Chapter 51

“Ah, Atlas Magianima! Our Final champion! In you come…nothing to worry about, it’s just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment!”

“Evening Mr Bagman,” Atlas murmured.

The photographs were being taken in a fairly small, unused, classroom at the offside of the entrance hall. Atlas knew the place to usually be quite unkempt but it seemed the house-elves had been in for morning cleaning. The desks and chairs were pushed to the back of the room, leaving a small space in the middle where Rita Skeeter – that pest of a woman –  stood,  with a row of chairs behind her and a chalkboard depicting the names of the candidates, hers below Fleur’s but above Harry’s.

Rita eyed her dangerously as she fully walked into the room, glancing over to the other side to see all the other champions watching her with varying emotions across their faces. Fleur was eager, seemingly wanting to speak, Krum was unbothered, simply brooding over his wand and Harry was already walking over to her with a smile which she promptly returned. She greeted him by tugging him into a hug, patting his back heartily.

“How did Potions go?”

“Don’t get me started,” Harry sighed, pulling away. “Are you ok? I see the uh…the thing,” he made a motion to his jaw, obviously referring to the lines that were still on her face from the leather straps of the muzzle. “It’s off, that’s good.”

“Yeah, Madam Pomfrey got it off for me. I told Hermione and I think she may have gone rogue,” Atlas said, smiling nervously at the thought.

“Oh, really?” Harry tried to sound surprised but the smug look on his face said otherwise. “Well, I’m glad you’re ok, honestly…I wanted nothing more than to–“

“Ah, don’t say that when she’s around,” Atlas whispered, motioning with her eyes in Rita’s direction. “She’ll have it in bold print across the Daily Prophet and trust me, you do not want that kind of publicity.”

“Too late, she already interviewed me,” Harry winced, rubbing his neck awkwardly. Atlas bit back the sigh that bubbled up her throat and simply clapped the boy’s shoulder sympathetically, turning back to the room as a whole and walking to join the rest of the champions at the back. Well, she went to join them, however, a heavy hand landed on her bitten shoulder and she grimaced, glancing at Bagman as the man gave her a boyish smile. With a hint of nervousness in his crinkled eyes.

“Actually Atlas, I told Rita you’d have an interview with her.”

“I — well,” Atlas let out a defeated breath through her nose and let go of Harry’s shoulder, walking over to Rita with a very tight smile across her face. Rita simply grinned, messing with her rigid curls as they grew closer before lurching forward and grabbing Atlas’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Rita.”

“Hello, Atlas,” She turned to Ludo. “We’ll be going then?”

“Well–“

“Lovely,” she smiled, dragging Atlas over to the broom cupboard in the corner of the room. 

Atlas had to duck to make it inside, sitting down on a sturdy-looking box and watching as Rita sat down on an upturned bucket. The candles were lit and Rita’s handbag was already inside, meaning she had known Atlas would have had no choice but to be interviewed. That thought made Atlas scowl. It was, again, a tight fit, not made for someone of Atlas’s height. Her knees were bent from how low her seat was and Rita wasn’t a petite woman herself, probably standing at the same height as Minerva, perhaps, even more so if one were to add the inches she gained wearing those dangerously tall high-heels, so they looked quite odd and were definitely too close together. 

Being close to the woman always made Atlas uncomfortable because she used to think, when she was a small child, that Rita could peer into her brain and pick at all of her darkest secrets. Though just childhood speculation, an irrational fear if you will, it still stuck and Atlas made sure to keep any entrances to her brain angled away from the woman.

A sharp snap brought her back to the cupboard and Atlas watched as a Quick-Quotes Quill flew from her purse, remaining stationary over a notepad. Atlas had often daydreamed of burning the acid green quill as a child and now, after seeing it again, she felt the urge come back. Maybe she’d act on it this time. If Rita gave her enough reason too. Her eyes followed the woman’s movements, noticing how she glanced through the crack she had left in the door before quickly turning back to her, licking her teeth.

“So, Atlas, it has certainly been a while. What a treat we get to meet again for an event as glamorous as the Triwizard Tournament–” the quill scratched across the notepad shrilly and Atlas withheld her wince at the sound, so sensitive upon her ears. “–tell me, what made you enter?”

“I didn’t,” Atlas gritted, glancing at what the notepad read.

Scars, souvenirs from a monster unknown, disfigure the handsome face of one Atlas Black, whose eyes glow dully with the hauntings of her past —

“Oh, come now, Atlas, everybody likes a bad girl. You don’t need to be shy, you won’t be getting into any trouble,” Rita assured in a note that did not, at all, make Atlas feel assured. Rather, it wouldn’t make anyone feel assured, no matter the tone, simply because of whose mouth the words had come from. “Though I’m sure you already have quite the line waiting for you? I hear there’s even a group here at Hogwarts, all desperate fans of yours. Are you perhaps putting yourself in such dire straits for them? For your fans? Or do you have something else to prove? Perhaps you have someone, a secret lover, you might want to impress?”

“I wasn’t aware I had fans and I don’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone. As I said, I didn’t put my name in the Goblet,” Atlas affirmed, her tone icy and eyes just as cold. Rita seemed to grin, leaning back on her bucket and putting the tip of her wand to her lips in thought.

“Do you feel as if you’re fit enough to compete?”

“Elaborate, Skeeter.”

“Well, whispers say you’re having a bit of trouble–” she poked at Atlas’s chest, “controlling your magic.”

“That’s not true,” Atlas said simply.

“Hmmm,” Rita turned to her notepad, “Scratch that, too flimsy…” she ordered and the quill made one harsh motion across the paper, seemingly looking up at Skeeter and waiting for her command to start writing again. “Continue. So, how do you think your parents would feel? Your mother? She was a renowned trouble maker, but bright all the same, she got away with many, many things. Experiments and the like.”

“I don’t remember much of my mother, Rita. You know this considering you grilled me about it when I was 9.”

“Indeed, but the readers wanted to know and all I did was deliver their answers,” she shrugged and Atlas despised the look of ignorance on her face “So, are you excited? Nervous? Do you think you’ll be able to overcome the challenges you will face?”

“I’ve gotten this far haven’t I?” Atlas murmured and Skeeter’s eyes sparkled, going just a tad wider.

“A strong quote…a strong quote indeed and yes, you’re right in saying that. After all, you’ve stared death in the face more than our dear Harry Potter,” she said, whisking her hand for Atlas to speak. The Black didn’t like speaking on the reporter’s terms but felt the need to retort anyway, a frown forming on her mouth and a dip settling between her brows.

“Let’s not compare experiences, me and Harry are two different people. He’s just as strong as me, if not more. He faces his fears.”

“Are you saying you run from yours?”

They stared at each other, the quill glancing between them rapidly, trying to come up with more material, more content for the readers at home but the only thing that sounded in that broom cupboard was the creak that was starting to sound from Rita’s bucket. It came up with something on a whim, scratching out messy words that Atlas quickly glanced to.

Atlas Black has run from her past, her trauma and fears her entire life, the question now is, will she be able to face the trials that await, or will she run and cower like so many times before?

“You know what, Skeeter?” Atlas leant forward, “How about we go look in pensive? I’ll drop in a few of my memories, have you see what I remember in vivid detail and see how you cope. You’re right, I try my best to run away from my past but I promise you, you would do the same because the shit I’ve seen, is the stuff of nightmares. I wager, even monsters like you would feel a chill run up their spine…”

“…feisty today,” Rita murmured. “Can I quote that?”

The door of the broom cupboard was pulled open and Atlas backed away, standing up immediately and bowing her head politely to Dumbledore while Rita scrambled to put her things away. Only, the notepad was whisked from her grasped, her Quick Quotes Quill going with it and landing in Dumbledore’s palm. He glanced down at it, his pale eyes glinting behind his half-mooned spectacles.

“Particularly nasty, aren’t we, Rita?” He murmured wisely, tucking the items in his robe pocket. “I’m afraid this cannot be published however, you know Cornelius, he gets sensitive when things like this are mentioned, doesn’t he?”

“Yes…yes, he does,” Rita agreed, staring at the man’s pocket longingly as she shuffled out of the closet, Atlas going right after her and nodding at Dumbledore in thanks. 

Eager to get away from her, Atlas quickly joined the rest of the champions away from the intrusive reporter, feeling the gaze of the woman on her back. Everyone was here now, the heads’ of each school and the rest of the panel judges beside them. Five large chairs were now in front of the champions and in each one, one of the more important persons sat, silent as they watched, their hands upon the velvet table in front of them.

Atlas noticed her chair was sandwiched between Fleur and Harry, the two friends smiling at her welcomingly as she took her seat.

“How did it go?”

“Dumbledore took her quill and notepad, I’m gonna ask him if I can burn it later,” Atlas grinned, as Harry laughed. She turned to Fleur as Harry started to absentmindedly clean his wand, shooting her that signature charming smile of hers. “Cygne, why do I feel like you’ve been avoiding me?” She asked, hooking an arm over the back of the girl’s chair.

“I ‘ave been preparing,” Fleur told, smiling slightly. “My apologies Atlas, but I know you will be a formidable opponent.”

“I understand…just as long as you believe me, right? That I didn’t put my name in,” Atlas said and Fleur chuckled lightly, raising a hand to cover her mouth.

“Of course I believe you, you are Atlas. You do not look for fame,” Fleur said and Atlas sighed in relief.

“Thank Merlin, needed that confirmation, not going to lie,” Atlas murmured as Fleur pat her head comfortingly. “Thanks, I’m glad we’re friends.”

“If I were not also a champion, I would offer my assistance to you, ‘owever, I know you will be my ‘arshest contender.”

“You put me on too high of a pedestal.”

“I do not zink that is the case,” Fleur said simply. “But you ‘ave always been ‘umble. A very admirable trait.”

“I — thanks, Fleur…” Atlas smiled.

“Everyone?” The chatter ceased and Dumbledore took his place at the judges’ table, staring upon the champions with a wispy smile. “May I introduce Mr Ollivander?” He said, taking his seat. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.”

Looking around, Atlas noticed the wandmaker stood by the window, silently staring at them with pale blue and kind looking eyes. It was a surprise she hadn’t seen him, his presence was a large one and the aura he held spoke of wisdom and discipline, patience she could only dream of. Things Atlas knew to recognise because she’d spent quite some time by Dumbledore’s side as a young child. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t noticed him, because she had gotten him mixed up with Dumbledore, however, even still, there was something about him, something different, she couldn’t quite place it.

She pondered on it silently and watched as the man moved forward, his hand outstretched and beckoning as he reached the centre. Atlas noticed, out of an odd habit, that his hands were rather smooth for their age, sure, coarse in some areas but curiously unscathed for hands that have worked with wood and other miscellaneous things his entire life. They were nothing like her own, unrefined and callous or Hermione’s, soft and slender.

“Shut up brain…” She muttered. Though she couldn’t blame her subconscious for thinking of the bookworm. They had been doing more palmistry revision in Divination and she’d needed a partner for some theory homework, of course, she’d gone to Hermione and though reluctantly – because divination was a ‘silly’ subject – she had agreed. It was then that Atlas had taken note of her hands and was also now glad that that homework had been and gone before she’d realised her feelings for the girl.

“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?” Ollivander spoke and Atlas was pulled from her daze, momentarily mystified by the lightness of the man’s voice. Like Dumbledore’s, it was calm, kind and assuring but authoritative and demanding of respect. Whether it was intentional or not.

Fleur stood from her seat and swept over to him elegantly, handing him her wand without batting a lash.

“Hmm…” he muttered.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches…inflexible…rosewood…and containing…dear me…”

“An ‘air from ze ‘ead of a veela,” Fleur announced and Atlas noticed Harry perk up beside her, setting a steady smirk on her face. She knew him and Ron – when they had been on speaking terms – had stressed over her blood status the last few months and found it amusing to see the boy come to an answer. “One of my grandmuzzer’s.”

“Yes,” Ollivander hummed, “yes, I’ve never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands…however, to each his own, and if this suits you…” He ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps, anything that would cause an issue in the middle of a task; then he muttered, “Orchideous!” and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip. “Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” Ollivander nodded, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr Krum, if you please.”

Fleur took her seat and handed Atlas the bundle of flowers. “As an apology.”

“You don’t mind if I regift them, do you?”

“Not at all,” Fleur smiled, in a way that was knowing and sly. “I suppose zey are for ‘Ermione?”

“Turns out, I’m totally crushing on her.”

“You are!?” Harry harshly whispered and Atlas smacked him upside the head.

“Don’t listen in on conversations, Potter. It’s rude,” She grunted but then nodded when Harry looked at her, eager for her answer. He almost jumped out of his seat at the confirmation, fist-bumping discretely and grinning like an idiot to himself.

“‘Ow did you know?”

“Thanks to you actually. Apparently, those who like someone aren’t affected by a Veela’s charms,” Atlas mused and Fleur chuckled to herself. “Looks like I can’t help you in identifying whether you like someone now, unless you’ve got any Veela friends?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Fleur sighed wistfully, “Zough I think I ‘ave it covered now, some of ze girls ‘ave ‘elped me.”

A blast, like nothing Atlas had ever heard, sounded across the room and a great number of tweeting birds flew out of Krum’s wand, some branching off to land on Atlas’s shoulders while the rest sought salvation through the open window. Fleur let out an uncharacteristic snort behind a quickly raised hand and Harry went red in the face from holding in his laughter. Atlas just sitting still, her ears still ringing but being too exasperated to care. 

One of the little robins hopped up to her head and simply sat, making itself at home while the rest decided to vacate also, flying after their fellow magical creations. Krum even seemed to crack a small smile, a stark comparison to his usual glum and unfriendly looking demeanour. He even, actually, stood straight, his hands free from his pockets for once as he took back his wand from an amused Ollivander.

“Why me?” Atlas sighed with a small smile. The robin remained perched in her hair unbothered.

Ollivander chuckled and his eyes crinkled as he held a hand out to Harry. “I think we’ll do Mr Potter next, while Miss Magianima takes care of her new pet.”

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum, still holding back laughs as he handed his wand over to the man. Atlas plucked the bird from her head and held it gently in her palm, brushing a light finger down its front as it seemed to sleep comfortably in her grasp.

“Aaaah, yes,” Mr Ollivander mused, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember.”

He spent quite some time examining the wand, not saying much but occasionally offering words of acknowledgement. It was apparently in good shape, the same as the day Harry had bought it. Comprising of Holy Wood, a Phoenix Feather and holding at a length of 11 inches. A truly impressive wand and Atlas smiled when Harry returned to his seat after the Wandmaker had made a jet of wine shoot from its tip.

“Now, that leaves, Miss Magianima,” Atlas stood up and placed the bird securely on her head again, taking her wand out and, with noticeable hesitance to everybody in the room, handed it over. “This is not a regular creation, I recall the day your mother came barrelling into my shop, requesting I taught her how to make wands. I did, of course…so this is what she created…? Magnificent…”

“Sir?” Atlas murmured, quirking a brow.

“Truly, your mother was one holding many talents. This wood, a hybrid, I have never thought of doing such a thing, cross-pollinating two different species of tree and using the wood from what is produced. It seems…yes, Blackthorn and Rowan wood,” he examined it closely, his pale blue eyes shining just the slightest bit. So slightly, Atlas was sure she was the only one to have noticed. “Blackthorn is best suited for warriors and Rowan wood excels in defence…they create a harmonious discord, a pleasant–” he glanced at her, “–hum. Your mother was surely a spark put out too soon.”

That earned a hard swallow and Atlas winced at the rock that clawed at her throat as it went down.

“The core…most peculiar. I know your mother was one of the first of any witch or wizard to…harness pure magic and solidify it for wand cores and magical artefacts, bringing back the basis of ancient magic in doing so…however, I cannot seem to discern what type of solidified magic this is…” he uttered, so quietly many of the room were leaning in to hear his words. Not Atlas though, she heard him loud and clear. “It does bear resemblance to you.”

“That can’t be, my mother made this wand before I was born. Are you sure it does not remind you of her instead?”

“No, I remember her signature, her aura. Though similar, yours has turmoil, something of somewhere else, as does this wands core…” he stood up straighter and measured its length, reverting back to his professional self. “Twelve inches, perfect for your large personality,” he now drew it to an empty part of the room. “Aguamenti.”

Nothing happened, perhaps a droplet of water expelled from its tip but otherwise, the excitement and expectation of the air was left unmet and unsatisfied. Atlas regarded her wand curiously, as did Ollivander, the man withdrawing it from the air.

“Curious…Atlas, would you mind performing a spell yourself?” He asked and Atlas mutely nodded, taking her wand back and smiling at the familiar hum it sang for her. She held it out in front of her, aimed the same as Ollivander did and uttered the spell whole-heartedly.

“Aguamenti!” A violent jet of water sprang from the wand and assaulted the wall, leaving it paler and seemingly cleaner than the rest of the classroom. It appeared they weren’t as spotless as initially thought.

“Ceaselessly loyal…remarkable. Your mother really was a genius witch. It really — really is a shame,” Ollivander murmured and Atlas carefully tucked her wand in her waistband. “Wonderful yes, you may return now Miss Magianima.”

Atlas turned back to her seat and looked up, seeing Fleur clapping her hands excitedly and Harry grinning whole-heartedly, even Viktor seemed mildly impressed once she looked past the scowl in his brows. The bird on her chirped and, honestly, she’d forgotten its presence, smiling slightly as she plucked it from her hair and held it in her palm again, against her warm front.

“Thank you all,” Dumbledore began, standing up at the judges’ table. “You may go back to your lessons now – or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end -“

A cough came from somewhere in the room and Atlas noticed the man with the black camera jump from his seat, clearing his throat. Bagman stood up as well, that youthful glow in his cheeks as he rubbed his hands together and gestured to the photographer. “Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” he cried excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?”

“Er – yes, let’s do those first,” Rita Skeeter nodded, eyes firmly set on Atlas and Harry, occasionally glancing to the formers wand. Oh, the Daily Prophet was going to eat up whatever story she threw up. “And then perhaps some individual shots.”

The photographs took a long time. Too long and by the time Madame Maxime had resigned to sit rather than stand in their group photo and the separate shots for the champions had come to pass, Atlas was sweating and hungry, the little robin growing restless in the way it chirped, like a newborn, for food. She couldn’t blame it, at one point, through a fit of delusion, she wondered that if she were to start chirping like a bald baby bird, would she be let out for lunch before everybody else?

She’d come to the conclusion that, yes, she’d be allowed out of the classroom but no sooner would she be in the back of a carriage on her way to St Mungos for serious mental analysis. But, hey, at least it would get her out of the Tournament and so for a moment, she seriously considered it. Considered it as much as the fatigued mind of a 15-year-old could anyway.

Now she was sluggishly walking back to Gryffindor Tower with a bundle of flowers in hand, Harry beside her and laughing to himself as the robin, now perched on her shoulder, continued to tweet its hunger in her ear, nipping at her lobe but immediately soothing the pain by rubbing its feathery head against it.

“So, you’re wand is the only one of its kind? The wood I mean,” Harry asked as they got to the mouth of the stairwell leading to the corridor that held the Fat Lady’s painting.

“I don’t actually know? I guess so if Ollivander says it is,” she shrugged, disrupting the little robin’s tantrum. It tumbled off of her shoulder and forgetting it could fly, Atlas almost lunged over the stair bannister to stop its fall.

“Atlas!” Harry grabbed the back of her jumper and pulled her back over. “Jesus Christ! You need to sleep! Like seriously, did you just forget birds could fly!?”

“I…well, yeah,” she sighed as the robin settled itself on her shoulder again, this time, silent. No shrieks for food or nips at her ear. It actually seemed a little shaken. “Poor guy…you’re alright fella,” Atlas assured, tickling its front as Harry gaped at her in disbelief and uttered the week’s password to the Fat Lady.

They walked inside and immediately noticed the barn owl perched on the Common Room couch, a letter on its leg addressed to Harry. They exchanged a look before Harry quickly moved forward, taking it from its leg as the owl then flew over and landed on Atlas’s other shoulder, nuzzling against her ear.

“I’m not a tree, no matter how tall I am you know,” she murmured with a hint of exasperation. “Who is it?”

“Who else?” He handed it to her, looking disgruntled and deeply uncomfortable with whatever he had just read. “It’s a date.”

Harry and Atlas –

I can’t say everything I would like to in a letter, it’s too risky in case the owl is intercepted – we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you and Atlas are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock in the morning on the 22nd of November?

I know better than anyone that you two can look after yourselves and each other and while you’re around Dumbledore and Moody I don’t think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky, especially right under Dumbledore’s nose.

Be on the watch, both of you. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly as you can.

Sirius

“Well…clear your schedule for the 22nd, Boy-wonder…” Atlas murmured, looking up from the letter and at the pacing boy. “Family reunion?”

“You’re a piss-take, you know that?” He laughed and Atlas smiled, happy to take her brothers mind off of the severity of the situation.

“Yeah but it’s part of my charm.”

“Oh sure, that lady snagging charm.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know Skeeter said I have a fanbase.”

“Yeah, Fred and George did tell you last year.”

“I — I thought they were joking! They were being serious all this time!?”