-up knee.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got –“

“My mother’s eyes, yeah,” Harry finished again and he exchanged a meaningful look with Atlas, the girl rolling her eyes and huffing a quiet laugh, as they looked back upon the man who seemed to puff up at the memory of the boy’s mother, smiling.

“Lily –” Horace said, “Lovely Lily. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?” Harry asked.

“I was Head of Slytherin,” Horace said and Atlas nudged Harry when the boy made a face, “oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s face and wagging a stubby finger at him, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. I hear you’re a Gryffindor, Atlas, unlike most in your family,” he said, looking over at the girl and she nodded, albeit hesitantly, “I suppose Amaya was the first in her family to attend Hogwarts but the whole Black family had been in my House. Apart from Sirius of course.”

Atlas shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms tight.

“A shame what happened to him. I’m sorry for that,” he said and his condolences seemed genuine so Atlas accepted them, not verbally but with a nod of her head as she didn’t quite trust her voice. “I got your uncle, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

“They weren’t really a set further on in life,” Atlas reminded and Horace nodded sagely but not entirely all committedly.

“Lily was a Muggle-born, of course,” Horace moved on, looking to Harry again. “Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.”

“One of our best friends is Muggle-born,” Harry said, immediately jumping in defence while Atlas watched the man across from them carefully, “and she’s one of the best in our year.”

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” Horace replied absentmindedly.

“Not really,” Atlas said, scowling and the man looked at her in surprise.

“Oh please don’t think I’m prejudiced, no, no, no –” Horace hurried, stepping forward, “Lily was one of my absolute favourites, look there she is –” He pointed over to a shelf full of pictures, ones that seemed out of place against the Muggle artefacts surrounding it, “right at the front.”

Atlas glanced over to the photos, noticing a few familiar faces amongst them.

“All mine…ex-students I mean,” Horace chuckled, joining the two of them at the shelf, “you might recognise Barnabus Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, always takes my owl if I wish to register an opinion on a news article –” Atlas and Harry looked to a small frame on the right. “And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes–a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back– you’ll see her if you just crane your neck–” he did so but Harry and Atlas who both were at least a head taller than the man spotted her just fine, “Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies, free tickets whenever I want them…course I haven’t been to a match in some time…”

“And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” Harry asked as Atlas leaned to look at all the rest.

“Of course not,” she heard Horace say, his voice once bright with cheer now sort of hollow, “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year,” there was a pause as though Horace’s words shocked even himself. “Still…the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix!”

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” Atlas said, turning from her venture down Horace’s memory lane to join in on the conversation. “And I reckon the staff are safest in these times, with Dumbledore about. Voldemort has never actively sought a fight with him.”

“Plus, Madam Bones definitely had a bunch of Ministry protection, right?” Harry added and continued when Atlas nodded in agreement, “and yet that still weren’t enough, being out here, alone without protection is definitely worse.”

“I’ll be moving soon, the Muggles who own this place’ll be back from the Canary Islands shortly,” Horace waved off but Atlas noticed how the man wavered, something contemplative in his eye as he readjusted his robe.

“Doesn’t matter, you’ll be on the run, all alone still, they’ll catch up eventually,” Atlas said rather ominously, so darkly even Harry seemed mildly startled, “they always do.”

A door clicked open behind them and Atlas noticed the familiar aura of their interruption. Dumbledore had re-entered the room and Horace had jumped almost a foot in the air, Atlas could hear his heartbeat throwing itself against the bones of his rib cage.

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said, breathing in deeply, “you’ve been a very long time. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” Dumbledore smiled, waving around a flimsy booklet, “Do you mind if I take this? I do love knitting patterns.”

“Yes of course, but you’re not leaving are you?”

“Oh yes, I think I know a lost cause when I see one,” Dumbledore said calmly and Atlas watched in amusement as the man repeated the word ‘lost’ under his breath repeatedly, “regrettable, I would have considered it a great personal triumph if you consented to return to Hogwarts. It’s a shame, you’re like my friends Mr Potter and Miss Magianima here, one of a kind. Well, goodbye then.”

“Bye,” Harry said, waving as he followed after him.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Atlas said, turning to join them.

They were out of the front door when a loud clatter halted their movements, the three of them turning to peer back into the house.

“All right! All right! I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore raised a singular brow, “you will come out of retirement?”

“Yes. Yes, I will. But I want a proper office this time, not the awful closet I had before!” He said, making his demands, Atlas rolled her eyes and turned, looking out at the street with her hands on her hips, “And I expect a raise! These are mad times we live in!”

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore beamed, “then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” Horace, or rather, Professor Slughorn grunted, disappearing back into the house, the door slamming shut.

When they’d put some distance between themselves and the home, Dumbledore spoke once more.

“Well done. Both of you,” he smiled and Atlas merely hummed, Harry, looking at the man in confusion.

“For what? Did we…do something?”

“Why, of course. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore told as they approached the square they had first appeared, the street still deserted, still silent. “Did you like him?”

“Er…” Harry muttered dumbly and Dumbledore seemed to take pity on him, taking Atlas’s silence as an answer.

“Horace,” the man began, looking ahead once more with his hands behind his back, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favourites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favourites with himself at the centre, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favourite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.”

The three of them stopped, both Harry and Atlas looking at the man as he told his story.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace –o r, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you both. You would be the jewel of his collection, Harry; ‘The Boy Who Lived’…or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.”

“And me? Why was I brought here?” Atlas asked and Dumbledore regarded her quietly for a moment, smiling.

“Because you symbolise two people he could not have. Sirius slipped from his grasp when he became a Gryffindor and Amaya,” he paused here, contemplating quietly as he looked away, suddenly rather lost, “Amaya never allowed herself to be collected, she was magnificent, something Horace recognised but, you see…she never took to him. Not because he was horrible, no, Amaya enjoyed his methods and his teaching, however…she had been collected by someone else already, or rather she had chosen someone else already. Another dear student of mine.”

“Who?”

“Newt Scamander.”

Newt Scamander, the man who Atlas had once seen as a connection between her mother and Visha. She had once before thought Visha and Amaya had no correlation and came to know one another through Newt, she had thought Visha and Newt had been friends first, after all, they had worked together in creating a potential cure for blood curses.

Atlas blinked and then blinked again.

Visha and Newt had worked together to cure blood curses. Why had she not thought of that before? She had been so focussed on what Visha had done, how she had killed her mother and had had a hand in the death of her father, how she was actually her aunt and actually Achlys that she had not thought of how the woman had once tried to cure people, had not thought about the experiment she had been involved in with Newt and Amaya.

She had not thought about how once before, Visha had potentially been good.

“I apologise, Atlas. But now is not the time to ponder such things,” Dumbledore’s voice pulled her from the depths of her mind and she found herself back in the square, holding her head in her hand.

“I…” Atlas’s throat had gone dry. “Sorry…” she offered quietly, rubbing at her eyes and the wetness that had sprung in her ducts, “sorry, yeah, so — so Professor Slughorn will want to collect us for his cabinet?”

“That is correct. He will see you both as rarities.”

“Right,” she nodded and felt Harry squeeze her hand, offering her a worried look, “I’m okay…I just…yeah, I’m all right.”

“We best be going,” Dumbledore said, holding out his arm and Atlas took it readily, Harry already holding her hand and they were off in an instant, their surroundings changing and morphing into that of a dark country lane, staring through a meadow and at a large building Atlas had never seen before. She knew what it was however by the look on Harry’s face and her prior knowledge of where they would end their night.

She instantly withdrew her hand from Dumbledore’s arm and took a step forward, unbothered when her foot sunk into a puddle. They passed through a gate, walking in silence for a while, the siblings still hand in hand as they grew closer to the warmly lit home. Well, the ground floor seemed well-lit, the upper floors appeared to be lifeless, they were all undoubtedly asleep.

“If you don’t mind, Atlas,” Dumbledore called as they neared a stone outhouse, “I’d like a few words with Harry before we all part. In private.”

“No problem,” Atlas said and let go of Harry’s hand, the boy giving her a warm smile as he followed the man into the stone outhouse. When the door had opened Atlas had caught a glimpse of a dozen old brooms and inferred it was used as storage for the Weasleys’.

In silence she remained, watching through the windows of the Burrow as Molly flitted around the kitchen busying herself with some early morning chores. She didn’t listen in on whatever the pair were saying, she figured if it was important Harry would eventually tell her anyway so waited, arms crossed and eyes closed listening to the rustle of the wind. 

It took a while fo their conversation to end but eventually they emerged, Harry looking as unperturbed as before while Dumbledore remained serene, his head high as ever as he offered Atlas a nod of gratitude and led them both the rest of the way to the Burrow. Well, the rest of the way to the back of the Burrow, a detail not unnoticed by Atlas as they passed a line of wellies and rusty cauldrons. Dumbledore knocked three times and Atlas heard a loud clater from the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” a nervous called, one Atlas recognised as Molly. No matter how long it had been since she’d last seen her, it was remarkably distinct. “Declare yourself!”

“It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry and Atlas.”

The door opened immediately and there stood Molly Weasley, smiling in her green dressing gown.

“Atlas, dear! My dear boy, Harry!” she simply beamed, ushering them inside to offer them both warm hugs and each two kisses on their cheeks. “Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to expect you before morning! I wasn’t expecting Atlas as well so seeing three shadows at my door was quite something!”

“We were lucky,” Dumbledore said. “Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Through the efforts of these two, of course. And I thought bringing Atlas would be a nice surprise. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!”

Atlas turned at the mention of her distant cousin, peering around the kitchen with a small smile. Their say at the dinner table was Tonks, her mousy brown hair up at all angles while she cradled a large steaming mug between her hands.

“Hello, Professor,” she said and her voice was scratchy. “Wotcher, Harry…Atlas.”

“Hi, Tonks,” Harry waved.

“Hey,” Atlas greeted, noticing the woman’s lack of flamboyance. 

“I’d better be off,” she said quickly, standing and dressing for the cold. “Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly.”

“Please don’t leave on my account,” Dumbledore said courteously, “I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.”

“No, no, I need to get going,” Tonks said, not meeting Atlas’s eyes. “‘Night…”

Molly frowned and moved to speak. “Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are coming… ?”

“No, really, Molly…thanks anyway…Goodnight, everyone.” She made for the door but atlas reached out, gently tugging at her wrist.

“It was good seeing you Tonks,” she murmured but got no reply, the woman simply nodding as she left and vanished into thin air. Atlas sighed, staring at where she had been for a very long while. Next to leave was Dumbledore, the man bowing and disappearing from the same spot which left Harry and Atlas alone with Molly, the woman smiling something sad.

“Well,” she began, looking around as she rubbed her palms down her front, “you’ve both grown,” she said, looking at them, “Harry, you’re just like Ron. Both of you look as though you’ve had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. And you, Atlas…with your missions. I heard about Amelia Bones. You did an amazing job sweetie.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Atlas smiled and accepted her third kiss on the cheek.

“Are you two hungry?”

“I’m fine, I had stew not too long ago,” Atlas waved off but Harry seemed to differ.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.”

He did so and Atlas copied, tensing when a furry lump of ginger hair jumped onto her knees and started purring, rubbing his face against her chin. She froze, her heart in her throat as she stared down at the squashed face of her dearest companion, Crookshanks.

“Hermione’s here?” Harry said and though he seemed happy at the news, he shot Atlas a worried look, the girl still frozen.

“Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” Molly smiled, rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began to bubble at once. “Everyone’s in bed, of course, we didn’t expect you for hours, Harry. Didn’t expect you at all, Atlas, but, oh everyone will be overjoyed!”

At those words Crookshanks seemed to straighten, jumping down from Atlas’s lap to the floor before speedily ascending the stairs at least three at a time. The girl panicked, standing as she took a few steps after the feline.

“No, don’t wake her Crookshanks!” But he was already gone and Atlas collapsed back into her chair, the fabric of her trousers scrunched between her fingers.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Molly asked, tapping the pot of soup again, it rose in the air and tipped its innards into a bowl she placed in front of Harry, a stream of thick, steaming onion soup settling inside.

“I…I didn’t know she was going to be here.”

“Is that a problem, sweetie?” Molly continued, taking her own seat as Harry made no move to eat, “did you have a falling out.”

“No…I just,” Atlas grimaced, picturing that night under the rubble, panic seizing her heart. “I –” she found she could not finish her sentence, not only because she couldn’t find the words but because of the halting footsteps on the stairs, the yawn caught midway that resounded throughout the kitchen.

Atlas looked up and met the eye of Hermione Granger, the girl frozen, wearing a tank top and red plaid pyjama bottoms, as Crookshanks weaved in and out of her legs.

“Hermione,” Atlas swallowed, a sharp rock gouging a line in her throat as it went down painfully slow. She eyed the scarring, no longer purple like Bella’s was, looking more like a burn than anything but considerably more in its spread, it curled halfway up the girl’s neck, disappearing underneath her tank top and down the back of her shoulder like licks of fire. “You’re…”

Hermione resumed her entrance and flung her arms around Atlas’s neck, smiling from ear to ear. “I didn’t know you were coming as well!”

“Dumbledore thought to surprise us,” Molly beamed, glad to see the two girls weren’t at odds. Hermione pulled away but Atlas followed, standing dumbly as Hermione stepped back and looked up at her, eyebrow quirked in question as she watched Atlas examine her, golden eyes flitting over her right side. She realised in an instant what the girl was doing.

“Don’t, Atlas,” Hermione muttered, “it was an accident.”

Atlas remained silent, swallowing solidly again as she looked over at Molly.

“Sorry, Molly, I think I’m going to turn in for the rest of the night.”

“Oh, not a problem dear,” Molly smiled but seemed to frown after a moment, “we didn’t know you were coming though so there are no rooms –“

“She can sleep in with me,” Hermione said, curling her hand around Atlas’s wrist as she gently tugged her towards the stairs.

“Hermione –“

“It’s fine, Atlas,” Hermione insisted, “we share a dorm room.”

“Ok dears, go on up and have a nice kip,” Molly ushered off, smiling as she made a shooing motion.

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione smiled and then looked at Harry, eyes widening a fraction, “oh, hi Harry. I — er…”

“It’s all right,” Harry grinned, waggling his brows, “I get it, you can give me a hug in the morning.”

“Sorry,” she mouthed and the boy waved her off again as she offered them both another farewell and dragged Atlas up the stairs, Crookshanks following them closely, purring happily.

They came to the girl’s room and Hermione pushed open the door, dropping Atlas’s wrist carefully as Crookshanks made his bed between the pillows of Hermione’s double.

“How have you been?”

“…all right,” Atlas muttered, staring at the girl’s back, eyes trailing the burn that coiled around her shoulder blade. “I’ve…I’ve been busy,” Hermione turned as she sat at the bottom of her bed, clearly eager for Atlas to continue, however, “look…I’m just gonna sleep,” she motioned to the sofa that sat in the corner by a bookshelf, “I’ll take the sofa.”

“Atlas –“

“Hermione…please I can’t,” Atlas looked up again, breath stuttering as the light of the moon illuminated the girl’s form, “I’m sorry…let’s talk some other time.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Push me away,” Hermione sighed, rubbing in between her brows, “I haven’t seen you in ages, I missed you Atlas.”

“I missed you too.”

“So why are you being like this?” she frowned and Atlas sat upon the dusty cushions, looking at the girl across from her, practically glowing in the moonlight. The girl raised her hands to rub at her scars, “stop looking at them like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Atlas turned away. “I didn’t mean to, I — I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I have everything to be sorry for,” Atlas stressed, digging her fingers into the upholstery of the sofa. “I scarred you, Hermione, I left lasting –“

“They’re pretty.”

“What?”

“I think they’re pretty,” Hermione said and Atlas looked back at her in confusion, “I know it’ll trouble you…because yes, ok, you hurt me – on accident – but you still hurt me, so I understand if…if you’re feeling guilty but I want — I need you to know that I don’t resent you, I don’t hate you, I don’t mind them. I think they look cool, don’t you?”

“What? No, they –“

“So they’re ugly?” Hermione interrupted with no real malice or insecurity in her words, just something testing, almost teasing.

“Hermione…” Atlas breathed and shook her head, closing her eyes, “nothing about you is ugly. I just can’t help but look at them and think ‘I did that’. I just don’t understand how you’re so fine with it. With what I did to you.”

“Come here,” Hermione called and Atlas glanced at her, confused, “come on.”

With some hesitance, Atlas obliged, standing and walking over to the girl, floorboards creaking beneath her feet as she stopped before the girl, looking down at her silently and waiting in question. 

“Give me your hand.”

“What are you –?”

“Please,” Hermione muttered and Atlas slowly obeyed, sliding her hand into Hermione’s carefully and watching as the girl pulled it up to her shoulder, tensing when her palm was pressed against the flesh of Hermione’s shoulder, right on top of her burn. “Do you resent Remus for those scars on your sides?”

“Hermione, don’t –“

“Do you?”

“No, but –“

“What about the bite?”

“Hermione –“

“Do you think Buckbeak deserved his punishment for accidentally hurting you?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you hate that Albanian Agoniser for the burns up your arm?”

“…no,” Atlas breathed, tears in her eyes, “no, I don’t.”

“So why is it so hard to believe I don’t resent you for what happened?” Hermione asked softly and Atlas shook her head, mouthing words soundlessly as she tried to convey what she felt, the guilt of it all, of everything that happened that day.

But she couldn’t and settled on words she seemed to say a lot these days, especially to Hermione, “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Hermione sighed, smiling gently as she pulled the girl in and Atlas immediately latched on to her, holding her tightly. “Come on, don’t sleep on that sofa. This bed has been dreadfully cold.”

“All right…” she kicked off her shoes as Hermione pulled her further up the bed.

“Ron and Ginny’ll be happy to see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“I was serious about thinking the scars were pretty,” Hermione hummed, her eyes closed as she slowly drifted off, “they look like vines…” her voice grew quiet at the end as she fell under once more, leaving Atlas awake staring down at her.

Atlas sighed, looking at Crookshanks who had moved to lay by their feet. 

She silently beckoned him closer and the cat stood, eagerly placing himself between the girls to bask in their warmth and it was only now Atlas realised just how cold she had been, closing her eyes with Hermione’s hand still pressing hers firmly against the thrumming warmth of the scar in her shoulder.

It tingled faintly under her touch and Hermione seemed to relax further in her sleep, looking more peaceful than Atlas had ever seen.

She fell asleep soon after.