Chapter 2

Mud splattered up the walls of the small cottage Atlas’s godmother – Minerva McGonagall – owned, as she kicked the ground. It was late August, a couple of days until the beginning of a new year for Hogwarts, a year the girl herself would be attending. She hadn’t before, even when the girl had hit the age of eleven she had elected to not attend the school and had instead, studied from her home in Hogsmeade village. She saw no need in the school environment, the comfort of her home had been just fine and so she remained, studying most hours of the day but when breaks would come around she’d socialise with the locals. Most people had enjoyed her company and she would always greet them when they passed. The main folks she visited would be the local butcher and his daughter, the baker a few steps away from her home, Postmaster Gasper and then the beggar that would often sit outside Hogsmeade Trainstation. 

Things had changed slightly in recent weeks though, most of the inhabitants of Hogsmeade had grown quite distant, Atlas herself had become more closed off and the general air around her as she traversed through the village would be unwelcoming. This was because she saw no need in conversing with folk who threw all of their previous views of her, previous memories and friendly chats out of the window just because her family name hit the not so kind headlines of the Daily Prophet. She’d have thought after so many years of getting to know her their weak wiled minds wouldn’t have succumbed to the views of the common crowd. I.e. Atlas Magianima Black was to be avoided at all cost.

Never mind that. Though she did not attend the school, she had still gone through the same curriculum, even having a headstart when she had gone through an early manifestation of her magic at the tender age of a mere five summers old, two years younger than the average child. Atlas held an innate talent for Defence Against the Dark Arts, was bright in the ways of Potions and Alchemy – due to years of guidance from Professor Dumbledore himself – incredible at Transfiguration and had a bond with most magical animals she met.

There was a reason as to why she was so exceptionally good at Transfiguration. Why she studied it so vigorously and it wasn’t just because her godmother was a teacher of the subject.

It had happened when she was twelve, searching through her godmother’s old bookcases for the nth time since her adoption. Atlas had always held an admiration for the woman, always wanted to be exactly like her so when she had stumbled across a book of old notes, pertaining to the Animagus Ritual she followed it, read it, studied it, experimented and then when a lightning storm came, she downed the Animagus Potion she had prepared and pressed her wand over her heart, reciting the enchantment that would forever change her life and perception of the world.

Performing the ritual was illegal if not accounted for by the Animagus Registery but Atlas was a young witch, whose alias as a shifter she did not want exposing to the whole wizarding world, especially when she had enough unwanted attention brung to her because of her name, so she had come to an arrangement. A deal with the Minister of Magic, he would personally keep her abilities a secret until she came of age but if she were to use her powers in ways that went against the ministry, his tongue just might slip and her name just might be printed in great big bold ink against the next days Daily Prophet.

The threat had been taken seriously. 

And yet, despite all of this, despite all of the secrets she wanted to keep hidden and her lack of need to attend a school, she would be attending Hogwarts for her first but also third year. All because her father had escaped Azkaban prison and Dumbledore had personally requested her attendance. 

Who was she to decline a second time? She was a mere orphan of the first wizarding war, taken in by her previously mentioned godmother, Minerva McGonagall. Her abilities may be outlandish and noteworthy but she couldn’t really deny the invitation of one of the greatest and most respected wizards of all time again.

A resigned sigh bubbled from her throat as Atlas hung her sopping wet raincoat by the coals, using her wand to set the kindle overlaying it alight. The action encompassed the room in a warm orange glow, heat spreading throughout the home in an instant, its effects on Atlas’s cold, wet, sodden body almost instantaneous as she soon began feeling her toes again.

Minerva would be home soon, the woman usually spending most of her time at the school. Atlas didn’t blame her, the school was much more appealing than their dingy run-down cottage. Of course, Minerva didn’t stay away because of how unappealing her home was, she was just a busy woman. In truth, Atlas was probably the only one of the two who didn’t particularly like their home. It was small, tight, sure cosy at times, especially with a mug of hot chocolate during cold weather spells, but it was incredibly claustrophobic when compared to the Forbidden Forest, a place – though warned against – Atlas spent most of her time in.

It had been a busy day, Atlas had gone to try and help out in the village to anyone who would accept it, chopping logs, baking bread, hunting for the butcher, meeting the new pups her friend-wolf had given birth to over the weekend and even playing around with Hagrids Hippogriffs he kept. Buckbeak was particularly fond of her, always being the first to bow when they met, eager to talk to a human that could actually talk back. In fact, his pride would usually be abandoned in her presence, a strange rarity not usually seen in Hippogriffs.

The creaky floorboards whined as she strode across them, taking off her clothes as she walked and summoning a new set from her room. Tall and tan she was a girl of Asian-British descent, with honey-golden eyes, dark shoulder-length hair, freckles like stars and three scars, one going through her lip on the left side while the second slashed across the bridge of her nose and the third slashed down through the middle of her right eye.

Scars, in general, would get you noticed in the wizarding world, but scars like the ones Atlas had would not only bring attention but questions. Not many things could give you scars in the world of magic – most injuries being treatable to the point of no trace left behind – and things that did leave their marks were less than likely to leave you alive to tell the story. Stories were what everyone wanted to hear, it was why Gilderoy Lockhart was so popular, not only had he done so many things but he’d lived to tell the tale, left unscathed and seemingly sane. So whenever a new wizard met Atlas, questions always ensued. Most people steered clear of her in Hogsmeade because of them though.

The scars, strangely enough, weren’t unsightly and most would openly compliment them once getting over the initial shock of seeing them. The butcher’s daughter – Isabella Krase, a squib – had often told her that, if she were to ever attend Hogwarts, a lot of the students there would have definitely been taken by her ‘playful charm and roguish good looks’ as she’d put it.

A knock came at the door and Atlas’s owl – Kalo – squawked horribly, riping through her ears as she winced. She glared at the injured bird and made her way to the door, peeping through the eyepiece only to smile softly and immediately open the door upon seeing who it was.

The witch was dry, the rain seemingly sliding off of her, no doubt due to an Impervius Charm. Her face looked worn, tired as she drew her brows together and walked inside, eyeing the fire longingly for a moment before turning and looking to her god-daughter fondly. “Hard day? Is it Potter again? Received an owl, have you?”

Talk of the boy-who-lived and his troublemaking friends was often shared between the two when Minerva would come home for certain weekends. Atlas would hear of all the grey hairs they had given her, sometimes even laughing, sometimes cringing and sometimes earning a few greys of her own – the petrifying of one Hermione Granger and opening of the Chamber of Secrets being a few to name. 

At some point – she had not known when – she had begun almost waiting for each story pertaining to the group of friends she had come to call the golden trio, they were fascinating and sometimes thrilling to listen to. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched as to say she liked the three mystery teens she had never been able to place a face to.

“He blew up his aunt…”

“Really?” Atlas grinned. “Was he held for trial?”

“Luckily not,” Minerva swooned and Atlas caught her, guiding her over to the sofa in front of the fire. “That boy, just like his father honestly, I feel you’d get along. Breaking wizarding laws at such young ages.”

“I wish, they sound like right fun,” Atlas huffed, whisking her wet clothes over into the laundry basket.

“I thought you’d say something like that,” Minerva smiled, taking a cup of piping hot tea Atlas had boiled while she was getting changed. “Perhaps you will even become friends.”

“I doubt that,” Atlas scoffed. “My father is a follower of Voldemort, Minerva.”

“That does not reflect onto you,” Minerva scolded. She had had this conversation more than she would have liked. “You are nothing like the house of Black.”

“I know that. You know that. But tell that to the folks who go out of their ways to avoid me in the streets. Tell that to them…” Atlas murmured, cracking her neck and taking her wand up from the kitchen counter. She was tired, chopping up logs nonstop would do that to a person, even to Atlas, a girl who thrived in magical areas and seemed to be strengthened by them.

“The people who live here are deathly afraid of you-know-who, though it is unfortunate and ignorant, it’s to be expected they would be wary. However, Harry Potter and his friends – I dare say – are not so small-minded,” Minerva said wisely, taking one last look at Atlas before shifting into her cat Animagus and getting cosy by the fire. She often did that, Atlas would too. The warmth felt different, more fulfilling when in your Animagus because the heat would get trapped in your fur – if that was what your Animagus had anyway. 

“I’ll be going to bed,” She told, the cat didn’t reply but Atlas knew she had heard, turning on her heel and pushing through the door leading to her room.

It was small and dark, like a majority of the home but it was enough, decorated plainly as she didn’t spend a lot of time in the room. She slunk underneath the covers, turning the light off with a flick of her wand and buried her face in her pillow. Ordinarily, she would sleep in her Animagus, it was comfy and she’d often sleep better when she did but she’d been trying to get used to the feeling of sleeping as a human for weeks now, so she would be able to when she inevitably had to share a room with another girl of her year and house.

***

A dull thump of an axe cutting through wood sounded across the small little farm, Atlas found herself in. Bella – a short, blonde and green-eyed woman – was sat next to the pigs, scribbling down a few notes at the edges of each of the paragraphs donning the page she was on, her tongue snug between her teeth. She was probably analysing some muggle text for fun again.

It was the evening of August 31st, a day before Atlas faced more witches and wizards than she had ever encountered in her lifetime. Exactly 22 hours, until she had to stand in front of a hall of most likely less than accepting students. 

Professor Dumbledore had sorted her the day prior, in the privacy of his own office with the Heads of Houses there to bear witness. Two of the five present had left with defeated faces, them being Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick, the Heads of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw respectively, leaving Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin with one of indifference and Minerva a look of excitement. Dumbledore had looked as airy as ever, no hint of emotion or sadness in his eye, just something knowing. Something mystical. That was the way with him. Always.

Atlas, however, had not been so moved or open with her opinions on the sorting. There was no real feeling to it, only a slight hint of exasperation at the backlash she was bound to get from her fellow Gryffindors once they had found out, Atlas Black, daughter of the serial killer that happened to be on the loose was in their house.

“Something troubling you, my dear?” Isabella cooed from where she sat on her mossy stone, stroking a pig she had no doubt raised from birth. Though the girl looked young, contrary to Atlas who looked older than she actually was, she was actually of age, 24 to be exact.

“I’m starting school tomorrow, Bella.”

“Aren’t you all…?” There was a moment of silence until Bella made a strangled noise, her book slapping shut and the swine around her speeding away as she clambered out of their pen and over to an axe swinging Atlas, “You’re going to Hogwarts!?”

“Yeah,” Atlas nodded, gently pushing the girl away so she could bring her axe down again, “I’ll probably stay there for the holidays too.”

“Now you won’t be lonely without me when I leave for Romania tomorrow,” Bella teased, eyeing the axe amusedly for a moment as she stepped back. Since birth, Bella had been a squib – even though she was born from two magical parents – so hanging around Atlas when she chopped wood was common because it gave her a breath of fresh air, away from people who did simple tasks using their wands. It wasn’t special, which was what made it so special to her.

“Maybe you’ll meet that trio you’re so intrigued by?” she continued, jabbing at Atlas’s side playfully. “You’re never this taken by strangers, ah, besides me, Cedric and those two girls you very rarely talk about these days.”

“You’re different.”

“Because I’m a squib?” Atlas missed her log, the axe swinging and digging itself deep into the mud, but she didn’t care, she turned and looked at Bella apologetically, her mouth open ready to apologise. “Kidding! Merlin’s beard you almost took off your leg!”

“Don’t do that,” Atlas glared, yanking the axe out of the mud and checking it over for any damage. “I thought I genuinely hurt your feelings.”

“Sorry, sorry. I forget you take most things seriously, you’re just really thick like that huh?” Bella voiced and Atlas ignored her, snapping a log in half but this time with her bare hands, making direct eye contact with a funny looking tree in the distance. “You sure you’re not like…half-giant?”

“It’s rotten,” Atlas told simply, throwing the rotting log off into the distance somewhere. She couldn’t give people rotten logs. “Easier to break. And I’m not thick,” she argued, “You used to get upset when anyone mentioned you being a squib.”

“Keywords, ‘used to’,” Bella said, glancing to her notebook and cocked a brow, looking back at Atlas. “Hey. Does Hogwarts even teach Maths and English these days?” 

“Yeah, they implemented them into the curriculum a few years ago for those who wanted to blend in with Muggles once they graduated,” Atlas confirmed and Bella hummed thoughtfully.

“So…you’ll be going to Hogwarts? Gonna make your move on Granger?”

“I don’t have a crush on Hermione, Bella,” Atlas laughed, shaking her head in amusement.

“Really? Because I recall you visiting Hogwarts with Minerva one day because you heard the girl had been petrified,” Bella teased, scratching behind one of the pig’s ears, “which is something considering you, back then, hated going to the castle. I mean…you went back regularly.”

“I was worried, I’ll admit,” Atlas nodded, “but not because I had a crush on her. They may not know me but I know them.”

“Sounds creepy.”

“No, it isn’t,” Atlas sighed, swinging down on another log.

“Kind of is,” Bella grinned, chucking one of the pigs the rest of her lunch before turning into her father’s bungalow, a grin on her face. “You need to go out more! Get some actual friends besides me and the Hufflepuff! Find yourself some hot girlfriend if you insist you don’t have a crush on Granger! 

“Whatever you say, Bella,” Atlas waved off, planting her axe in the chopping block she had been using and gathering up the logs she had hacked into separate binds of leather, tossing them over her shoulder for delivery.

“Are you seeing me off tomorrow!?” Bella called. Atlas made her way down the street.

“Won’t be able to make it.”

“Boo! You’re mean!”

“I’ll see you when you visit.”

“No, you won’t! I’m never coming back!”

“Oh right, because that’s so believable!” Though Atlas said this, she made a mental note to at least try to see the girl before she took the Floo Network someplace halfway across the world. Atlas didn’t quite understand why the squib wanted to work with dragons in Romania, considering she couldn’t at all use magic and would be rendered defenceless against a rampaging dragon, but didn’t ask. Bella would be safe, she’d gotten herself into worse stuff before.

She shuffled the logs on her shoulder, cast one look backwards to find Bella talking to her father about something and then continued forward, her deliveries at the front of her mind. To people that deserved it, she would deliver free firewood she had come across on her walks through the forest, leaving it at the side of their doorsteps. It was something she did often, using the axe as a way to let go of any worries she might have – as unnoticeable as they may be – and giving away her produce because she didn’t exactly need it.

“Gryffindor…” she mumbled as she walked, trudging through the muddy streets and occasionally turning her head to look over at the Shrieking Shack, swaying in the distance, “The house of Bravery and Courage,” she dropped a sack down and moved onto the next house, her left hand deep in her pocket as she passed a few bustling wizards and witches, each of them sending her looks of varying distress. 

“Poor girl.”

“You think she knows?”

“Of course she knows.”

Atlas made a noise in her throat, throwing a warning look over to the two wizards that had been talking about her, sending them scurrying for cover away from her piercing gaze. She sighed, a low and tired sigh, dropping down the final batch of logs she had chopped and turned to stare off into the distant trees, the breeze picking up and the smell of wet moss wafting up and into her nostrils. It was a perfect day for a run.

So that’s what she did.